KTDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



135 



THE LITTLE SEED. 



A little seed, at random thrown 



Upon the world, one day, 

 A moment up in air was blown ; 



Then gently borne away 

 Unto a desert drear and wide, 

 Close by a mountain side. 



The seed lay there for many days, 



Unnoticed and alone, 

 Amid those cold and rugged ways, 



By briars overgrown ; 

 Yet rain from Heaven, and balmy air, 

 And sunbeams cheer'd it there. 



It rooted in the solid ground, 



Put forth its stem and leaf, 

 And, throwing tendrils round and round, 



It grew beyond belief ; 

 And, waxing stronger every hour, 

 Brought forth a lovely flower. 



It blossom 'd there so sweetly mild 

 That song-birds stayed their flight, 



In wonder that the desert wild 

 Produced so fair a sight ; 



The briars envying all the while 



Its perfume and its smile. 



But Winter came with storm and snow ! 



The floweret droop 'd its head ; 

 And the briars dash'd it to and fro 



Until they deem'd it dead ; 

 Laughing, as round them day by day 

 Its scatter'd seedlets lay. 



Dismay 'd were they when Spring appeared, 

 And, crowned with myriad flowers, 



Each stem in loveliness uprear'd, 

 Defied theic rugged powers. 



In vain they strove ; for every Spring 



Brought forth its blossoming. 



The flowers now climb the mountain side, 



And on the summit smile ; 

 Whilst o'er the plain in modest pride 



They bloom for many a mile ; 

 And not one thorn now meets the view, 

 Where late the briars grew. 



And thus a thought may live and grow, 



Though cast on destrt soil, 

 And o'er the earth its beauty throw 



By long and patient toil ; 

 Though Envy's frown will oft essay 

 To take its light away. 



Yes ! it will smile and spread its flowers, 



Despite the fiercest storm ; 

 And mid the tempest and the showers 



Uprear its lovely form ; 

 Like many a truth which smiles serene 

 Amid life's darkest scene. 



Thus breathing to the world around 

 Its sweets through many a day, 



It shall adorn the humblest ground, 

 And bless the loneliest way ; 



Whilst they who shunn'd the budding flower 



Shall praise it in its blooming hour. 



Edmund Teesdale. 



THE RULING PASSION, 



OK 

 THE "WILL OFFICE," DOCTORS' COMMONS. 



If we would see human nature in its 

 foulest aspect, let us go any morning 

 to the door of the Will Office, Doctors' 

 Commons. A glance at the folk going in 

 and out, lets us into a secret which they 

 take little care to hide. If our pen were to 

 pursue the subject, we fear we should get 

 ourself into a scrape. We therefore use the 

 milder language of a contemporary, called 

 {i London," who lays bare sufficient to give 

 an outline of the vermin that haunt this 

 building. The curious can go and examine 

 further for themselves. But now for the 

 Will Office :— 



What business of life and death have we 

 here ! The weeds of the widow jostle with 

 the ribands of the bride ; expectancy going 

 in, meets disappointment coming out; miserly 

 greed and poverty's need cast their shadows 

 on thy flags, oh, lottery house of joy and 

 despair! — and the little men at thy gate, 

 with great badges and white aprons, tout on 

 to every face that wears gladness or sadness 

 passing the portal. 



What a profound knowledge of human 

 motives directs the appeals of those ticket- 

 porters ! How they discriminate betwixt 

 the apparel of the bridegroom and that of the 

 chief mourner ! How singularly appropriate 

 are their interrogations, delivered, as it 

 were, in a breath ! " D'ye want a licence, 

 sir ?" " Wish to search for a will, ma'am ?" 

 " D'ye want a proctor?" But after all, it is 

 their trade ; and that is the true secret of 

 nearly every remarkable human instinct. We 

 pass them by, however; for we want no cice- 

 rone to direct us along a path that is worn 

 deep by the pilgrimages of the votaries of 

 Mammon. 



We leave the hum of traffic in St. Paul's 

 Churchyard, and penetrate the cloister-like 

 interior of Doctors' Commons — passing by 

 gaunt houses, that seem as discolored and 

 shrivelled as the parchment documents they 

 contain; with never a merry sound vibrating 

 their old girders, or a strain of harmony to 

 interfere with the monotonous ticking of 

 the death-watch that prognosticates un- 

 ceasing fatality from behind their ancient 

 wainscots and worm-eaten panels. Even 

 human nature, in this strange place, wears 

 such a stern and rigid garb of decorum that 

 it is a wonder how it exists. The aliments, 

 the pleasures, and the luxuries of ordinary 

 mortality, it is plain, can never interfere in 

 the composition of such faces as one sees 

 here, strained to a more than stoical imper- 

 turbability. 



But we are forgetting our destination, 

 which is a little doorway labelled, " The 



