If there is anyone congratulating himself that, because no rain fell officially on Saturday, Shanghai is in for a spell of fine weather he is most likely living in a fool's paradise, for St. Swithin has no jurisdiction in this part of the world, and, even if he claimed it, it would be blown away by the rude breath of the typhoon. The revered saint seems to have vented his displeasure in so uncertain manner and over far too wide an area, however, to let the fact of his curse go unnoticed, for before he died he asked that his body should be buried in "a vile and unworthy place," which turned out to be the churchyard of the minster at Winchester, "where the sweet rain of heaven might fall upon his grave." Tradition has it that upon his canonization the monks sought on July 15, 971, to translate his remains into the choir, and that when this was attempted the saint was so enraged that day after day for forty days rain fell, and the monks thus brought to a realization of his displeasure wisely abandoned their project. It would naturally be thought that the saint would have been completely satisfied by this but that does not appear to be the case, and if it happens to rain on the anniversary of his contemplated translation the old curse is said to operate, but not in the Far East. Thus, though no rain fell on Saturday, there is absolutely no saintly guarantee that for the next forty days Shanghai will endure fair weather, for whatever influence Swithin might have had in these regions it is completely offset by the fact that his anniversary falls practically midway between the days of the small and the great heat. So there may be rain and on the other hand there may not, with the sure and certain knowledge that it is going to be hot either way. In such a case it may as well to seek what refreshment there may be found in contemplation of summer in other climes, for Shanghai may yet find it like Sydney Smith did "Heat madam! It was so dreadful here, ihat I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones."
Thomson who wrote long and lovingly about the seasons of the year probably best approximates a good description of a Shanghai summer when it is really extending itself, in the following lines which many a sufferer might care to remember "All conquering heat, O, intermit thy wrath. And on my throbbing temples, potent thus, Beam not so fierce! Incessant still you flow, And. still another fervent flood succeeds, Poured on the head profuse. In vain I sigh, And restless turn, and look around for night Night is far off; and hotter Hours approach.
Rossiter-Johnson prescribes a remedy of sorts for this type of summer, though uhfortunately Shanghai residents might find it more than a little difficult to find more than one of the treatments specified, and that the first "O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! O for an iceberg or two at control!
O for a vale that at midday the dew c bers!
for a pleasure trip up to the pol It might be possible to find a garden of cucumbers; there is always the refrigerator handy nowadays.—blessings on the man who invented it!—but that vale bedewed at midday sounds just a trifle too humid to be much of an attraction in a city where the chief cause of suffering is not the heat, but the But why continue? The trip to the pole has possibilities: they are, however, so remote, and Shanghai will consequently have to be content with its cucumbers and ice-boxes. The poets may, nevertheless, provide some respite by showing what summer is. like elsewhere. Consider for a moment the delight in which Evangeline moved Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light: and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness. of childhood.
Sounds more like spring to some people, though if there are residents in Shanghai who come from summers such as that this memory may bring them relief,—or envy.
But then Longfellow does hit it off so happily now and again. Just think of what the Japanese are depriving holiday-makers by the queer antics of their paid protegees in Tsingtao summer day beside the joyous sea! O summer day so wonderful and white So full of gladness and of pain!
Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain.
So full of gladness and of pain! Obviously, though in his days such practices as sun-bathing were not known, he seems to have realized that too much exposure to the sun was likely to bring pain in the shape of sunburn. All of which goes to show that the vorago poet knows a thing or two. Looked at it from that point of view, it is possible that the Japanese by making Tsingtao uncomfortable may actually be protecting some holiday-makers from themselves, yet so does a good deed shine in a naughty world that they are actually being criticized for it. But Thus for many rè- sidents of Shanghai the only refuge from the s heat and the dampness will be a motor trip out to Hungjao, and even then on the fiercest of days it will be a case of:—
*Dust on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer on thy livery of green! A tarnish as of rust Dims the late brilliant sheen."
Fortunately it will not be long before the "green apples blush and the green nuts embrown, and if it is.not possible tp. go where those delightful processes are annually being carried out, it is at'least pleasure able to think of them, even if that strong-minded bishop of Winchester cannot send the gentle rain to lay the horrid dust.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.