KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



297 



repeat it, sorry are we to know that they 

 mast so soon become lost to sight. 



We cannot help thinking, that Autumn is 

 one of our loveliest seasons. We see, on 

 every side, the very perfection of beauty. 

 All the glories of the year seem collected 

 together, and they appear to tarry as if re- 

 luctant to quit us. Nature gives us an ex- 

 tended holiday, in order that we may make 

 merry to the last. 



Well; we have lost an old friend, and 

 must try to welcome his successor No- 

 vember though rough, has yet some good 

 points about him, and we will make the 

 most of them. 



The beauties of summer have vanished away, 



Like volatile phantoms display'd in a dream, 

 And Phoebus diffuses an impotent ray, 

 Scarce yielding a smile to enliven the day, 

 Or brighten the breast of the stream. 



And soon shall the forest its vesture bewail, 



And valleys and hills wear an aspect forlorn; 

 No tremulous music shall sigh with the gale, 

 No flower its lustre disclose in the dale, 

 Nor blossom embellish the thorn. 



The foliage of the trees is, this year, more 

 abundant than usual — hence the cause for 

 its being so long in taking its departure. 

 Many leaves are still clinging to the 

 branches, that only wait for a few sharp 

 frosts to bring them to the ground. The 

 ninth of this month, or Lord Mayor's Day, 

 is the usual commencement of fog, mist, and 

 damp. These visitors bring in their train, 

 dulness and unmistakeable gloom. The 

 country, as Londoners tell us, looks dismal ; 

 and London, as we tell them, looks horrible 

 — most horrible. The fog is so thick some- 

 times, as to be very injurious to the eyesight ; 

 and the streets are little better than swamps. 

 These delights appear at intervals, through- 

 out the month ; and the apothecary and phy- 

 sician derive great benefit therefrom. Colds, 

 coughs, catarrhs, rheumatisms, lumbago, 

 gout, and chilblains— have it all their own 

 way ; and loud are the grumblings that greet 

 us on every hand. Cabs fly about from 

 morning till night; and omnibuses are 

 closely packed with damp strangers. Such 

 is London. 



The Naturalist, nothing moved by these 

 things,watches the glorious sun ; who, though 

 feeble, yet never deserts the earth long 

 together. When he shines, Iioav delightful 

 it is to walk abroad even now, and see what 

 is going forward in the fields ! What 

 melody can equal the music of the wind 

 heard among the rustling and departing 

 leaves on the high trees? What is more 

 beautiful to behold than the setting sun, 

 sinking quietly to his rest amidst the 

 gradual decay of nature ! 



Nor must we, "because it is November," 



keep in doors and huddle round a large fire. 

 No. If it be cold, it is a duty to sally forth, 

 warmly clad, to meet the clear clasping air — 

 whose healthy influence makes the blood 

 tingle in the veins, and creates a wholesome 

 appetite for food. 



In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 



Every successive change in the seasons 

 brings with it something pleasing as well 

 as new ; and if we cannot enjoy it, the fault 

 is ours, most assuredly. We have, until now, 

 been contemplating the trees and shrubs in 

 all their beauty of outline, foliage, blossoms, 

 colors, lights, and shadows. Henceforward, 

 we must regard them in their ramifications, 

 sprays, buds, and barks ; and herein we shall 

 find an abundance of beauty, and cause for 

 wonder, 



As in the human figure — the female figure 

 in particular — we admire the symmetry of 

 form, the sparkling eye, the blooming cheek, 

 and the curling lock — so Ave must likewise 

 admire the proportion and polish of the 

 bones, and the admirable contrivance of the 

 joints in the bare skeleton. It was the 

 careful examination of a skeleton, that con- 

 verted Galen from atheism. " Herein," 

 cried he, with a loud voice, " is the finger 

 of God." He was right. 



There is also plenty of work to be gone 

 on with, just now, in the garden. Nothing 

 can be more healthy than to be employed in 

 setting to rights what the winds, rains, and 

 frost, have thrown into confusion. The 

 leaves must be removed ; the paths swept, 

 the flowers taken in for the winter, &c, &c. 

 Anything but sitting round the fire, and 

 living in an over-heated room. 



The month of November is said to be the 

 month of suicides and dreadful fires ; and we 

 imagine there is but too much cause for it. 

 However let us repeat, that there is no need 

 to be gloomy. A happy mind may be happy 

 anywhere, and at all seasons. Happiness 

 is contentment ; and it is only because we 

 want more than we have, that we are not 

 happy. 



It is very distressing, and ought to be 

 equally surprising, to observe how little 

 regard is paid in this country to the welfare 

 of dumb animals. The tender feeling that 

 should inhabit our breast, seems strangely 

 wanting. Years pass over, and yet there 

 is little, very little improvement in the 

 right direction. We speak of course gene- 

 rally. There are very many private indi- 

 viduals, whose hearts bleed at the record of 

 the many acts of brutality that come under 

 their eye. 



We cannot at all understand our English 

 laws. They are either very imperfect in 

 their construction, or they are very badly 



