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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



obliged hastily to instruct her about a few small 

 purchases — not having time to write down the 

 items ; and suppose you said, ' Be sure to bring 

 some tea, and also some soap, and coffee too, by- 

 the-bye ; and some powder-blue ; and don't forget 

 to bring a few light cakes, and a little starch, and I 

 some sugar ; and, now I think of it, soda,' — you 

 would not be surprised if her memory failed her i 

 with regard to one or two of the articles. But if ; 

 your commission ran thus : ' Now, Mary, to- 

 morrow we are going to have some friends to tea; 

 therefore bring a supply of tea, and coffee, and | 

 sugar, and light cakes ; and the next day, you 

 know, is washing-day, so that we shall want soap, | 

 and soda, and powder-blue, and starch ;' it is most j 

 likely that she would retain your order as easily 

 as you retain my sermon." — Here is a memoria 

 technica for us, that is worth having. Half the ills 

 in domestic life have their origin in a want of 

 method. — Fanny A. 



Selfishness. — You hate selfishness, my dear sir ; 

 so do I. Surely we ought to do good, whilst we 

 live. There must be some grand end in our 

 creation ; and we would fain be remembered when 

 we are gone. Multitudes of our species are 

 living in such a selfish manner, that they are not 

 likely to be remembered after their disappearance. 

 They leave behind them scarcely any traces of 

 their existence, but are forgotten almost as 

 though they had never been. They are, while 

 they live, like one pebble lying unobserved 

 amongst a million on the shore ; and when they 

 die, they are like that same pebble thrown into 

 the sea, which just ruffles the surface, sinks, and 

 is forgotten, — without being missed from the 

 beach. They are neither regretted by the rich, 

 wanted by the poor, nor celebrated by the learned. 

 Who has been the better for their life ? Who 

 has been the worse for their death ? Whose 

 tears have they dried up ? — whose wants 

 supplied? — whose miseries have they healed? 

 Who would unbar the gate of life, to readmit 

 them to existence ? — or what face would greet 

 them back again to our world with a smile ? 

 Wretched, unproductive mode of existence! 

 Selfishness is its own curse ; it is a starving vice. 

 The man who does no good, gets none. He is 

 like the heath in the desert; neither yielding 

 fruit nor seeing when good cometh — a stunted, 

 dwarfish, miserable shrub. — We will not be 

 " selfish" my dear sir, will we ? — Pink, Hastings. 



[No ; pretty Pink. Whilst we live, we will be 

 loved. When we die, we will be regretted. 'Tis 

 a bargain.] 



smile is ever at your heart; who has no tears 

 while you are well and happy, and your love the 

 same. Is this not " worth living for ? " — Honey- 

 suckle, Henley. [Let silence, dear Honeysuckle, 

 give its most expressive consent.] 



Private Tlwughts made Public. — u Some 

 people " say " there is nothing in the world worth 

 living for." Fie ! Only conceive the happiness 

 arising from the knowledge of some "one" person 

 who is dearer to you than your own self ; some 

 one breast into which you can pour every thought, 

 every grief, every joy ! One person who, if all the 

 rest of the world were to calumniate or forsake 

 you, would never wrong you by a harsh thought 

 or an unjust word; who would cling to you the 

 closer in sickness, in poverty, in care ; who would 

 sacrifice all things to you, and for whom you 

 would sacrifice all ; from whom, except by death, 

 night nor day can you ever be divided ; whose 



Clioose Well and Wisely. — I was much struck, 

 my dear sir, whilst strolling leisurely through the 

 meadows the other day, with some sensible 

 remarks which appear in a work called " Com- 

 panions of my Solitude." I know they are so com- 

 pletely in unison with your ideas, that I gladly 

 transcribe them for the benefit of the readers of 

 Our Own. How sick at heart I feel that we are 

 to see its loved face no more after the coming 

 month ! But knowing the cause — shame upon 

 the public ! say I — I bow my head submissively 

 to the necessity of the case. The writer is 

 speaking about Art and Fortune. He thus com- 

 ments on them : — " Whatever happens, take great 

 care not to be dissatisfied with your worldly 

 fortunes, lest the speech be justly made to you 

 which was once made to a repining person much 

 given to talking of — bow great she and hers had 

 been; "Yes, madam," was the crushing reply, 

 " we all find our level at last ! " Eternally that 

 fable is true, of a choice being given to men on 

 their entrance into life. Two majestic women 

 stand before you ; one in rich vesture, superb, 

 with what seems like a rural crown on her head, 

 and plenty in her hand, and something of triumph 

 — I will not say boldness, in her eye ; and she, 

 the queen of this world, can give you many things. 

 The other is beautiful, but not alluring ; not rich, 

 nor powerful ; and there are traces of care and 

 sorrow in her face — and, marvellous to say, her 

 look is downcast and yet noble. She can give 

 you nothing, but she can make you somebody. If 

 you cannot bear to part from her sweet sublime 

 countenance, which hardly veils with sorrow its 

 infinity, follow her ; follow her, I say, if you are 

 really minded to do so ; but do not, while you are 

 on this track, look back with ill-concealed envy 

 on the glittering things which fall in the path of 

 those who prefer to follow the rich dame, and to 

 pick up the riches and honors which fall from her 

 cornucopia. This is, in substance, what a true 

 artist said to me only the other day; impatient, 

 as he told me, of the complaints of those who 

 would pursue art, and yet would have fortune." — 

 Are not these sentiments delightful? But how 

 little is the advice acted upon! — Lily of the 

 Valley. 



[Thanks, many, gentle maiden. These senti- 

 ments are indeed noble ; and we rejoice in hearing 

 you pronounce them such. They are '* set" in our 

 pages as gems of the purest water.] 



" 'TWAS THUS THEY PARTED,"— 



AN EPISODE FROM ONE OF SHAKSPEARE's PLAYS. 



I saw Bassanio and AntODio part. 



Bassanio told him, he would " make some speed 



Of his return." He falter'd,— " Do not so ; 



Tarry your leisure, and he merry." Then 



(Turning his face), he put his hand behind him ; 



And, with affection wondrous sensible, 



He wrung Bassanio's hand :— 'Twas thus they 



PARTED. 



END OF VOLUME V. 



