KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



51 



warm room ; — let the sleet and the hail pepper 

 the window panes ; let the sullen winds 

 bellow around the chimney-top, and the 

 hissing flow of the street-drains come on our 

 ear. We are unchilled by the tempest ! — a 

 blazing fire is crackling merrily before us ; 

 and the only wish we feel at present is — that 

 everybody were as happy as ourselves. 



What delicious hours are these ! One of 

 them is worth the mock and formal page- 

 antries of ten thousand balls and masquerade 

 nights. All the treasured recollections of 

 greener years ; all those kindly fancies which 

 flash across the hearts of friends during their 

 absence from each other, are now brought 

 forward, with unaffected truth. The soul un- 

 burdens itself of a load of fondness, andrevels 

 in the sweet release. The tricks, the perils 

 of school-boy days, come in for their share of 

 discussion ; the changes that have occurred 

 since that wild time are next regarded ; and 

 here, alas ! we are sure to find sad gaps. 

 There are many honest sighs to be heaved at 

 the mention of some brave fellow, whose boy- 

 hood promised a manhood of glory ; whose 

 bright eyes have long been quenched by the 

 damp of death. Still, there is a luxury even 

 in this ; the melancholy we feel serves but to 

 temper the gladness of the hour, and hallow 

 the emotions of the mind. The last subject 

 is, generally, concerning our mutual fortunes. 

 Each of us has met with some hard rubs in 

 his way ; nevertheless, we are still inclined 

 to hold out a friendly hand to the world, 

 forgive its injuries, and forget everything but 

 its benefits. And thus the evening glides on, 

 and the heart seems bathing in the delights 

 of friendship. — He that cannot relish such a 

 night is a Goth. 



In order to appreciate justly the delectable 

 charms of a cup of tea, we have only to re- 

 member the joy with which we return to it, 

 and taste it in the full perfection of its flavor, 

 after a wearisome illness. During our ma- 

 lady, taste has been blunted by fever ; and, 

 principally, by the eternal and dismal ope- 

 ration of turning the throat into a morning- 

 tunnel for the conveyance of thick beetle- 

 colored draughts, and similar liquids, indus- 

 triously supplied by our anxious apothecaries. 

 Of course tea, with its genuine effects on the 

 nerves of the tongue, is out of the question 

 while we are in this state. At last, the health- 

 tints begin to bud on the cheek ; the wan eye 

 grows bright ; the blood once more meanders 

 unfevered through the veins, and the restored 

 patient finds himself seated at the breakfast- 

 table with the freshness of health clothing his 

 limbs. Now is the time for a cup of tea ; 

 bring forth the tea-apparatus ! Let the urn 

 once more exhibit its august en-bon-point 

 person ; spread forth the rolls in all their 

 crusty glory ; let the eggs lift up their milky 

 brows; draw your chair to its accustomed situ- 



ation ; give the fire a powerful poke— and 

 do your duty. With what a grateful smile 

 you survey the room, and mark the morning 

 sunbeam skipping about the walls, and tinting 

 everything with its hue of gladness, while 

 the hot crystal stream is prancing into your 

 tea-pot ! How pleasant are the tuneless mur- 

 murs of the street, after your long confinement 

 to the mournful and monotonous silence of 

 the sick chamber ! How exquisite that still- 

 breathed prayer, exhaling from the very core 

 of the soul — that prayer, whose fervency 

 language could not translate — to the blessed 

 God of all health and wisdom, for your re- 

 covery ! 



But I won't detain you ; I hear the sugar 

 hissing itself away in the bosom of your 

 tea-cup ; there is a rich and glossy brown- 

 ness on the surface of your tea — enjoy it ! 



SHROVE-TTJESDAY. 



'Tis merry in the hall, when beards wag all, 

 And welcome merry Shrovetide. 



Shakspeare. 



If we have cause to lament the degene- 

 racy of some of the classes making up Eng- 

 land's population, in manliness of character 

 and physical strength, and to blush for the 

 silly foppery and affectation of others, who 

 but 



" Strut and stare, and a' that," 



"perfumed like milliners," and talking like 

 "waiting gentlewomen" — we have, at the same 

 time, no little cause for gratulation and plea- 

 surable reflection, in contrasting the present 

 pastimes and amusements of the " uneducated'* 

 many, with those of the times gone by. In 

 former days, they were wont to testify their 

 devotion, and to assert their Christian prin- 

 ciples, by deeds of barbarism and blood. 

 Christian festivals were the high days of 



" Moloch, horrid king, besmear'd with blood ," 



upon which clerics and laics appeared as if 

 sedulously bent on giving new vigor to the 

 worst passions of the human soul, and in gra- 

 tifying them even to satiety, regardless of 

 the miseries which they spread around. 

 Upon Good Friday, when they celebrated the 

 death of Him who " did no violence," but who 

 breathed " peace on earth and good-will to- 

 wards men," they wreaked their vengeance 

 upon some unhappy Jew, whom they way- 

 laid and stoned ; and upon Shrove Tuesday, 

 when they were required to humble them- 

 selves, by a confession of sin, that so they 

 might become partakers of their master's 

 sufferings and joy, they concluded their de- 

 votions with the barbarous practice of " hen 

 threshing," or the equally cruel " sports" of 

 " cock-fighting," and " throwing at the hen." 

 These barbarities have happily passed away, 



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