Not one solitary invitation to dinner, not a picnic, not a breakfast, no, nor even a tea-party, was heard of.

Barmouth, at the time I speak of, was just in that transition state at which the caterpillar may be imagined, when, having abandoned his reptile habits, he still has not succeeded in becoming a butterfly.

In fact, it had ceased to be a fishing village, but had not arrived at the dignity of a watering-place.

Now, I know nothing as bad as this.

You have not, on one hand, the quiet retirement of a little peaceful hamlet, with its humble dwellings and cheap pleasures, nor have you the gay and animated tableau of fashion in miniature, on the other; but you have noise, din, bustle, confusion, beautiful scenery and lovely points of view marred and ruined by vulgar associations.