112 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



to Heaven, that he was (at all events, for his 

 size) the most powerful advocate for social 

 union; and that his eloquence was as strongly 

 appreciated by others, Patterson received 

 many convincing proofs. 



Three times, as he sat beneath the cage, 

 proud as Lucifer, yet hammering away at a 

 shoe- sole lying in purgatory on his lapstone, 

 and then, with a waxed thread in each hand, 

 suddenly extending his elbows, like a scara- 

 mouch, — three times was he interrupted in 

 his work by people who each separately 

 offered him one hundred dollars for his lark. 

 An old farmer repeatedly offered him a 

 hundred acres of land for him ; and a poor 

 Sussex carter, who had imprudently stopped 

 to hear him sing, was so completely over- 

 whelmed Avith affection and maladie du pays, 

 that, walking into the shop, he offered for 

 him all he possessed in the world — his horse 

 and cart. But Patterson would sell him to 

 no one. 



On the evening of the — th of October, 

 1837, the shutters of Patterson's shop 

 windows were half closed, on account of his 

 having that morning been accidentally shot 

 dead on the island opposite the city. The 

 widow's prospects were thus suddenly ruined, 

 her hopes blasted, her goods sold ; and I need 

 hardly say that I made myself the owner, 

 the lord and the master, of poor Patterson's 

 lark. 



It was my earnest desire, if possible, to 

 better his condition, and I certainly felt very 

 proud to possess him ; but somehow or other 

 this " Charley is my darling" sort of feeling 

 evidently was not reciprocal. Whether it was, 

 that in the conservatory of the Government 

 House at Toronto, Charley missed the sky — 

 whether it was that he disliked the move- 

 ment, or rather want of movement, in my 

 elbows — or whether, from some mysterious 

 feeling, some strange fancy or misgiving, the 

 chamber of his little mind was hung with 

 black — I can only say that, during the three 

 months he remained in my service, T. could 

 never induce him to open his mouth, and that 

 up to the last hour of my departure he would 

 never sing to me. 



On leaving Canada, I gave him to Daniel 

 Orris, an honest, faithful, loyal friend, who 

 had accompanied me to the province. His 

 station in life was about equal to that of 

 poor Patterson , and accordingly, so soon as 

 the bird was hung by him on the outside of 

 his humble dwelling, he began to sing again 

 as exquisitely as ever. He continued to do 

 so all through Sir George Arthur's adminis- 

 tration. He sang all the time Lord Durham 

 was at work ; he sang after the Legislative 

 Council, the Executive Council, the House ot 

 Assembly of the province, had ceased for 

 ever to exist ; he sang all the while the Impe- 

 rial Parliament were framing and agreeing to 



an Act by which even the name of Upper 

 Canada was to cease to exist ; and then, 

 feeling that the voice of an English lark 

 could no longer be of any service to that 

 noble portion of Her Majesty's dominions — 

 he died ! 



Orris sent me his skin, his skull, and his 

 legs. I took them to the very best artist in 

 Londcn — the gentleman who stuffs for the 

 British Museum — who told me, to my great 

 joy, that these remains were perfectly un- 

 injured. After listening with great pro- 

 fessional interest to the case, he promised 

 me that he would exert his utmost talent ; 

 and in about a month Charley returned to 

 me with unruffled plumage, standing again 

 on the little orchestra of his cage, with his 

 mouth open, looking upwards — : in short, in 

 the attitude of singing, just as I have de- 

 scribed him. 



I have had the whole covered with a large 

 glass case, and upon the dark wooden back of 

 the cage there is pasted a piece of white paper, 

 upon which 1 have written the following 

 words : — ■ 



This Lark, 

 taken to Canada by a poor Emigrant, 



WAS SHIPWRECKED IN THE St.^LaWRENCE ; 



and after singing at toronto for nine years, 



died there on the 14th of march, 1843, 



universally regretted. 



Home ! Home ! Sweet Home ! 



SORROW'S OWN SONG, 



OR 



THE FAITHFUL HARP. 



You think I have a merry heart 



Because my songs are gay; 

 But oh ! they all were taught to me 



By friends now far away. 

 The bird will breathe his silver note 



Though bondage binds his wing,— 

 But is his song a happy one ? — 



I'm saddest when J sing ! 



I heard them first in that dear home 



I never more shall see ; 

 And now each song of joy has got 



A mournful turn for me. 

 Alas, 'tis vain in winter time 



To mock the songs of Spring, 

 Each note recalls some wither'd leaf,- 



I'm saddest when I sing ! 



Of all the friends I used to love, 



My harp remains alone ; 

 Its faithful voice still seems to be 



An echo of my own. 

 My tears when I bend over it 



Will fall upon its string; — 

 Yet those who hear me little think 



I'm saddest when I sing ! 



T. H. Bayly. 



