KIDD'S OWN JOUKNAL. 



record of life ; and as surely as it is human, it 

 will be a fragmented and disjointed history, 

 crowded with unaccountableness and change. 

 There is nothing constant. The links of life are 

 for ever breaking, but we rush on still. A fellow- 

 traveller drops from our side into the grave — a 

 guiding star of hope vanishes from the sky — a 

 creature of our affections, a child or an idol, is 

 snatched from us — perhaps nothing with which | 

 we began the race is left to us, and yet we do not , 

 halt. * Onward — still onward,' is the eternal cry ; i 

 and as the past recedes, the broken ties are for- 

 gotten, and the future occupy us alone. 



There are bright chapters in the past, however. 

 If our lot is capricious and broken, it is also new 

 and various. One friend has grown cool, but we 

 have won another. One chance was less fortu- 

 nate than we expected, but another was better. 

 We have encountered one man's prejudices, but, 

 in so doing, we have unexpectedly flattered the 

 partialities of his neighbor. We have neglected 

 a recorded duty; but a deed of charity, done upon 

 impulse, has brought up the balance. In an 

 equable temper of mind, memory, to a man of 

 ordinary goodness of heart, is pleasant company. 

 A careless rhymer, whose heart is better than his 

 head, says, — 



" I would not escape from Memory's land, 



For all the eye can view ; 

 For there's dearer dust in Memory's land, 



Than the ore of rich Peru. 

 I clasp the fetter by Memory twined, 

 The wanderer's heart and soul to bind." 



It was a good thought suggested by an In- 

 genious friend, to make one's will annually, and 

 remember all whom we love in it in the degree 

 of their dcservings. I have acted upon the hint 

 since, and truly it is keeping a calendar of one's 

 life. I have little to bequeath, indeed — a manu- 

 script or two, some half dozen pictures, and a 

 score or two of much-thumbed and choice 

 authors — but, slight as these poor mementoes 

 are, it is pleasant to rate their difference, and 

 write against them the names of our friends as 

 we should wish them left if we .knew we were 

 presently to die. It would be a satisfying thought 

 in sickness, that one's friends would have a me- 

 morial to suggest us when we were gone — that 

 they would know we Avishcd to be remembered by 

 them ; that we remembered them among the first. 

 And it is pleasant, too, while alive, to change 

 the order of appropriation with the ever-varying 

 evidences of affection. It is a relief to vexation 

 and mortiiied pride, to erase the name of one un- 

 worthy or false ; and it is delightful, as another 

 gets nearer to your heart, with the gradual and 

 sure test of intimacy, to prefer him in your secret 

 register. 



If I should live to be old, I doubt not it will 

 be a pleasant thing to look over these little testa- 

 ments. It is difficult, now, with their kind 

 offices and pleasant faces ever about one, to realise 

 the changes of feeling between the first and the 

 Lasl — more difficult still, to imagine against any of 

 those familiar names the significant asterisk that 

 marks the dead; yet if the common chances of 

 human truth, and the still more desperate chances 

 of human life, continue, it is melancholy to think 

 what a miracle it would be if even half this list, 



brief and youthful as it is, should be, twenty 

 years hence, living and unchanged. 



The festivities of this part of the year always 

 seemed to me mis-timed and revolting. I know 

 not what color the reflections of others take, but 

 to me it is simply the feeling of escape — the re- 

 leased breath of fear after a period of suspense and 

 danger. Accident, misery, death, have been about 

 us in their invisible shapes ; and while one is tor- 

 tured with pain, and another reduced to wretch- 

 edness, and another struck into the grave beside 

 us, we know not why nor how we are still living 

 and prosperous. It is next to a miracle that we 

 are so. We have been on the edge of chasms 

 continually. Our feet have tottered, our bosoms 

 have been grazed by the thick shafts of disease — 

 had our eyes been spirit-keen, we should have been 

 dumb with fear at our peril. If every tenth sun- 

 beam were a deadly arrow — if the earth were full 

 of invisible abysses — if poisons were sown thickly 

 in the air, life would hardly be more insecure. We 

 can stand upon our threshold and sec it. The vigor- 

 ous are stricken down by an invisible hand — the 

 active and busy suddenly disappear — death is 

 caught up in the breath of the night wind, in the 

 dropping of the dew. There is no place or mo- 

 ment, in which that horrible phantom is not glid- 

 ing among us. It is natural at each period of es- 

 cape to rejoice fervently and from the heart ; but 

 I know not, if others look upon death with the 

 same irrepressible horror that I do, how their joy 

 can be so thoughtlessly trifling. It seems to me 

 matter for deep and almost fearful congratulation. 

 It should be expressed in religious places and with 

 the solemn voice of worship ; and when the period 

 has thus been marked, it should be speedily for- 

 gotten, lest its clouds become more depressing. I 

 am an advocate for all the gaiety that the spirits 

 will bear. I would reserve no particle of the trea- 

 sure of happiness. The world is dull enough at 

 the best ; but do not mistake its temper. 

 Do not press into the service of gay pleasure 

 the thrilling solemnities of life. I think any- 

 thing which reminds mo of death, solemn ; 

 any time, when our esoape from it is thrust irre- 

 sistibly upon the mind, a solemn time ; and such 

 is the season of -the new year. It should be occu- 

 pied by serious thoughts. It is the time to reckon 

 with one's heart — to renew and form resolutions — 

 to forgive, and reconcile, and redeem. — P. 



NATURE'S HOLIDAY. 



Goodness thinks no ill where no ill seems. 



Milton. 



Albeit use is second nature, yet does it 

 require some little time to get out of an old 

 beaten track — more particularly if memory 

 dwells fondly upon beloved objects, met with 

 in that track. 



Our wonted habit of gossipping weekly 

 with our readers, was a source of inexpres- 

 sible pleasure to us. We could tell of a 

 multitude of things passing at the time, and 

 find ready listeners to share our joys and 

 delights. They looked as anxiously for our 

 weekly gossip, as we felt pleasure in pre- 

 paring it for their eye. It w T as vexatious 



