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KIDD'S LONDON JOURNAL. 



treatment, it grew to the size of 5g inches 

 in diameter (this is the actual measure), and 

 perhaps might, with stimulating circum- 

 stances, have been considerably larger. The 

 petals are scarlet, edged with crimson inside, 

 and expand very t wide, almost as flat as a 

 saucer.— N. B. 



A COLD. 



"What disease hast thou ? 

 A cold, Sir ; a cough. 



Shakspeare, Henry IV, 



In itself, a cold is one of the most uncon- 

 genial titillating plagues to which mortal 

 creatures are subjected, during their earthly 

 pilgrimage. A decline saps one down to 

 the grave in a delicate, gentlemanly sort of 

 manner. A tooth-ache, or an ear-ache, is 

 outrageously painful ; but then they are 

 downright John Bull sort of attacks ; now a 

 cold is a cowardly, indescribable complaint. 

 It intrudes at all seasons and in all places. 

 It may be caught in the hot blush of sum- 

 mer, as well as in the surly breeze of winter; 

 and as for places, — into what can it not 

 enter ? Sometimes it whistles itself through 

 a creek in the window, or whines through a 

 half-opened parlor-door, or comes blundering 

 down the chimney, or rolls itself in many a 

 whistled mutter along the hall ; it is a wiz- 

 ard malady. 



The most popular way of catching a cold, 

 is by "getting wet through" — to use a com- 

 mon, but expressive idiom. This "getting 

 wet through " frequently ends in something 

 more serious than a cold ; — many a sweet 

 creature is placed under the turf by it. As 

 an introduction to a mere cold, it is truly 

 miserable and comfortless. You have been 

 out, for instance, to have a little cheerful 

 chat with a friend, and at the respectable 

 hour of ten, encased in a heavy benjamin, 

 return to your lodging. By-and-by the skies 

 deepen into a gloomy swell of clouds, and 

 then discharge themselves in a most tremen- 

 dous shower. You may button your coat 

 tighter, shiver and shake, and look as black 

 as the heavens — and yet, if you have no um- 

 brella, and no close coat, to shelter yourself 

 in — you'll " get wet through." The unruly 

 rain-drops will drip from the rim of your 

 hat, as from the tiles of a house, and thence 

 creep down your back in many a chilling 

 trickle. This invariably makes one fret and 

 fume. The coat begins to cling like a wet 

 blanket; and lastly, every step you take 

 generally introduces your soaked shoe or 

 boot into a puddle, at which you involun- 

 tarily start with a " drat it ! " — and then 

 step into another, which seldom fails to 

 spatter your dress with mud. Should you 

 happen to be on the outside of an omnibus in 

 rainy weather, Heaven defend you from one 



of those stoical, stone-hearted, big-faced fel- 

 lows, who will let the pinions of his umbrella 

 drop buckets full of rain into your poll, with 

 the utmost sang-froid; and when you at- 

 tempt to resent his cruelty, replies — " Can't 

 help it, Sir ; what can't be cured must be 

 endured !" 



Never is the street door of our dwelling 

 so charming an object, as when we reach it 

 half coddled by the incessant patter of the 

 rain. What a peal we play on the door, 

 sending the stormy music of its knocker 

 through the chambers like cannon echoes ! 

 'Tis bustle all ! Your wife has been fretting 

 about you for the last hour, and now she is at 

 the door before any of the domestics. Your 

 Louisa (an only daughter) is by her side, 

 and between both you are tenderly hauled 

 into the parlor, there to undergo a complete 

 revolution of the " outward man." And how 

 delightful are the little attentions of affec- 

 tion and love on these occasions ! It is at 

 all times pleasurable to have a woman flut- 

 tering about one, with her looks of love, and 

 her delicate hands ready to assist you ; but 

 especially on these uncomfortable occa- 

 sions. 



The author knows too little of the Escula- 

 pian art, to describe scientifically the ap- 

 pearance of a person who is under the en- 

 durance of a cold ; yet he may be able, 

 perhaps, to give a representation of its effects. 

 A polite cold approaches one with maiden- 

 like modesty. — First, a feverish ardor suf- 

 fuses itself over the whole person; and while 

 this is the case, the very atmosphere appears 

 burdensome : we would fain disengage our- 

 selves from it, and mount upwards into 

 purer and more refreshing air. Next, the 

 nostrils are tinted with a blush which, un- 

 fortunately, attends too many who have no 

 cold to account for it. It must not be for- 

 gotten, that the frequent communication 

 which takes place between the nose and 

 pocket-handkerchief occasions a disagreeable 

 feeling in the former. 



The effect of a cold on the sight is, per- 

 haps, the most uncongenial of all its influ- 

 ences. It reddens the corners of the eye, 

 fills it with heat, and makes the eye-ball 

 throb with feverish excitement. Next comes 

 the sneezing; and he who says that sneez- 

 ing is unpleasant, never sneezed legitimately, 

 he may be assured. Certainly it compels 

 the breast to swell and heave, gives the 

 whole body an abrupt jerk; but neverthe- 

 less, sneezing is agreeable, and when it is 

 over, the sensation that remains is similar 

 to that which arises from resting the legs 

 after they have been excercised greatly, 

 during the day : in short, sneezing must be 

 ranked among the minor pleasures attending 

 a cold. The result of all these symptoms is 

 a nervous and languid aspect ; and having 



