KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



287 



strong passion displays itself in a thousand 

 forms. 



We cannot all have the pleasures of a 

 country life — true ! But what remains ? 

 Why, we bring the country into our towns, 

 into our rooms, into our windows ! Here, 

 in London, amid a population of some two 

 million souls, we have struggled, generation 

 after generation, and with no small success, 

 to rescue and reserve green spots of turf 

 and trees, every here and there, from the 

 ever encroaching and extending demands of 

 population and commerce. Leigh Hunt, that 

 kindly and loving-hearted observer of nature 

 in all its moods, tells us, in his interesting 

 book on " The Town," that " there is scarce- 

 ly a street in the City of London, perhaps 

 not one, nor many out of the pale of it, from 

 some part of which the passenger may not 

 discern a tree. There is a little garden in 

 Watling Street ! It lies completely open to 

 the eye, being divided from the footway by a 

 railing only." In numerous places, even in 

 the heart of the City, there are to be seen 

 trees and green spots, that surprise the ob- 

 server in the midst of the noise and smoke. 

 Then there are the fine old parks — St. James's 

 that emerald gem, set in the very midst of 

 the bustle and business of the West End. 

 There are the modern parks — the lungs of 

 the metropolis, Hyde and Regent's, every 

 year becoming more and more beautiful. 

 And, finally, there are the new parks, at 

 Battersea and the east end of London. No- 

 thing but the strong love of the green, and 

 the laudable desire on the part of the Govern • 

 ment to gratify this excellent taste on the 

 part of the people, could have led to the 

 appropriation of such large tracts of valu- 

 able ground in and about London, for the pur- 

 pose of public recreation and enjoyment. 



Go to Covent Garden Market any morning 

 in June, and you will there find the general 

 love of flowers and green leaves displaying 

 itself in another form. The stalls are filled 

 with endless loads of bouquets ; the tables 

 are gaily set out with their tempting array 

 of calceolarias, geraniums, fuschias, cactuses, 

 roses, and heliotropes ; all nicely potted and 

 mossed. And few there are who can resist 

 the pleasure of having one or more of these 

 in possession, and bearing them off in tri- 

 umph. Many a longing look is cast upon 

 these stalls by those too poor to buy. What 

 would not many a poor girl give to be the 

 owner of one of these sweet plants ; remind- 

 ing them, as they do, of country, and gardens, 

 and sunshine, and the fresh beauty of nature ? 

 How often have we been gladdened by the 

 sight of a flower in a poor city dwelling ; 

 there it shines like a star in the dark, a light 

 in the humblest house. The love of flowers 

 is beautiful in the young ; beautiful in the 

 aged. It bespeaks simplicity, purity, deli- 



cate taste, and innate love of nature. And 

 long may flowers bloom in the homes of our 

 people, in their parlor-windows, in their one- 

 roomed cottages, in their attics, in their cel- 

 lar dwellings even ! We have hope for the 

 hearts that love flowers, and the country of 

 which they are born. 



See, perched in that window-sill, high 

 above the rushing tide of city life, a lark in 

 its narrow cage. Its eyes upturned, and its 

 feet planted on the bit of green turf, which 

 its owner brought from under a great oak- 

 tree in the forest, when on his last holiday 

 ramble ; it pours through its little throat a 

 flood of melody and joy.* 



Though confined, yet it sees the sun 

 through its prison bars, looks up cheerfully, 

 and sings ! And its captive owner in that 

 narrow room behind — captive by the neces- 

 sity of laboring for his daily bread, — he too, 

 as he hears the glad melody, and as his eyes 

 glance at the bit of green turf, and then at 

 the blue sky above, feels joy and love " shed 

 abroad in his heart," and he labors on more 

 hopefully, even though the carol of the lark 

 has brought his childhood's home, the ver- 

 dure of its fields, and the music of its words 

 gushing into his memory. Sing on then, 

 bird of heaven ! 



You see the love of country strongly dis- 

 play itself on all the holidays in the year. 

 Then you find crowds of men, women, and 

 children, pressing and panting out of the 

 towns and cities in all directions, towards 

 the fields and the fresh air. Steamers up, 

 and steamers down, stage coaches, omnibuses, 

 and cabs ; and above all, railway trains are, 

 on such days, packed tight with passengers, 

 all bound for the " country," for a day on 

 the hills, in the woods, or by the rivers — a 

 long day of fresh breathing and of pure de- 

 light. In the larger towns in the manufac- 

 turing districts, you will find railway trips 

 made in all directions — some towards the 

 sea, to inhale the ocean breeze and gaze on 

 the awful deep — some to old abbeys and old 

 castles, full of historic interest — some to the 

 moors, the rocks and fells, and some to the 

 lakes ; and thus tens of thousands of our 

 artisan population now occupy their long 

 summer holiday. A blessing on railways 

 say we ; which have thus been the means 

 of bringing the enjoyment of this healthy 

 and beautiful taste within the reach of so 

 large a mass of our population. 



S. S. 



* "We venture to doubt whether this note be a 

 note of "joy." Indeed, we affirm the expression 

 to be incorrect. The lark is as happy as he can 

 be, under circumstances, That is as much as 

 we may dare to say. A lark's happiness lies in 

 the blue ether ; and like ourselves, to be happy he 

 must have a partner to share his joys. — Ed, K. J. 



