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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



There is nothing ill-natured in the fore- 

 going ; yet does it give a very correct 

 though modified idea of what is called 

 " society," — a race of beings who consider 

 " thought" vulgar, and whose only happiness 

 centres in habitual deceit, — ever appearing, 

 in fact, what they are not. 



We are all too ready to censure those 

 whose grade in life is lower than our own, 

 — quite forgetting that they are following, 

 as closely as may be, the example we set 

 before them. 



It would be well to reflect upon this ; 

 for, when our habits of life are analysed, 

 there really is not much to be said for us as a 

 " civilised nation." In our behavior towards 

 one another, we are indeed every thing but 

 natural. 



THE HAPPINESS OF CHILDREN. 



If we be wise, we shall never attempt 

 to "improve" the happiness of children. 

 We may attempt it ; but we shall not 

 succeed. 



" Pretty little dears !" said a good-looking 

 old gentleman one day, as he looked at a 

 group of children at play, " how I love the 

 little innocents ! Here, get a penn'orth of 

 apples, and share them amongst you." 



He walked on, but, yielding to a feeling 

 of curiosity, we remained to watch the event. 

 The apples were soon obtained— the game 

 was stopped, of course. One having claimed 

 rather a larger share than his companion, a 

 fight ensued. His opponent, getting the 

 worst of it, retired in tears to the mother of 

 the stronger one, who soon appeared on the 

 scene, and, having cuffed him soundly, took 

 him home for punishment. 



A third soon disappeared, like the black 

 boy, with the stomach-ache in his counte- 

 nance ; while a fourth, dissatisfied with his 

 allowance, remained on the field giving sorrow 

 vent. The apples of discord had been effec- 

 tually dropped into their Elysium ; the 

 whole appeared suddenly transformed from 

 enlightened children into men of the world. 

 Selfishness had appeared amongst them, and 

 had not forgotten to bring his companion 

 Misery, whom, although he heartily despises, 

 he seldom travels without. 



The happiness of a child is, perhaps, the 

 only perfect earthly pleasure. Do not 

 attempt to improve perfection, or you will 

 certainly destroy it. If you see a child 

 unhappy, you may readily interfere, perhaps 

 with good effect ; but when he is happy, in 

 the name of humanity let him alone. 



The cares of life will soon enough cloud 

 his horizon. Therefore let him, in his early 

 days, seek happiness in his own childish way. 

 Children have a language of their own, and 

 habits of their own. Often do we gaze on 



them, ourself unseen, and take great delight 

 in witnessing their childish performances. 

 How small a matter pleases them ! 



ONE OF OUR GREATEST BLESSINGS.— 

 THE POST. 



There is, perhaps, no possible event that 

 would cause so great a revolution in the state 

 of modern society, as the cessation of the post. 

 A comet coming in collision with the earth, 

 could alone cause a greater shock to its in- 

 habitants. It would shake nations to their 

 centre, —it would be a sort of imprisonment 

 of the universal mind, a severing of the 

 affections, and a congelation of thought. It 

 would be building up a wall of partition 

 between the hearts of mother and child, and 

 husband and wife, brother and sister. It 

 would raise Alps between the breasts of friend 

 and friend ; and quench, as with an ocean, 

 the love that is now breathed out in all its 

 glowing fervor, despite of time or place. 



What would be all the treasures of the 

 world, or all its praise to a feeling heart, if 

 it could no longer pour out its fullness to its 

 chosen friend, whom circumstances had re- 

 moved afar off? What could solace the 

 husband or the father, during his indispen- 

 sable absence from the wife of his affections, 

 or the child of his love, if he had no means 

 of assuring them of his welfare and his un- 

 alterable love ? and what could console him 

 could he not be informed of theirs ? Life, in 

 such circumstances, would be worse than a 

 blank — it would be death to the soul, but 

 without its forgetfulness. 



" Write soon — pray do write soon and 

 often " — are among the last words we breathe 

 into the ear of those we love, while we grasp 

 the hand and look into the eye that will soon 

 be far from us. What other consolation or 

 hope is left us, when the rumbling wheel or 

 swelling sail is bearing that beloved being 

 far from us, while we stand fixed to the spot 

 where the last adieu was uttered ? The post 

 is the most perfect system of intercourse that 

 has ever been devised — it scatters wealth and 

 happiness in a thousand directions. No place 

 is too distant for it to reach — no village is 

 too insignificant for it to visit. Like the 

 sun, dispensing delight, it goes its daily 

 journey. The heats of summer and the cold 

 of winter are not allowed to intercept or 

 retard it. It carries on the important busi- 

 ness of courtship, and leads to matrimony, 

 whether " for better or worse." It solaces 

 the lover's sorrow, and transmits hope 

 through many a cruel league. 



The bashful bachelor, who has not the 

 courage to make a personal declaration, may 

 do it through the medium of the post ; nay, 

 if he prefers it, he may even put " the last 



