KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



363 



became wonderfully stretched out; webs grew 

 betwixt his fingers, and feathers sprouted out 

 from beneath his flannel waistcoat. In a few 

 minutes more, his mouth had all the appear- 

 ance of a beak, and he actually became a 

 swan ; and to this day he is seen to frequent 

 swamps and lakes, as being places the most 

 secure against fire, which had done such 

 mischief to his family : — 



Stagna colit, patulosque locus; ignemque perosus, 

 Quoz colat elegit contrariu flumina flamrnis. 



Once I had an opportunity, which rarely 

 occurs, of being with a swan in its last ill- 

 ness. Although I gave no credence to the 

 extravagant notion which antiquity had 

 entertained of melody from the mouth of the 

 dying swan, still I felt anxious to hear 

 some plaintive sound or other; some soft 

 inflection of the voice, which might tend to 

 justify that notion in a small degree. But I 

 was disappointed. 



This poor swan was a great favorite, and 

 had been the pride of the lake time out of 

 mind. Those who spend their life in the 

 country, and pay attention to the ordinary 

 movements of birds, will easily observe a 

 change in them, whenever their "health is on 

 the decline. I perceived that the plumage 

 of this swan put on a weather-beaten appear- 

 ance, and that the bird itself no longer raised 

 the feathers of his wings, as he passed through 

 the water before me. Judging that he was 

 unwell, 1 gave orders that he should be sup- 

 plied with bread and boiled potatoes. Of 

 these he ate sparingly, and in a day or two 

 he changed his quarters, probably for want 

 of sufficient shelter from the wind. Having 

 found his way down to the stables, he got 

 upon a small fish-pond there, out of the reach 

 of storms. From this time he never fended 

 for food, but he continued to take a little 

 white bread now and then from my hand. 

 At last he refused this ; and then he left the 

 water for good and all, and sat down on the 

 margin of the pond, with evident signs of 

 near -approaching death. He soon became 

 too weak to support his long neck in an up- 

 right position. He nodded, and then tried 

 to recover himself, and then nodded again, 

 and again held up his head ; till at last, quite 

 enfeebled and worn out, his head fell gently 

 on the grass, his wings expanded a trifle or 

 so, and he died whilst I was looking on. 



This was in the afternoon, and I had every 

 facility of watching his departing hour ; for I 

 was attending the masons, some thirty yards 

 from the pond to which the swan had retired. 

 He never even uttered his wonted cry, nor 

 so much as a sound, to indicate what he felt 

 within. 



The silence which this bird maintained to 

 the last, tends to show that the dying song 

 of the swan is nothing but a fable, the origin 



of which is lost in the shades of antiquity. 

 Its repetition can be of no manner of use, 

 save as a warning to ornithologists not to 

 indulge in the extravagances of romance, — 

 a propensity not altogether unknown in 

 these our latter times. 



Charles Waterton. 

 Walton Hall. 



HOW IS HE GETTING ON? 



" How is he getting on ? " and " What is he 

 worth?" There are no forms of interrogation so 

 constantly dinned into the ears of every one of us, 

 who are fated to take any active part in the 

 world, as these are : there are none which more 

 faithfully reflect the hard material spirit of the 

 age than these do. For "getting on " does not 

 imply the more frequent practice of self-denial, or 

 closer fidelity to duty, or increased purity of 

 manners, or greater integrity of conduct, or more 

 watchful mental discipline, or more careful mental 

 culture. It means nothing more nor less than 

 the acquisition of money, or the satisfaction of a 

 worldly and often unworthy ambition. " Worth," 

 again, is perverted from its old honest meaning, 

 as significant of noble qualities, and is made to 

 express the amount of a man's pecuniary sub- 

 stance; so that the answer to the question 

 " What is he worth ? " is comprised in an arith- 

 metical formula, representative of a man's capital 

 or income, and not of his morality, or intelligence. 



In truth, the mean, miserable, abject, cringing 

 prostration of society to wealth and all its symbols, 

 is one of the saddest spectacles which can afflict 

 men or angels. It is the revived worship of the 

 Golden Calf in its worst form, by a professedly 

 Christian people, in an advanced age of the world ; 

 instead of by a Jewish race, when the world was 

 young and immature. Looking at the period and 

 the people, we may find circumstances to modify 

 our unsparing censure of their idolatry ; but we 

 cannot discover a shadow of extenuation for our 

 own. Either the language of Scripture is devoid 

 of authority, and destitute of truth, or there is a 

 practical atheism, a wilful and obstinate infidelity, 

 involved in the most active pursuits and fondly- 

 cherished objects of our lives. Either Christianity 

 is a delusion, or this absolute surrender of every 

 faculty of mind and body to the accumulation of 

 wealth is a flagrant and crying sin. Either our 

 belief in a spiritual after-life is a mocker}' and a 

 sham, or we are living as if all things ended in 

 the grave. 



We have too often advocated — says a writer in 

 the " English Churchman," from whom we borrow 

 these remarks — to be suspected of undervaluing 

 the exercise of thrift and prudence. They are 

 among the most homely, but, at the same time, 

 most durable and valuable qualities we can 

 possess. What we energetically protest against, 

 is — the inordinate cupidity and the insatiable lust 

 of gain which is the characteristic and the 

 reproach of the times in which we live. We 

 must be permitted to express the most serious 

 apprehensions for the duration of an empire of 

 money-changers, and for the national vitality of 

 a people who establish a pecuniary equivalent for 

 life, honor, love, and crime — who make gold a 



