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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



not a harsh sentence to refuse this title to 

 the mass of mere opinions and conjectures, 

 which, for some hundred years before the 

 19th century, were pompously designated 

 " Theories of the earth." With much better 

 right may the title of geologists be conceded 

 to Strabo and the old philosophers, who 

 studied the local phenomena of their countries, 

 and proposed limited hypotheses, in agree- 

 ment with their notion of the laws of nature, 

 than to Burnet and Buffon, whose systems 

 of cosmogony have the air of a philosophical 

 romance rather than of a serious generalisa- 

 tion of facts. 



The history of the progress of opinions in 

 geology may be useful as a warning to men 

 advanced in geological inquiries, not to 

 reason upon assumptions when "facts" 

 remain to be explored ; and to repress that 

 impatience of spirit, which ever seeks to 

 anticipate observation by the efforts of 

 invention. But the student should, if possible, 

 be kept in impartial ignorance of these con- 

 flicting hypotheses, which are too apt to 

 fascinate the young and imaginative mind. 



It gives us pleasure to diffuse these senti- 

 ments widely,as it is too much the fashion to 

 take matters of science upon trust. Investi- 

 gation can alone prove satisfactory. 



APPEABANCE8 DECEITFUL. 



A merry sunbeam, warm and gay, 



Lighting in an April day, 



O'er a meadow chanced to stray; 



And a little foolish primrose thought 

 That sunbeam had the summer brought. 



And in its dawning birth-day flush, 



It rose aside a holly bush, 



The orchestra of many a thrush: 



Its silver arms flung round in air, 

 The merry sunbeam found it there. 



The wily day gleamed, smiled, and laugh'd, 

 As to the floweret's health it quaff'd, 

 And drain'd of dew full many a draught; 

 Nor would that foolish flower believe 

 Such smiles and beauty could deceive. 



But as the day began to wane, 



The primrose wish'd, but wish'd in vain, 



Its morning freshness back again ; 



Yet still the sunbeam brightly shone, 

 And smil'd, and laugh'd, and flatter'd on. 



But as the air of evening came, 

 And withering chill'd the floweret's frame, 

 The sunbeam scarlet blush'd for shame, 

 And proving all its words a boast, 

 Withdrew its warmth when needed most. 



The little primrose, sore dismay'd, 

 In winding-sheet of grass array 'd, 

 Aside the holly dying, laid — 

 Shivering, bereft, and bare, 

 The merry sunbeam left it there ! 



J. B. 



A BANK OF VIOLETS. 



At this sweet season, few lovers of 

 nature need prompting to go abroad and 

 seek for the early flower. Let us hear what 

 Miss Mitford says about it ; for we would 

 fain, now, give place to other voices than our 

 own, and so be "ever changing ever new." 

 In her note-book, she thus writes : — March 

 27th — It is a dull grey morning, with a dewy 

 feeling in the air ; fresh, but not windy ; cool, 

 but not cold ; the very day for a person 

 newly arrived from the heat, the glare, the 

 noise, and the fever of London, to' plunge 

 into the remotest labyrinths of the country, 

 and regain the repose of mind, the calmness 

 of heart, which has been lost in that great 

 battle. I must go violeting — it is a necessity 

 — and I must go alone. . . . 



The common that I am now passing — the 

 Lea, as it is called — is one of the loveliest 

 spots near my house. It is a little sheltered 

 scene, retiring, as it were, from the village ; 

 sunk amidst higher lands — hills would be 

 almost too grand a word — edged on one side 

 by our gay high-road, and intersected by 

 another ; and surrounded by a most pictu- 

 resque confusion of meadows, cottages, farms, 

 and orchards ; and with a great pond in one 

 corner, unusually bright and clear, giving a 

 delightful cheerfulness and day-light to the 

 picture. The swallows haunt that pond; so 

 do the children. There is a merry group 

 round it now ; I have seldom seen it without 

 one. Children love water, clear, bright, 

 sparkling water ; it excites and feeds their 

 curiosity ; it is motion and life. . . . 



A turn in the lane, and we come to 

 the old house standing amongst the high 

 elms, — the old farm-house, which always, I 

 don't know why, carries back my imagination 

 to Shakespeare's days. It is a long, low, 

 irregular building, with one room at an angle 

 from the house, covered with ivy, fine, white- 

 veined ivy ; the first floor of the main build- 

 ing projecting, and supported by oaken 

 beams, and one of the windows below with 

 its old casement and long narrow frames, 

 forming the half of a shallow hexagon. A 

 porch, with seats in it', surrounded by a pin- 

 nacle, pointed roofs and clustered chimneys, 

 complete the picture. The very walls are 

 crumbling to decay under a careless land- 

 lord and a ruined tenant. 



Now a few yards farther and I reach the 

 bank. Ah ! I smell them already ; most 

 exquisite perfume steams and lingers in this 

 moist heavy air. Through this little gate, 

 and along the green south bank of this green 

 wheat-field, and they, burst upon me, — the 

 lovely violets ! in tenfold loveliness. The 

 ground is covered with them, white and 

 purple, enamelling the short dewy grass, 

 looking but the more vividly colored under 



