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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



visited. In point of fact, it makes them 

 hate what you wish them to love. This is 

 •'morbid sympathy." 



England is a wealthy country. There is 

 money enough in it to regenerate the length 

 and breadth of the land, and to make all 

 sorrowful hearts happy. But there is no 

 disposition towards this. 



Everybody is selfish, cold, and indifferent. 

 The world seems to be turned topsy-turvy. 

 If a man be convicted on the clearest evi- 

 dence of murdering his wife — or the wife her 

 husband, the most strenuous efforts now-a- 

 days are made to rescue them from punish- 

 ment. Nay, in the very face of the judges, 

 jurymen will give verdicts quite against the 

 evidence adduced. In the late case of the 

 villain Kir wan, who murdered his poor wife, 

 the morbid sympathy evinced to prove him 

 " innocent " almost exceeds the power of be- 

 lief. This ought not to be. The man was 

 a fiend, and yet — not executed ! Elizabeth 

 Tickers, too, tried for murdering her master 

 at Brixton, — morbid sympathy has found her 

 " not guilty !" She gets all his money too ! ! 



With the example of Mrs. Harriet Beecher 

 Stowe before them, let our fair countrv 



V 



women arise and exert themselves. Charity 

 begins '• at home." We need not wander 

 far away for a theme. England's " cabins " 

 hold many " slaves " — already but too well 

 acquainted with " Uncle Tom." Great as 

 may be the horrors of slavery in America — 

 and we shudder to read of them — yet are there 

 equally horrible cases of slavery here. 

 They may differ in kind, it is true ; but they 

 differ nothing in intensity. 



English slavery is an expression little 

 used ; but a well-compiled work under that 

 very title, would form a volume far exceed- 

 ing in size that of k ' Uncle Tom's Cabin,' 

 and be readily acknowledged as a national 

 blessing. 



If only one billionth part of the money 

 lavished daily on silly tom-fooleries, which 

 perish with the using, were set aside for this 

 good work, — what a happy nation we should 

 be ! whilst our women — God bless them ! 

 would be worshipped and held in everlasting 

 remembrance. 



EXCELLENCE OF FORGIVENESS. 



I LOVE THE SPELNG. 



BY HELEN HETHEEINGTON. 



Nothing is more moving to a man than the 

 spectacle of recorciiiation. Our weaknesses are 

 thus indemnified and are not too costly — being the 

 price we pay for the blessing of forgiveness. The 

 archangel, who has never felt anger, has reason 

 to envy the man who suldnes it. When thou 

 forgivest, the man that hast pierced thy heart 

 stands to thee in the relation of the sea-worm 

 that perforates the shell of the muscle, which 

 straightway closes th« wound with a pearl. 



I love the Spring ; the gentle Spring, 



When Nature's smiles are blithe and free ; 



And nierry birds with rapture sing 

 Their softest, sweetest melody. 



Cold biting winds have passed away, 

 The bitter storm ; the ceaseless rain ; 



And Zephyrs whisper as they play, — 

 " Spring, gentle Spring, is come again." 



I love the Spring ; the Summer flowers 

 May wear a brighter, gayer dress, 



But lilies pearled with passing showers, 

 Have greater claim to loveliness. 



Sweet vi'lets peep where'er we stray, 

 And daisies dance upon the plain, 



While laughing blue-bells nod and say, 

 " Spring, gentle Spring, is come again." 



I love to wander through the vale, 

 When merry warblers 6weetly sing ; 



And pretty ring-doves tell a tale 



Of joys that bloom with lovely Spring; 



And when at eve I listen long, 

 To Philomel's enchanting strain, 



Methinks I hear, in that lov'd song, 



" Spring, gentle Spring, is come again." 



I love the Spring ; a rich perfume, 



Is mingled with the cheering breeze \ 

 The fields their brightest garb resume, 



And beauty clothes the forest trees. 

 The Nect'rine, Peach, and Almond bloom, 



May still be seen in Nature's train ; 

 And buzzing bees dispel the gloom, 



By humming " Spring is come again \ '* 



I love to roam at dawn of day, 



To see the sun rise o'er the hill ; 

 Where dew-drops glisten on the spray, 



And softly flows the murmuring rill. 

 Then, whilst I listen with delight 



To lowing herds, o'er hill and plain, 

 The merry Cuckoo, in its flight, 



Sings " Lovely Spring is come again ! " 



I love the Spring ; — the Lark's soft lay 



Awakens thoughts of happiness ; 

 And by the stream where sunbeams play, 



Are pleasures words can ne'er express. 

 Oh, who can fail to love and prize 



The countless joys we thus obtain ! 

 Hark ! every voice in Nature cries, — 

 " Spring, lovely Spring, is come again ! " 



COUNTRY PLEASURES & COUNTRY DANGEBS. 



My dear Sir, — It's all very well of you 

 to write so sweetly about the country, and to 

 invite us young city fellows, and west-enders, 

 down to sip the morning dew '"just to give 

 us an appetite." You talk, too, about walks 

 in the fields, fair companions, visits to farm- 

 houses, &c, — enough to turn one's head ! 



But while you thus write — hear how 

 another annotates by way of caution. He 

 savs : — 



