Walpole's Letters, I discovered that so far from the summers in his day
being "lovely," they were not uniformly better than the winters: "The
way to ensure summer in England," he writes, "is to have it framed and
glazed in a comfortable room." This remark was made of the summer of
1773; that of 1784 was not more balmy, judging from the same writer's
comment: "The month of June, according to custom immemorial, is as cold
as Christmas. I had a fire last night, and all my rosebuds, I believe,
would have been very glad to sit by it."

Here is another weather grumble from the same quaint letter-writer: "The
deluge began here but on Monday last, and then rained nearly
eight-and-forty hours without intermission. My poor bag has not a dry
thread to its back. In short, every summer one lives in a state of
mutiny and murmur, and I have found the reason: it is because we will
affect to have a summer, and have no title to any such thing."

This reminds us of Quin, who, being asked if he had ever seen so bad a
winter, replied: "Yes, just such an one last summer." If people could be
satisfied about the weather, this sort of summer ought to have pleased
the Irishman who, as he warmed his hands at a fire remarked: "What a
pity it is that we can't have the cold weather in the summer."




SERENADE.


"Come out! the moon is white, and on the river
The white mist lies;