KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



151 



old ! We pat our magic horse to the car- 

 riage, and space disappears ; we fly like the 

 clouds in a storm — as the bird of passage 

 flies ! Our wild horse snorts and snuffs, and 

 the dark stream rushes out of his nostrils. 

 Mephistopheles could not fly quicker with 

 Faust on his cloak ! We are, with natural 

 means, equally as potent in the present age 

 as those in the middle ages thought that 

 only the Fiend himself could be ! With our 

 cunning, we are at his side,— and before he 

 knows it himself, we are past him. I can 

 remember but a few times in my life that 

 ever I felt myself so affected as I was on this 

 railroad journey : it was thus with all my 

 thoughts — that I beheld God face to face. I 

 felt a devotion, such as when a child I have 

 felt in the church alone ; and when older, in 

 the sun-illumined forest, or on the sea in a 

 dead calm and starlight night. 



TO OUR OWN EDITOR,— 



BY DONNA VIOLANTE. 



[This bouquet of compliments to the Editor of 

 Our Journal (happy soul!), is, we learn, got 

 up by a circle of Ladies, who have deputed the 

 Poet Laureate of their county (Nottinghani) to 

 warble his praises as follows] : — 

 Dear Mr. Editor, 

 In our treasure of a " Journal"* are some 



pretty lines to prove, 

 The pleasure, truth, and value — the depth of 



" Woman's Love." 

 In the name of all the readers, I've the ladies' 



free consent 

 Most gratefully to thank you for your pretty 



compliment. 

 We highly prize your goodness, — " you love 



us ;" be it so ! 

 We know you never will deceive, nor 



flatter us,— " Oh, no!" 

 Let's hope our numbers will increase. How 



cheerfully we'll share 

 With them your much-loved compliment (I do 



think this is fair)! 

 Long may you live, a dear Mr. Kidd !" and 



listen, ere I go, — 

 The ladies never can forget your love for 



them,—" Oh, no!" 

 Long may " Our Journal " flourish, and by 



new triumphs prove 

 The greatness of its power, — its claims on 



" Woman's Love!" 



* See " Woman's Love," p. 112. 



CHILDREN. 



The part that children play in the economy of 

 families, is an important one. But important 

 functions often devolve upon creatures trivial in 

 themselves. Not so in the case of children. 

 The child is greater than the man. The man is , 

 himself, and that is often a shabby enough con- ' 

 cern ; but the child is a thing of hope and anti- 

 cipation; we know not what it may become 



The arch laughing glance of those eyes, which 

 flash upon us when the bushy nut-brown hair is 

 thrown back by a toss of the head — what a lovely 

 creature that may become, to make some honest 

 man's heart ache ! That boy, with flaxen hair 

 slightly tinged with the golden, while his clear, 

 resolute eye looks fearlessly at everything it 

 encounters — what may he not accomplish in 

 after-life ! To us there is more of terror in the 

 passions of children than of grown men. They 

 are so disproportioned to their causes, that they 

 rudely draw back the veil from our own hearts, 

 reminding us " what shadows we are, and what 

 shadows we pursue." Of all expressions of pain, 

 we can least endure the wail of an infant. The 

 poor little innocent cannot explain its sufferings ; 

 and, if it could, so little lies in our power to 

 alleviate them ! There is nothing for it, but to 

 have one's heart rent by its complainings, and 

 pray in one's helplessness that its dark hour may 

 pass away. Is it not so? 



SUMMER. 



BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 



This is the time of shadow and of flowers, 

 When roads gleam white for many a 

 winding mile ; 

 When gentle breezes fan the lazy hours, 

 And balmy rest o'erpays the time of toil ; 

 When purple hues and shifting beams beguile 

 The tedious sameness of the heath-grown 

 moor; 

 When the old grandsire sees, with placid 

 smile, 

 The sunburnt children frolic round his door, 

 And trellis roses deck the cottage of the poor. 



The time of pleasant evenings! when the moon 

 Eiseth companion'd by a single star, 



And rivals e'en the brilliant summer noon 

 ' In the clear radiance which she pours afar; 

 No stormy winds her hour of peace to mar, 

 Or stir the fleecy clouds which melt away 

 Beneath the wheels of her illumined car! 

 While many a river trembles in her ray, 



And silver gleam the sands round many an 

 ocean bay. 



Oh, then the heart lies hush'd, afraid to beat, 



In the deep absence of all other sound ; 

 And home is sought with loth and lingering 

 feet, 

 As though that shining tract of fairy ground 

 Once left and lost, might never more be 

 found ! 

 And happy seems the life that gipsies lead, 

 Who make their rest where mossy banks 

 abound, 

 In nooks where unpluck'd wild flowers shed 



their seed ; 

 A canvas spreading tent the only roof they 

 need. 



Dear Bargains. — Ten friends are dearly 

 purchased at the expense of a single enemy ; for 

 the latter will take ten times more pains to 

 injure you, than the former will take to do you 

 a service. 



