300 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



"With these, and similar marvellous stories, 

 would he amuse his friends, while he imbibed the 

 best wine of their cellar. He was as sharp as a 

 needle. He would always manage to look up at 

 every window, as he passed and repassed the 

 house, till he caught sight of you ; and then you 

 were " done." There was no escape; and once 

 inside your gate, there was no getting him out 

 again (unless you chose to be positively rude to 

 him), until, as he used to say — " Vraiment, mon 

 cher, je pense que je monttrai en ville en fe'sant 

 les 8. Sf' 



In this surmise, he was not far from the truth ; 

 and I really do not think this gallant son of Mars 

 was very inaptly named " the sponge " by my old 

 master ; and I fancy if you had known him as 

 well as I did, you would think so too. He had 

 his fixed days, and was as regular as any one of 

 your bitter enemies — the organ-grinders. You 

 could generally tell from the first three words 

 that he uttered, the whole of what was coming. 

 Vanity and self-admiration were here exhibited in. 

 the highest degree of perfection ; and difficult in- 

 deed was it to escape his visitation if he hap- 

 pened to be in your neighborhood He was an out- 

 and-out manager ; and so thoroughly adroit ! The 

 only chance you had was, that perhaps you were 

 not the first friend he called upon ! He always 

 endeavored to make acquaintance with foreigners ; 

 he was then pretty sure to get good French 

 wine. He would not "think" of drinking " Vin 

 du Pays " unless " obliged " to do so. 



Thus much for this strange character. I think 

 I see him now. But June is rapidly drawing 

 near. So hurrah ! The late jolly rains will have 

 laid the dust for us, and make the beautiful grass 

 so soft for our feet ! I long to be off on another 

 excursion. What a merry little chap you are 

 when you are "out!" I nev — ver! How you 

 do double the folks up ! Laugh one must, — or 

 die from the effort to try and look <: demure!" 

 Yours always, Fixo. 



Tottenham, May 15. 



[Yes, Fino. Dear " Viletta " is quite right. 

 l( Laugh and grow fat " is the best of all pre- 

 scriptions. Then might the doctors "throw 

 physic to the dogs." But would they swallow it ? 

 Not they ! They know better. So, hurrah for 

 the country — and a gallopard on that beautiful 

 soft grass !J 



SONG. 



How many times do I love thee, dear ? 

 Tell me how many thoughts there be 

 In the atmosphere 

 Of a new-fallen year, 

 Whose white and sable hours appear 



The latest flake of eternity. 

 So many times do I love thee, dear ! 



How many times do I love again ? 

 Tell me how many beads there are 

 In a silver chain 

 Of evening rain, 

 Unravell'd from the tumbling main, 



And threading the eye of a yellow star. 

 So many times do I love again ! 



W.B. 



HAPPY IGNORANCE. 



What's Time to thee, my merry boy, 



That thus thou feign'st 1o mark his measure ? 

 Thine infant hours are hours of jo}', 



And who would note the lapse of pleasure ? 

 What recks it where he points his finger ? 



Morn, noon, or night's the same to thee ; 

 With thee, dear babe, he scarce may linger ; — 



Then give that golden watch to me ! 



As yet thou canst not know its worth, 



And, idler-like, perchance may lose it : 

 Or — in some freak of boisterous mirth — 



Some mischief-working mood — misuse it ! 

 What ! would'st thou ope Time's inmost shrine, 



And gaze upon each secret spring ? 

 Go to, — thou might'st not then divine 



What stays his course or speeds his wing ! 



But let a few short years depart, 



Of hope and fear, of joy and woe, 

 And he will then unasked impart 



Far more than 'twill be bliss to know ! 

 The hidden springs that stir mankind, 



That wring the heart and rack the frame, — 

 The "fury-passions" of the mind 



Thou dost not even know by name ! 



Long may'st thou be unwise as now, — 



For who would learn the way to weep? 

 Long sparkle thus that sunny brow, — 



Those eyes their playful vigils keep ! 

 Nay, struggle not, my merry boy — 



Time hath not aught to do with thee ! 

 'Twere vain to count thy hours of joy — 



Then yield that glittering toy to me ! 



PROFITABLE MEDITATIONS,— 

 THE LIVING AMONG THE DEAD. 



We feel a joy surpassing that which springs 



From present pleasure, when the pensive mind, 

 Silently musing on departed things, 



To soft Reflection's influence is resign'd ; 

 For Fancy then with Memory's power hath join'd 



Her witching art ; and on past sorrow's brow 

 With fairy hands a roseate wreath they bind, 



While, as they rise, remembered scenes of woe, 

 Stript of their former gloom, in tender beauty glow. 



Many times, my dear Sir, have I perused 

 with feelings of delight, the fugitive thoughts 

 which you penned down after visiting 

 Kensall-Green Cemetery in the summer of 

 1852 (see Vol. II., p. 153). The freshness of 

 those thoughts is ever present to my mind. 

 A few days since, whilst reading the works 

 of Professor Longfellow, I found other similar 

 reflections, which gave me much delight. 

 They are recorded, as being his " impres- 

 sions" whilst visiting Pere la Chaise. The 

 columns of Our Own will, I am sure, give 

 them a ready insertion. 



After describing the tomb of Abelard and 

 Heloise, and the humble but affecting wreaths 

 of flowers marking the hired graves of the 

 poor, we find the subjoined comments : — 



As I passed on, amidst the shadowy 

 avenues of the cemetery, I could not help 



