KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



51 



The man who — even at threescore — has not 

 on some cheerful occasion, at some golden 

 moment, yearned to throw a snow-ball, is 

 utterly dead to one of the purest enjoyments 

 of life. Such a man would not pluck a rose, 

 nor gather a peach. 



The law of the land, however, does not 

 recognise this universal impulse of our being. 

 Nay, it will not even wink at the offence; 

 though often prone to fall fast asleep and 

 snore lustily over greater evils. The law of 

 the land puts a price upon snow-balls, selling 

 them at not less than tive shillings a-piece. 

 We believe such to be the statute. We do 

 not pride ourselves upon a very subtle 

 knowledge of the laws, having always con- 

 sidered such knowledge as a very suspicious 

 possession. Many folks study the laws as 

 certain misdoers study the wires of spring- 

 guns, — that they may still do wrong, and yet 

 safely avoid them. We think, however, that 

 Parliament sells snow-balls at five shillings 

 each. 



One snow-ball for — five shillings. 



Well ; it is dear. But then, Madam Law 

 was ever costly. Otherwise, how could she 

 maintain her swarm of lackeys ; her many 

 gentlemen of the chamber; her scores of 

 snoring porters, seated on softest cushions, 

 stuffed with fees? 



One snow-ball for — five shillings ! 



It is no matter. There are times when, 

 not to enjoy the luxury of the season — be it 

 what it may — is to be dead to the beauties 

 of this beautiful world. We feel our mouth 

 water at the first compassable strawberries. 

 They are dear. We know they are dear. 

 Their costliness gives to them the luscious- 

 ness of forbidden fruit — of fruit forbidden to 

 the pocket. And, therefore, shutting our 

 eyes to the expense, we twitch out our purse, 

 and dearly pay for the sweet temptation. 

 Nevertheless, we eat, are filled, and feel no 

 remorse. On the contrary, if our mind be in 

 proper harmony, we feel that, as rational 

 creatures, we have only rendered rightful 

 sacrifice to the genius of the season. 



Green peas — asparagus — early potatoes — 

 seem also expressly sent to dally with the 

 heart and pocket of man, and finally to 

 subdue the sneaking economy that may 

 commonly lodge within him. The man may 

 be (what the world calls) a " good husband" 

 — a kind father — a respectable friend. Yes ; 

 he may be all this, yet if he have not — for 

 the especial delectation of the dear creature 

 at the fireside — sometimes sinned in the face 

 of Plutus, appearing at the conjugal hearth 

 with some unthought-of dainty — green peas, 

 asparagus, or infant potatoes — that man may, 

 indeed, according to all ecclesiastical formula?, 

 be a husband. Yes ; a church-bound, iron- 

 bound husband. Yet, to our mind, does he 

 lack the sweetest grace of conjugal life, — the 



[ dignity and heroism of best uxoriousness. 

 If, however, he want not these qualities, then 

 does he sit him down and sup more daintily 

 than Lucullus. He and his wife know the 

 dish is dear, — very dear. They have com- 

 mitted a sin against household economy ; 

 but the sin is sweet, and they fall to and fall 

 together. 



We flatter ourselves that we know some- 

 thing of human nature — quite as much at 

 least as the kitten, who, whilst we sit penning 

 this essay, knows of the movements of the 

 watch, at the chain of which she is jumping. 

 And so knowing, we say we have but little 

 faith in that man who, in all times, and 

 under all temptations, can, with stoic, stony 

 grin pass a lobster — a very dear lobster ! 

 His heart may not be of the color of the 

 fish, — new from its native seas ; but sure we 

 are it is not of the beautiful red, investing 

 the crustaceous dainty steaming from the 

 cook's pot. No, if his heart be of the right 

 color, the real humanising hue, he will — 

 after some fitful struggle — march boldly up 

 to the counter, like a stout soldier to an 

 enemy's battery ; and in a twinkling carry 

 off the prize, — the dear-bought trophy. He 

 will carry it to his homestead proudly, ex- 

 ultingly. He will feel that to be sometimes 

 extravagant, is to follow a magnificent im- 

 pulse — is to act up to one of the unpenned 

 chapters of the Whole Duty of Man. Yes ; 

 to be at times a lit-tle prodigal, is the lex 

 non scripta of our moral being. 



And therefore — seeing the price that is 

 put upon them — do we class snow-balls as 

 luxuries ; and therefore are we anxious to 

 instruct the world in the proper use of the 

 seasonable dainty. Now, — listen friends ! 



If, at this season, you meet a man who, 

 with crammed larder and bursting cellar at 

 home, will give no crumb, no drop, to the 

 miserable poor around him, — we then say to 

 you, snoiv-ball hint! True, the missile will 

 cost you — if detected — five shillings ; but 

 think of the season ! Should you not enjoy 

 yourself? 



If there be a cold-hearted cousin who, 

 with turkey and port on table, has sent not 

 even the smallest bit of beef to a poor and 

 fasting relative — snoiv-ball him! 



If a landlord, who has torn the last rag 

 from a shivering tenant — by all means snow- 

 ball him! 



If you meet the shining face of outside 

 respectability — the cunning, decorous, well- 

 to-do man, who being well-to-do, does only 

 well to himself, — the man whose heart, even 

 at this season, has in it no more life towards 

 others than an addled egg, — pause not, but 

 incontinently snowball him ! 



And, in fine, if you fall in with any of the 

 hundreds of smirking, easy folks, who think 

 themselves Christians, simply because they 



