34 
one.* Let those whom it concerns, each 
in his own locality, say there shall be one. 
Nothing is wanted but interest and well- 
directed effort. The poor man would hail 
the establishment of such meetings with de- 
light. They would be a relief to his toil, a 
break in the dull monotony of his life; be- 
sides bringing a few shillings into his pocket. 
This, not on the doubtful condition of having 
to humble himself and accept them as 
charity, but in connection with honorable 
superiority in the sight of his neighbors. 
But then, it is said, many cottagers have no 
gardens. This is really too bad, for we fear 
it must be admitted. They ought to have 
them. Land is not a thousand pounds per 
acre inthe country. A good deal has been 
done, and a great. deal more said, about im- 
proving the dwellings of the working classes. 
We are very anxious they should have good 
houses, but shall not be satisfied if they do 
not get also good gardens. If they want 
habitable houses for the sake of their bodily 
health, quite as much do they want gardens 
for their intellectual and moral health. Let 
our friends who take an interest in improv- 
ing the habitations of the poor, keep this 
point in view. They will find their account 
in doing so. 
There is another class of poor—the opera- 
tives of our large towns. We may see that 
these are not behind their brethren of the 
rural districts in appreciation of floral 
beauty. For instances in point, you have 
only to look up to the window over your 
head, and there see a geranium, or fuchsia, or 
verbena, tended with all the care that can 
be given to it; though its life, withal, seems 
to be a continued struggle with adverse con- 
ditions. Or, see within the glass, a pot 
suspended to the ceiling, containing a plant 
of the ‘“mother-of-thousands’’ (as it is 
termed), throwing its graceful festoons down 
the window, and forming a pleasant natural 
blind from the rays of the sun. 
The artisan and mechanic, and their pale- 
faced children, love flowers; but how are 
they to enjoy them? They cannot, like the 
cottager in the open country, have gardens 
of their own. It is impossible. The only 
remedy we can see, is the establishment of 
public gardens. London is taking the lead 
in this matter. We have already our parks, 
and something in the shape of gardens at 
Kensington and St. James's; and soon we 
shall have our splendid park for the people, 
* We need not say how heartily we concur in 
the view taken by this amiable writer, who, in 
the pages of the Gardeners’ Journal, is so indefa- 
tigable in insisting upon the supply of this great 
want. Flowers and gardens possess a degree of 
interest, which irresistibly win upon the better 
feelings of a man or woman ; and we may observe 
their humanising effects daily—Ep. K. J. 




KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL 
with its beautiful gardens, at Sydenham, 
thrown open to the toil-worn operative of 
the city. Every town, every aggregation of 
dwellings where land is too dear for every 
man to have a garden of his own, whether 
called a town or a village, ought to have its 
botanic garden—not merely a place for stu- 
dents to learn Latin names, and the fashion- 
ables of the neighborhood to loiter away an 
hour or two before dinner in talking of 
everything but what is before them and 
around them; but a place of public recrea- 
tion, sustained by the people for the use of 
the people, and open to everybody, young 
and old. 
The English people only want to have 
such opportunities given them, to show that 
they can be trusted in such places—without 
notice-boards disfiguring every tree, and 
meeting the eye at every turn, or policemen 
everlastingly dogging their footsteps. As 
it is, the officials of our public gardens know 
very well that it is not the vulgar who are 
most given to these propensities; though 
they generally come in for the blame. 
OUR MIRROR OF THE MONTHS. 
AUGUST. 
Tis a fair sight, that vest of gold; 
Those wreaths that Aveust’s brows unfold. 
O! ’tis a goodly sight, and fair, 
To see the fields their produce bear,— 
Waved by the breezes’ lingering wing, 
So thick, they seem to laugh and sing. 
The heart rejoices with delight 
To view that wondrous, beauteous sight ; 
And see the reapers’ skilful hand 
Culling the riches of the land. 
—_—— 
NEVER HAVE WE HAD GREATER proof 
than during the present year, of the fickle 
changes of the seasons. The “ oldest inhabi- 
tant” confesses himself puzzled to “ recol- 
lect anything like it.” We have already 
noted the extraordinary character of April, 
May, and June; and July has hardly been 
less remarkable. 
We were speaking in our last, of the hay 
and the haymakers; and dwelling on the 
merry voices that were then rending the air in 
the fields round London. Scarcely was our 
ink dry, ere rain fell in ceaseless torrents ; 
and in many places quite put astop to the 
operations of the farmer and hismen. July, 
in fact, dawned most inauspiciously. The 
first half of the month was more remarkable 
for clouds than for sunshine—-for storms and 
thunder, than for sun and brightness; and 
the second half has hardly made amends for 
this. 
The last grand Floral fete, too, at Chis- 
wick, was, as usual, productive of wet. The 
morning of the 9th ulto. was ushered in by 
torrents of rain that quite deluged the 
Gardens, and in every sense of the word cast 

