The Cecil Whig

Hot, hotter, hottest. Well, the last week has been a leetle warmer than any weather within the recollection of the oldest inhabitant. In Philadelphia the thermometer ran up as high as 104°, here we guess it ran up as high as it could get, and it might have been warmer had the tube been longer. The stagnation of the air produced a stagnation in business—the expanding quality of the heat caused the community to stretch out in the shade—harvesters couldn't "make hay," because the sun shone, and so took a "shine" beneath the trees—mechanics quit striking and "struck," not for higher wages, but for some place of lower temperature—the fashionables, because the sighing wind wouldn't rise, sighed because they couldn't "raise the wind" to go to some watering place—our rising geniuses (for we have them here) who had resolved to allow no one to cast them in the shade, cast themselves there, and forgot their pantings for fame in their pantings for breath, and their thirstings for glory in their thirstings for , their sublimated spirits not freeing them from the common ailments of mankind, and oh! what melting looks our beauties wore—but that's a theme that kindles up our spirit too much, and we must not attempt to dilate on it this weather.

Gentle reader! (now do be gentle, do!) how the deuce do you expect a fellow to write any editorial while it's so hot.—'Spose we were to attempt to say anything about politics; why folks are apt to get in a stew on that subject when it is freezing. There's reform, the locos want to make a fuss about that—we'll show 'em who have been the reformers, and that we are in favor of better reforms than they—yes, and always have been; but there's time enough yet.