KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



399 



not think that knowledge was wisdom. He 

 rather seemed to intimate that it was not, and 

 that it might be in some cases an obstacle to 

 the attainment of wisdom, — for he adds, 

 '' With all thy getting, get understanding." 

 Solomon is a good authority in such matters, 

 and we may safely take his opinion. It is, 

 indeed, somewhat of a matter of doubt with 

 us, whether Solomon would have recognised 

 " philosophy " in " modern philosophers. 11 



Modern philosophy differs from the ancient, 

 in this one point as much as in any, — viz. that 

 its possessors do not learn modesty from it. 

 It was prettily said by one of the ancients, 

 " My knowledge only teaches me how igno- 

 rant I am." One might make a parody of 

 this, applying it to many modern philosophers, 

 putting into their lips the aphorism, " My 

 ignorance only teaches me how knowing I 

 am. 11 It has been stated in our hearing, with 

 some semblance of sophistry, though not alto- 

 gether without some basement of truth, that 

 the present pantological fever is not unlikely 

 to terminate in intellectual darkness. The 

 state of the argument is this : — The possession 

 of knowledge requires thought. The more 

 knowledge a man possesses, the more thought 

 he wants ; but the more a man wants thought, 

 the less intellectual he is. To speak after the 

 manner of the late Mr. Malthus, I think one 

 might say, that knowledge may increase in a 

 geometrical ratio, but understanding can in- 

 crease only in an arithmetical ratio. And 

 when a man possesses more knowledge than 

 understanding, his intellect is in no enviable 

 condition. 



In a word, the passion of the day is for 

 knowledge; and as the citizen advised his son, 

 saying, — " Get money — honestly if you can, 

 but at all events get money ';'■ — so fashion says, 

 " Get knowledge ; and understand it if you 

 can ; but at all events — get knowledge. 11 



Lynx. 



HONEY FEOM A NEIGHBOR'S HIVE. 



THE MOTHER TO HER BOY, 

 (born deaf and dumb.) 



Thou art not beautiful, my voiceless child, — 

 Thou canst not fill thy mother's heart with 

 pride ; 



Thou dost not heed the words that have beguiled 

 My other noisy young ones to my side. 



Thou canst not chatter music in my way, 

 Nor call me by a sweet and holy name; 



Thou dost not ask thy sisters — if they'll play, 

 Nor scold thy brothers with a sportive blame. 



But thou art precious in my household love ; 



Thy form is closest watched, my poor dumb 

 boy! 

 I stroke thy fair hair, and I hang above 



Thy quiet features with a solemn joy. 



I hear thy father praise the quick replies 

 Of his "bright eldest one" — I often see 



His face light up, when his two girls surprise 

 The twilight circle with their sauey glee : 



He tolls them long and wonder-waking themes 

 Of Sinbad, Crusoe, and the Eairy Queen ; 



He leads their games; he joins their laughing 

 screams; 

 "With many a fond and wild embrace between. 



But there's a something deeper in his smile 

 When his poor dull one leans upon his knee; 



And something gentler tills his heart the while 

 His fingers make a paper boat for thee. 



The other young, gay spirits talk and shout 

 In tones that come like songs of morning birds ; 



Or, pressed by childish grief, they wail and pout, 

 And pour their anguish forth in sobbing words. 



I seldom see thy grey eye give a tear, 



When their red cheeks shine through the 

 pearly gem ; 



But I believe, my child, that thou canst hear 

 The secret, deep, soul-whisper lost to them. 



When they surround me with engrossing clutch, 

 And some loud tale of anger or alarm — 



I turn not as I do to thy soft touch, 



That falls like ringdove's wing upon my arm 



My silent boy! I hold thee to my breast 

 Just as I did when thou wert newly born; 



It may be sinful, but I love thee " best," 



And kiss thy lips the longest night and mcrn. 



I never listen to the coming feet 



That chance to slip and stumble in the hall, 

 But my heart leaps with quick and sudden beat, 



Lest thou, my speechless, be the one to fall! 



I never look into a story-book, 



And hear the joyous hum thy brothers make, 

 But, leaf by leaf, I turn with hopeful grief, 



And wish it held some pictures — for thy sake. 



I never stand among ye to divide 



The birthday apples, or select the toy — 



But I assign the fruit with rosiest side, 

 And daintiest plaything — to my wordless boy. 



Oh! thou art dear to me beyond all others; 



And when I breathe my trust, and bend my 

 knee, 

 For blessings on thy sisters and thy brothers — 



God seems the nigiiest when I pray foe 



THEE. 



I would not they should know it. But if Fate 

 Did its worst Avork, and snatched away my 

 young-— 



I feel my soul would bear a deadlier weight, 

 To miss thy silent love than their fond tongue. 



Oh ! thou art very beautiful to me, 



My own dumb boy ! my gentle, voiceless one ! 

 And while it throbs, thy mother's heart will be 



Thy best and first interpreter — my son ! 



Eliza Cook. 



The Daisy. — The word Daisy is a thousand 

 times pronounced, without adverting to the beauty 

 of its etymology, — " the eye of day." 



