are in a minority. The voice of public opinion is not on their side.
"Who stole the moke, Anna?" asked suspicion; and the answer came, "The
man in the _chapeau blanc_." There is something daring, something
distinctive in a white hat; and it may be doubted whether the amount of
comfort obtained by the revolutionary wearer is in a due ratio to the
conspicuousness which his action entails on him. Members of Parliament
are singularly emancipated from these fears of the brave; but members of
Parliament cannot supply the whole contingent of white-hatted men now to
be seen in the streets of the metropolis. Their presence proves that it
is very hot indeed. One swallow does not make a summer, but half a dozen
pairs of "ducks" beheld in public places would mark a summer of unusually
high temperature.

There are, of course, alleviations. Nature compensates all who can
afford to purchase the compensations. Strawberries, long waited for,
shy, retiring fruit, have now nearly approached the popular price of
sixpence a basket. A divine of a past generation declared that in his
opinion the joys of Paradise would consist of eating strawberries to the
sound of a trumpet. For a poor sixpence half of this transcendental
pastime may be partaken of, and probably the brass band which is usually
round the corner could supply the sound of the trumpet at a small extra
charge.

Unluckily, doctors have decided that many of us must not eat
strawberries, nor drink champagne cup, nor iced coffee. That is the way
with doctors. AEsculapius was originally worshipped in the form of a
serpent; in the guise of a serpent he came to Rome. Medical men still
hold of their heroic father, and physicians are the serpents in the
Paradise of a warm summer. Mortals, in their hands, are like Sancho
Panza with his medical adviser. Here is summer, provoking a gentle
interest in every method of assuaging thirst, and almost every method is
condemned by one member of the faculty or another. Champagne cannot be
so royally sound, nor is shandy-gaff so humble, that it 'scapes whipping.
How melancholy a thing is human life at best! In boyhood we can eat more
ices than our pocket-money enables us to purchase; in maturity we have
the pocket-money without the powers of digestion. The French lady said
that if strawberry ices were only sinful, no pleasure could exceed that
which is to be enjoyed in the consumption of the congealed fruit.
Strawberry ices are sinfu