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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



As regards the continuation of Our 

 Journal at a future period, — that rests with 

 the public. We can never again undertake 

 the commercial branches ot its conduct ; 

 although our pen, head, and hands will be at 

 all times ready (as ever) to furnish and 

 arrange the materiel. On this point we must 

 be decisive. All our present subscribers 

 should send us their names and addresses. 

 They will then be carefully registered in a 

 book kept for that purpose, and a private 

 communication made to each party whenever 

 any new movement is projected. This would 

 indeed entail a very tedious operation, if per- 

 formed by one individual; but done singly, a 

 minute would suffice. 



We come now to the painful part of our 

 duty; and that is, — to say ''Farewell!" 

 This must be done in silence. When the 

 heart is full, the tongue is often tied. Ours 

 is so now. But as we and our readers 

 "sympathise," the feelings of each one of 

 us are at this moment purely identical. Thus 

 is an apparently insurmountable difficulty 

 conquered in a moment of time. 



One word more. During the conduct of 

 this Miscellany, we have received certain 

 pecuniary aids from certain loving souls — 

 G-od bless them ! — to stem the foul endeavor 

 of "the Trade" to prevent our obtaining a 

 fair hearing with the public. These, as yet, 

 remain unliquidated ; and the circumstance 

 sits heavily upon our mind. They must be 

 discharged, — of course. We ask a little time 

 for this. Our pen will never sleep ; and now 

 that we are so well known, we venture to 

 hope it may, by and by, be more profitably 

 exercised, so as to make us happily inde- 

 pendent. The feeling of gratitude will ever 

 remain. That, thank God, is imperishable. 



And now, good friends, in plain old English, 

 let us try and falter out the word, — 



Farewell ! 



"THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS." 



Once upon a time. — Old Story. 



I saw her at his grave, — 



I stood and watched her there, 

 Fringing the hum hie hillock with 



The flowrets of the year. 

 She stoop'd to kiss the cold, cold clay, 

 Then homeward, weeping, sped her way. 



I saw her at her home, 



When various suitors came, — 

 Each striving to prevail on her 



Once more to change her name. 

 I heard the answer which she gave : 

 " My love lies in my husband's grave." 



When forty years had fled 



I saw that form again : 

 How brief the period then that she 



Could in this world remain ! 

 But long enough she lived to prove 

 What true heaets do for those they love. 



L. M. T. 



DOLLY PENTREATH, 



THE LAST OF THE ANCIENT CORNISH FISHWOMEN. 

 AN IMPROMPTU — BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



A happy old woman once lived in the west, 



An old merry soul was she ; 

 I trust that her soul is now safely at rest, 



For she saved many soles from the sea. 

 She was never a cheat — to steal was beneath 

 The notion of honor with Dolly Pentreath ! 



She could once dance or skate; but a place on her 

 heel 

 Now often with anguish would ache ; 

 Nor can I express half the pain she did feel 



That caused every muscle to shake. 

 No art nor assistance could yield her relief, 

 Not a ray of hope beam'd for poor Dolly Pen- 

 treath ! 



But she was not one who would ever complain, 

 Or bewail what she could not remove ; 



Without e'en a murmur she bravely bore pain, 

 And smiled " like a lobster in love." 



That bright joyous smile, and of sea- weed a wreath, 



Smooth 'd the deep furrow'd wrinkles of Dolly 

 Pentreath ! 



Of her forefathers little is known, 



And she was the last of her race ; 

 In this wilderness world she stood quite alone, 



Though she found friends in every place. 

 But Death in his net took her home, and beneath 

 The yew-tree now lies poor old Dolly Pentreath ! 



MAN AND HIS IDOL —GOLD. 



If you wish to establish shyness between yourself and 

 your best friend, —listen ! Ask him (when you are 

 in distress) to lend you five pounds. Then, mark the 

 result !— Tom Hood. 



I KNOW YOUR SENTIMENTS TOO WELL, my 



dear sir, to doubt of the little offering here- 

 with sent, being assigned a ready place in 

 your " pleasant pages." I have translated it 

 from Alphonse Karr, specially for the 

 columns of Our Own : — 



I have long remarked, that the dearest 

 thing in the world to a man is his money ; 

 and that all the sermons written against it 

 — " the vile dross " — have only had in view 

 to disgust others with it, without ever suc- 

 ceeding, and without even consoling the 

 authors for the want of it. From these pre- 

 mises, I drew the conclusion that, to make a 

 friend not only undertake the most disagree- 

 able offices, but to send him cheerfully to 

 encounter danger, and even ennui, it suffices 

 to adopt the following method : — 



Persuade him, for a quarter of an hour, 

 that you have come to borrow his money. 

 Contemplate with a scrutinising eye his 

 heroic defence. Overthrow successively his 

 outworks and fortifications. Force the 

 entrenchments (that he rebuilds with the 

 obstinate courage of despair) as quickly as 

 you destroy them ; and then, when he is 



