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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



into full playwith their original and comical "cuts." 

 " That's a Moses ! " cries a practised eye. " That's 

 a Doudney, I'll swear ! " shouts a quondam victim 

 to the Spring fashions. Lots of jokes are 

 " cracked " upon the original, phantasmagoria 

 cuts and patterns of these unhappy outfitters ; 

 and the wearers, as they flutter along in their 

 zebra stripes and parti- colored jelly -bags — with 

 quartern-loaf vests to order, afford fun indescri- 

 bable to the passengers. It is " rich " to see how 

 they suddenly disappear (" chokers " and all) 

 down the cabin stairs, when they behold them- 

 selves "twigged." It fairly doubles one up. Our 

 eye could single out " a Moses," " a Prew," " a 

 Doudney," or " a Hyam," out of fifty thousand 

 wearers of coats, vests, and continuations. 



Then, the gents' shirts ! Some are covered all 

 over with Death's heads ; others with scantily- 

 attired pirouetting Opera dancers ; and not a few 

 with large expanding flowers — languishing green 

 leaves reposing by their side. These and " all- 

 rounders " (a sharp, cutting shirt collar, that would 

 inevitably cut a man's head off if he tripped, — see 

 Punch for an illustration of the fact), together with 

 shirt-pins about the size of swans' eggs, complete 

 the equipment of the City clerks and West End 

 " gents." What figures of fun they are surely I 



We need say nothing here about the very filthy 

 habit of wearing the beard and moustache. We 

 are sick of this. The streets have long been filled 

 with the wild beasts who " ape " this disgusting 

 movement, for fashion's sake. We are rejoiced to 

 see real gentlemen turn their backs resolutely 

 upon the fashion. Men servilely imitating mon- 

 keys, baboons, and hairy savages, will make an 

 extra laugh for our steamboats and railways; and 

 as such, let them pass. If people have no " mind," 

 they must commit some enormity to attract atten- 

 tion. All are mad on some point. 



Well; leaving the million to the enjoyment of 

 their curious sticks, wide-awakes, summer cuts, 

 fashions, Turks'-head-mop faces, and " tuck-outs," 

 let us now return to our own peculiar, though 

 much-despised fancy — the charms of the Country. 



It is delightful, just now, to saunter through the 

 fields of growing corn, and mark its progress — 

 whilst, as we pass along, the rising lark bids us 

 welcome, singing merrily o'er our very heads. 

 Birds will soon become silent. In a few short 

 weeks, all will be hushed — except the occasional 

 happy note of some joyous bird, too happy to be 

 suppressed. The heat is becoming powerfully felt 

 by man and beast. All seek the shade. 'Tis now 

 that a stroll amongst the woods is so grateful to 

 the feelings — the amorous cooing of the wood- 

 pigeon falling pleasingly on the ear. 



Wild flowers are now in all their beauty. Every 

 step we take introduces us to some coy, bashful 

 little stranger, whose pretty head is raised to greet 

 us as we saunter on. We stop and admire it, of 

 course. We think of Solomon in all his glory; 

 and here we see something infinitely more glorious. 

 This suggests a noble reflection. We " chew the 

 cud," and continue on our way. Day after day — 

 rising with chanticleer, and reposing at a reason- 

 ablehour — couldwe so occupy our waking thoughts 

 and happy moments. Away from cities, all is 

 harmony. We see it everywhere in the stillness 

 of Nature ; and note the contentment which reigns 

 wherever our wandering steps are turned. Man 



alone seems a restless, dissatisfied being, Lord 

 of all things, he cannot even make himself 

 " happy " with one ! 



Pleasant is a country cottage now, says Miller, 

 in his observations on the Country — half buried in 

 trees, where the blackbird and the throstle come 

 near to sing their evening hymn ; and, if it is not 

 too late in the season, the nightingale sends out a 

 gush of sweet music below the listening stars. 

 We well understand what are the feelings under 

 such circumstances. They are all poetry. He 

 continues : — Oh how beautiful does morning break 

 in such a spot ! Surely love can only find a 

 habitation in such green secluded places under 

 the sweet reign of Summer. What a noise of 

 birds there is in the trees — what a low murmuring 

 of insects in the air — what a love-awakening sen- 

 sation arises from the aroma of the flowers ! 



Then the horse-chesnuts (by the way, we did 

 not, this year, owing to the heavy rains, pay our 

 annual visit to Bushy Park) — how tall they ,now 

 look, with their long cones of wax-like flowers; 

 though beginning, perhaps, to " rust " a little by 

 the end of the month. How grateful is the shade 

 which their broad, fan-like leaves make, and 

 amid which the bees, " those singing masons that 

 build golden roofs," keep up an incessant murmur ! 

 Soon, among the ripening wheat, we shall see the 

 rich, lilac-colored corn cockle ; and the beautiful 

 blue-bottle, whose color outrivals the richest hue 

 of the hyacinth. The scarlet poppies already 

 begin to show like soldiers in their crimson attire; 

 dispersed among the corn to skirmish with their 

 eary heads. The large ox-eye daisy, with its boss 

 of gold and fringe of silver, breaks the scarlet of 

 the poppies, and softens the too glaring effect of 

 the scene; while the ground convolvulus, with its 

 sweet perfume, and pale pink attire, forms a rich 

 carpet around the foot of the ripening corn, or 

 sometimes clings gracefully about the stems. Nor 

 must the road-side, rose-colored mallow be 

 forgotten, because it is so common. It is a favorite 

 flower with children, who in the country collect 

 the seeds and call them " cheese-cakes." The 

 forget-me-not, whose very name is poetry, is now 

 in flower; and let it be borne in mind, that the 

 real forget-me-not grows only in damp places, or 

 by the side of water, and has not the white down 

 on its stem, which a similar flower has that is 

 often called by the same name. 



We might run on for hours longer, about our 

 roses and other lovely Summer flowers, now 

 looking so becomingly — so bewitchingly beautiful. 

 But these are not things to be described. Like 

 the company of those we love, they must be per- 

 sonally sought after to be enjoyed properly. The 

 delights they afford are both innocent and natural 

 — therefore are they priceless. 



Then might we pleasingly prolong our gossip 

 on the little pic-nic and pleasure-parties in the 

 near distance — presiding over which, in our eman- 

 cipated state of freedom— we mean to be "im- 

 mense." But these, too, must be personal 

 enjoyments. No words can set off the actual 

 realities of the varied spreads and rambles of 

 rustic wanderers — nor the fun, nor the jolly 

 sayings, nor the soft whisperings, nor the little 

 tricks and surprises improvised on the occasion. 

 Harmless jests " tell " out of doors — but they fall 

 stillborn when rehearsed on paper. But fun (some 



