KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



153 



The King of Glory! Bound his head divine 



Diffusive showers of radiance circling flow. 



He looks abroad on Nature, and invests, 



Where'er his universal eye surveys, 



Her ample bosom, earth, air, sea, and sky, 



In one bright robe, with heavenly tinctures gay. 



We spoke in our last about the joys of 

 harvest. These are fast drawing to a close. 

 Every effort is being put forth to secure such 

 of the golden grain as yet remains unhoused. 

 In the middle of their operations, many of 

 our farmers received a "damper" to their 

 fond hopes in the form of heavy rains. That 

 some sad damage has been done thereby, 

 we greatly fear ; but on the whole, we are 

 told, there will be fair average crops. 



The days are very visibly declining. The 

 evening is now upon us almost at unawares ; 

 and the mornings get chilly, misty, and 

 damp : still the gardens are gay. Many of the 

 flowers of the past month still remain ; ard 

 those of the most gorgeous that blow are 

 only just opening. The chief of these is the 

 China aster, the superb Heine Marguerite, 

 whose endless variety of stars shoot up in 

 rich clusters, and glow like so many lighted 

 Catharine wheels. The great climbing con- 

 volvulus also hangs out its beautiful cups 

 among its smooth and clustering leaves ; and 

 the rich aromatic Scabious lifts up its gloomy 

 purple flowers on their little stems ; whilst 

 the profuse dahlia scatters about its rich 

 double and single blooms. Some of these 

 are so intense in color, that they seem to 

 glow as you look at them. 



We must say nothing to-day about the 

 fruit, hanging temptingly on the garden 

 walls — the grapes, the peaches,the nectarines, 

 &c, — nor about the rosy-cheeked apples. 

 These last are now visible in tempting pro- 

 fusion. Indeed Floe A was never more 

 lavishly bountiful with her glorious gifts 

 than now. Turn where we may, all nature 

 smiles; and we see new beauties in the 

 fading year ; but the printer says we must 

 hold our hand — we therefore take our leave 

 of these delightful scenes— aw revoir. 



At a season like this one cannot walk 

 abroad, provided the mind be at all given to 

 contemplation, without reflecting upon that 

 great theme — the end of life. What do we 

 live for ? Whither are we travelling ? What 

 good have we done ? or are we likely to do f 



These meditations will force themselves 

 on us at certain seasons. We love to encou- 

 rage them. If they find us melancholy, 

 they leave us cheerful. We are beginning 

 now, to look down upon the world philoso- 

 phically. We have been in it long enough 

 to enjoy what little there is worth enjoying; 

 and what we have gathered from it as worth 

 preserving, we purpose keeping for our own 



use. We have found the world — nine- 

 tenths of it at least — cold, hollow, heartless, 

 selfish, artificial. It is becoming more so 

 day after day ; and we are thoroughly sick 

 of it. The " choice few," who lie scattered 

 over our land, are all that render life plea- 

 sant or endurable. Of these, thank God, 

 we have our share. 



We were filled with these thoughts some 

 few days since,when passing within a stone's- 

 throw of Kensall Green Cemetery. Our 

 feet instinctively turning thither- ward, we 

 entered, and found ourselves among the 

 tombs. 



A fine, large, open space, is this Cemetery 

 — with its smooth shaven turf, its broad gra- 

 velled walks, sloping gently toward the 

 west ; and on the brow of the ascent, its 

 small simple chapel, silent to all the services 

 of our church save one — the most solemn 

 and the most beautiful — most sorrowful and 

 yet the most cheering. We have dear, very 

 dear friends sleeping in these grounds ; and 

 we love from time to time to visit the place, 

 in order to live over again the many happy 

 hours that we passed with them whilst 

 sojourning here below. 



What a noble idea it was, to shake the 

 public faith in the grave -yards of our metro- 

 polis ; and poetically to lead the mind 

 on towards " a garden," as being a proper 

 resting-place for our departed friends ! The 

 grave is solemn enough in itself. Death 

 brings with it a train of melancholy 

 thoughts. But it is all morbid affectation to 

 invest Death with a darkness that does not 

 belong to him ; or to encourage thoughts 

 that induce despair. The French first set us a 

 good example in this matter ; and no doubt 

 their Cemetery of Pere la Chaise suggested, 

 remotely, the idea of Kensall Green Ceme- 

 tery. The habit of renewing such flowers 

 as from time to time fade away, is one 

 which, to a certain extent, induces to a dimi- 

 nished fear of Death ; it is therefore to be 

 encouraged. At the same time, it tends to 

 add to the " attractions " of the grounds ; 

 wherein it is just possible that many a pro- 

 fitable reflection has been wrought upon the 

 mind of a casual visitor. 



We cannot say much for the epitaphs and 

 stereotyped falsehoods that disfigure the 

 stones in this Cemetery , nor for some of the 

 designs of the monuments. The former are 

 intolerable doggrel, and the latter in the 

 worst possible taste. Some few there are, 

 perfectly neat and simple. Hence, they are 

 in character with the place. 



In a miscellaneous collection of tombs and 

 tastes, there must be much to condemn, and 

 something to praise. We found very little 

 to praise. None of the " titled " or high- 

 sounding names rivetted our attention, — nor 

 the many" Esquires "(!) so complacently pa- 



