
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 


333 

At length, my dressing completed, I re- 
solved to give the servant one for sending 
me the lukewarm water ; so I ran down-stairs, 
and over the cook with the boiling kettle in 
her hand. “ You'll find this hotter, sir,” said 
she, as she spilled some over me, and wished 
me “a merry Christmas.” 
Half-an-hour after my time I sat down to 
a hasty breakfast— 
‘‘ A merry Christmas to you, my dear,” 
said my wife; ‘‘andlet me have some money, 
will you, before you go out?” 
“'Thank you,” said I. 
“What ‘color will you have the parlor 
curtains ? ” said she. 
“Any color,” said]; “dun, if you like.” 
‘‘Dun!” said she, and bang came a single 
knock at the street door— 
“You are wanted, sir;” and out I went. 
A bird of prey, with a long bill, stood on the 
mat :— 
‘‘My master wishes you a merry Christ- 
mas, sir, and says he won’t wait any longer 
for his money.”’ 
“Tell him he’s one of those over-polite 
people who mistake pressing for kindness,” 
said I; and, snatching my hat, Irushed past 
him, and out of the house. ‘Chis brought me 
into contact with the baker’s man, who half 
covered me with flour, and wished me ‘“‘a 
merry Christmas”—just as I put my foot on a 
slide, and tumbled on my back. I made him 
no answer, for I only caught his words as 
I fell. 
Cut, bruised, scalded, and too late, I took 
a cab. 
“T hope,” said the cabman’s “ friend,” 
“your honor will give me a trifle, to drink 
your health this Christmas ? ” 
I was about to do so— 
‘* Ah! thank your honor,” said he; “and 
a merry Christmas to you.” 
As if at the very sound of the words, the 
horse made a plunge, tripped, fell on his side, 
threw me out, and scattered my silver in all 
directions. 
As Llay sprawling, a malicious friend, who 
was driving past in his gig, called out, “A 
merry Christmas to you, Tom!” 
The situation was comical in spite of all; 
so I burst out laughing, and my lip burst out 
bleeding. As the cabriolet had dropped me, 
L dropped it—and walked. Several friends 
whom I met wished me “a merry Christ- 
mas ;” but I had bitten the dust, and swal- 
lowed the fog, and I couldn’t answer them 
for coughing. While at my office, nobody 
called on me with money ; but twenty people 
called on me for some, in the shape of Christ- 
mas boxes,—the only change I got, in each 
case, being, “A merry Christmas to you, 
sir.” Never mind, thought I; I am engaged 
to a capital dinner and shall meet a jolly 
party. 
The time approached, and I left the office. 
At the door I was met by an urchin, who 
wished me “a merry Christmas,” showed me 
his Christmas-piece, and asked me for a 
Christmas-box. Out of all patience, I told 
him [had no peace at Christmas myself, and 
gave him a Christmas-box on the ear—pro- 
mising, if he came again, that I would give 
him another, another year. Leaving him, I 
encountered -a croaking old neighbor, who 

drawled out, in a most dismal tone of voice, 
‘Merry Christmas to you, friend; the cho- 
lera’s spreading fast, I perceive.” 
Arrived almost within a street’s length of 
the promised feast, I heard a strange voice 
behind me say, “ Merry Christmas to you, 
sir; at the same time, I felt a familiar tap 
on the shoulder, and, turning round, beheld 
John Doe and Richard Roe. I was marched 
off to a lock-up house. ‘“ A merry Christmas 
to you,” said the keeper, as he turned the 
key upon me, and left me in a room without 
food or fire. 
I summoned, in succession, three supposed 
friends, who, one after another, refused to 
bail me,—but each wished me “a merry 
Christmas ” as he went away. Disappointed 
and wretched, I sent for an attorney of the 
Insolvent Court, who told me that, as soonas 
I could let him have ten pounds to begin 
with, I might send for him again. As he was 
going, I called after him, to inquire how soon 
he thought I could get liberated. ‘“ About 
the end of March,” he answered; and, wish- 
ing me “a merry Christmas,” shut the door. 
For the last twenty years—that is to say, 
ever since I have been married and wnsettled 
—such, or some such, has been my comic an- 
nual. What wonder, then, if I hate the 
sound of that which to me is but a sound ?— 
if I begin to doubt whether there is, in 
reality, any such thing as a merry Christ- 
mas ?—and if the one solitary pleasure I felt 
on Monday last, was not in giving sixpence 
to a melancholy mendicant, in return for his 
reminding me “that it only came once a 
year?” 
December 31st. C. D. 
VIRTUE AND VICE. 
Virtvz is not a mushroom, that springeth up 
of itself in one night, when we are asleep. It is 
a delicate plant, that groweth slowly and tenderly, 
needing much pains to cultivate it, much care to 
guard it, much time to mature it. Neither is 
vice a spirit that will be conjured away witha 
charm, slain with a single blow, or despatched by 
one stab. Who then will be so foolish as to 
leave the eradicating of vice, and the planting in 
of virtue into its place, toa few years or weeks? 
Yet he who procrastinates his repentance, grossly 
does so. With his eyes open, he abridges the 
time allotted for the longest and most important 
| work he has to perform. He is a fool. 


