Summer in Shanghai is a season that all Europeans would wish to avoid. From May to September, the depressing nature of the climate by day, and the hot, muggy, motionless atmosphere of the night, drive away all hopes of sleep or rest. You lie hour after hour rolling in a perfect bath of perspiration on your bed, impatiently waiting for daylight to appear and bring some little relief from this nightly infliction. And, when at last the smallest glimmer of dawn comes in the East, after a sleepless night, you drop off into a quiet doze, no sooner are your eyes closed, than a cloud of mosquitoes, and other nearly invisible flying pests that will not and can not be caught, and who appear to have no purpose in their short lives but that of torturing, worrying, and extracting profanity from their weary victims, settle upon your face, and all exposed parts, entirely driving away further hope of sleep. It is not surprising that all who can do so endeavour to escape this discomfort, though few succeed.

Five or six of such successive summers thin the blood, weaken the constitution, and bring on a chronic state of depression and unfitness for any kind of exertion. Thus, we and our troubles would soon be at an end, if no change of air and scene were possible.

I shall be told this is a pessimist view of our torrid season. Of course it is, yet unfortunately it is drawn from personal experience.