ABSTRACT
O rus, quando te adspiciam! 1 has been echoed by every being in city close ypent since the Roman poet uttered that nature-loving sentiment. With us it is a passion. We could babble o’ green fields for ever. Even these poor geraniums, and myrtles, and roses, which cheat our window into a horticultural sort of aspect, are dear to us, independently of their price in Covent Garden market. Peter Pastoral could not love the spring more, nor ride his hobby with greater avidity at the risk of spring guns. What pleasure, therefore, it is to pore over such a number of rural images as are here presented to us. The thermometer 114 in the shade—the lightest character of dress which propriety demands—every casement staring open—punkah refrigeration throughout, a la Nisbett—position horizontal—the legs of the sofa iced—and this small tome in hand, it is really delightful to ‘unfatigue’ oneself in these dog-days, wherein, if we may judge by the heat, according to the ancient proverb, every dog has his day.
