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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



work on " our own account." In a word, we 

 had turned author. We were therefore 

 doomed to be one of that persecuted race. 

 We need not tell those who understand the 

 matter, now authors are treated in "the 

 Row." Suffice it to say, that all success must 

 rest upon their good name, or the endeavors 

 put forth by their friends to serve them. 

 This is a notorious fact. 



This little explanation will satisfy our 

 friends, both near and afar off, " why" OUR 

 Journal was not sent with others ; " why" 

 it is always out of print, and " why" com- 

 plete sets of the work cannot be had. We 

 have remonstrated with one of the largest 

 houses in Paternoster Row; and we are bound 

 to acknowledge that they treated our remon- 

 strances with marked respect, and promised 

 to investigate the formal complaints which we 

 have found it needful to make. This is " one 

 step" towards reform. 



We would gladly be on friendly terms with 

 our brethren, if possible ; but, under such 

 circumstances as we now record, it cannot be. 



The unceasing complaints we have received 

 from all quarters, during the present month, 

 wring from us these remarks ; and cause us 

 to throw ourselves, more than ever, upon 

 the Public. They can, if they will, assist us 

 out of our difficulty, and place our Journal 

 at once far beyond the reach of such petty 

 tyranny. Knowing, as they now do, that 

 the work always is ready in time, and that 

 the numbers, parts, and volumes, are always 

 obtainable, — if they insist upon it, their 

 booksellers must attend to orders given. If 

 they will not, another remedy offers. Try a 

 more respectable tradesman. 



FOG— SNOW— FROST— ICE 



AND 



THE "JOYS" OF A COLD DAY. 



The past month has not failed to remind us 

 of " old times."' We had, on the 1st of Feb- 

 ruary, as dense a fog — almost, as can be re- 

 membered by the " oldest inhabitant." No 

 conveyance could we get to our country villa ; 

 and the distance that cut us off from it was 

 eight miles. We trudged off, therefore, at half- 

 past eight, p.m., from the City homewards, 

 amidst " darkness visible." Had we space, 

 we could write a most readable and droll 

 chapter on that walk home. It was full of 

 occurrences — comic and serio-comic. We, 

 too, had a fall, head foremost into the road. 

 Whilst passing through Kensington, our foot 

 violently struck against a kerb-stone, and over 

 we went. A wicked voice shouted out — "Jolly 

 drunk, he is !" It was too dark to see the 

 speaker. He had mizzled in the mist. For- 

 tunate child of mystery was he. Had we 

 caught him, but we did'nt ! 



Well ; that fog. and several other fogs, being 

 over, we have had snow and frost ; and all 

 the delightful accompaniments thereof. We 

 love to see the crystal gems pendant on the 

 leaves and branches, and the fantastic crea- 

 tions that deck the overhanging arms of the 

 trees. We have rejoiced in these sights not 

 a little, but cannot now more than glance at 

 them. This little exordium is merely intro- 

 ductoryof a sketch, by Leigh Hunt, on A cold 

 day. Its graphic correctness, most — if not all 

 of us, must have verified to the very letter 

 not many days since. 



Now, the moment people wake in the 

 morning, they perceive the coldness with 

 their faces, though they are warm with their 

 bodies ; and exclaim, " Here's a day !" and 

 pity the poor little sweep and the boy with 

 the water-cresses. How anybody can go to 

 a cold ditch and gather water-cresses, seems 

 marvellous. Perhaps we hear great lumps 

 in the street of something falling ; and, look- 

 ing through the window, perceive the roofs of 

 the neighboring houses thick with snow. 

 The breath is visible, issuing from the mouth 

 as we lie. Now we hate getting up, and hate 

 shaving, and hate the empty grate in our 

 bed-room ; and water freezes in ewers, and you 

 may set the towel upright on its own hard- 

 ness, and the window-panes are frost-whitened; 

 or it is foggy, and the sun sends a dull brazen 

 beam into one's room ; or, if it is fine, the 

 windows outside are stuck with icicles ; or a 

 detestable thaw has begun, and they drip ; 

 but, at all events, it is horribly cold, and deli- 

 cate shavers fidget about their chambers, 

 looking distressed ; and cherish their hard- 

 hearted enemy, the razor, in their bosoms, to 

 warm him a little, and coax him into a con- 

 sideration of their chins. Savage is a cut, 

 and it makes them think destiny really too 

 hard. 



Now, breakfast is ready; and the fire seems 

 to laugh at us as we enter the breakfast- room, 

 and say, " Ha ! ha ! here's a better room 

 than the bed-room!" and we always poke 

 it before we do anything else ; and people 

 grow selfish about seats near it ; and little 

 boys think their elders tyrannical for say- 

 ing, " Oh, you don't want the fire — your 

 blood is young." And truly that is not the 

 way of stating the case, albeit young blood 

 is warmer than old. Now the butter is too 

 hard to spread, and the rolls and toast are at 

 their maximum; and the former look glorious 

 as they issue, smoking, out of the flannel in 

 which they come from the baker's ; and 

 people who come with single knocks at the 

 door are pitied ; and the voices of boys are 

 loud in the street, sliding, or throwing snow- 

 balls ; and the dustman's bell sounds cold ; 

 and we wonder how anybody can go about 

 selling fish, especially with that hoarse voice; 

 and schoolboys hate their slates, and blow 



