KIDD'S OWN JOUKNAL. 



261 



needy, are stepping forth from our ' serried ranks,' 

 to seek the free space and plenty of newer and 

 less crowded lands. 



Here, perhaps, the thought may cross some mind 

 that emigration, though inherently a good thing, 

 may, like other good things, be carried to excess ; 

 just as a glass of old ale may strengthen a teeto- 

 taller, a gallon prostrate him. Undoubtedly they 

 would be right. Emigration might be carried 

 much too far for the interests of the mother country. 

 For instance, if some ' dazzling diggings' were dis- 

 covered at the Land's End, and three-fourths of 

 Hastings emigrated there, the chief items in the 

 next census might be the mayor and corporation, 

 a few score elderly ladies and gentlemen, and some 

 hundred blooming young women. In such case, 

 Hastings would become as a city of the past. 

 Rents in High Street would fall to cyphers, and 

 strayed cattle graze unheeded in the market 

 place. If the French landed, the ' unprotected 

 female' would fall the easy prize of war ; and, 

 without strong-minded women essayed the plough 

 and spade, the fair fields and gardens of the 

 suburbs might relapse into pristine wilderness. 

 And similar over-emigration from the kingdom 

 would produce similar sad effects. In emigration 

 as in everything else, there is a judicious turning 

 point — a ' wholesome mean.' A country, wanting 

 people, is in a worse plight than a country wanting 

 space. 



But this turning point we are far, very far from 

 having reached. True, hundreds a day may leave 

 us, but a thousand a day are born to us. True, 

 emigrant-crowded ships may dot the channel ; 

 but we go through the land and see no signs 

 thereof. And, whilst we count our paupers and 

 beggars by hundreds of thousands, our criminals 

 by tens — whilst our capital displays the astound- 

 ing spectacle of a twentieth part of its population 

 rising every morning without the means of getting 

 the morning's meal — whilst the ' Song of the 

 Shirt' remains a true song — whilst thousands of 

 strapping young men ( doing their sisters' work) 

 are exhibited in shops selling tape and bobbin — 

 whilst an advertisement in the Times for an ac- 

 complished governess (where, " as the family is 

 serious, no salary will be given") is answered by 

 20 charming young ladies, anxious for the 

 wretched post* — whilst such telling facts as these 

 are patent to the world, we have good assurance 

 that emigration is not overpassing those whole- 

 some limits, within which it is the certain source 

 of national prosperity and individual well-doing,just 

 as the sun is the certain source of light and heat. 



By the way, whilst hinting at emigration, 

 we may just remark that murders at " the 

 diggings " are now become so common that 

 they almost cease to be recorded ! If people 

 will have gold, they must expect to pay 

 " dearly" for it. 



* Our author is evidently a man of observation. 

 We almost invariably find, as he says, that when 

 governesses are wanted "in serious families," 

 little if any " salary " is promised. The adver- 

 tisements are, we think, foolishly explicit in this 

 matter. " Long faces" ought to be well paid for : 

 so few can produce them, at a moment's notice, 

 of the required length. The effort surely deserves 

 good pay. — Ed. K. J. 



TO THE SKYLARK. 



BY THOMAS MILLER. 



Whither away ! companion of the sun, 



So high, this laughing morn ? Are those soft 



clouds 

 Of floating silver, which appear to shun 

 Day's golden eye, thy home ? or why, 'mid 



clouds 

 Of loosened light, dost thou pour forth thy song? 

 Descend, sun-loving bird, nor try thy strength 



thus long. 



^Ethereal songster ! soaring merrily, 

 Thy wings keep time to thy rich music's flow ; 

 Rolling along the sky celestially, 

 And echoing o'er the hill's wood-waving brow 

 Along the flood, which back reflects the sky, 

 And thee, thou warbling speck, deep-mirrored from 

 on high. 



And thou hast vanished, singing, from my sight ! 

 So must this earth be lost to eyes of thine ; 

 Around thee is illimitable light : 

 Thou lookest down, and all appears to shine 

 Bright as above ! Thine is a glorious way, 

 Pavilioned all around with golden-spreading day. 



The broad unbounded sky is all thine own ; 

 The silvery sheeted Heaven is thy domain ; 

 No land-mark there, no hand to bring thee down, 

 Glad monarch of the blue, star studded plain ! 

 To thee is airy space far-stretching given ; 

 The vast unmeasured floor of cherubim-trod Heaven. 



And thou hast gone, perchance to catch the 



sound 

 Of angels' voices, heard far up the sky, 

 And wilt return, harmonious, to the ground ; 

 Then with new music, taught by those on high, 

 Ascend again, and carol o'er the bowers 

 Of woodbines waving sweet, and wild bee-bended 



flowers. 



Lovest thou to sing alone above the dews, 

 Leaving the nightingale to cheer the night 

 When rides the moon, chasing the shadowy hues 

 From dark-robed trees, and scattering far her 



light 

 O'er town and tower ? but thou art with the sun, 

 Soaring o'er wood and vale, where low-voiced 



rivers run. 

 I hear thy strain ; now thou art nearing earth, 

 Like quivering aspens moves each fluttering 



wing ; 

 Rising in glee, thou comest down in mirth ; — 

 Hast heard the seraphs to their Maker sing 

 The morning hymn, and comest to teach thy 



mate 

 The anthem thou hast brought from Heaven's 



gold-lighted gate ? 



Lute of the sky ! farewell, till I again 



Climb these cloud-gazing hills. Thou must 



not come 

 To where I dwell, nor pour thy Heaven-caught 



strain 

 Above the curling of my smoky home. 

 Others may hear thee, see thee, yet not steal 

 That joy from thy glad song which it is mine to 



feel! 



