
2 KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
ing are squandering away fortunes in the pur- 
chase of new bonnets, ribbons, fashionable 
dresses, &c.; visiting exhibitions, attending 
concerts, making morning calls, and frittermg 
away their time amidst unceasing gaiety, 
frivolity, &c.,—let us take a peep at other 
passers by—all children of one great Father. 
Note those poor emaciated, sickly girls, 
hurrying along with large paper boxes. 
Those boxes contain what they have been 
sitting up night after night to finish, in order 
that the painted butterflies of fashion we 
have made mention of may be rendered still 
more gaudily attractive. These poor, pale 
girls, are ‘‘in the habit” of sitting up night 
after night. They are used to it! What 
care the gaudy, glittering butterflies? No- 
thing! “The Slaveys are paid for what 
they do.” 
And see those care-worn countenances, 
that ever and anon flit past us. Does not each 
one of them tell of a heart consuming with 
sorrow? And who shall say what that sor- 
row is? Perhaps a sick husband, a sick wife, 
a sick child, or a dying parent, are awaiting 
anxiously the issue of that hurrying step. 
Application, most probably, is about to be 
made for the payment of a small bill—long 
since overdue. ‘The applicant is anticipating 
a rebuff, and too well knows what he has 
every reason to expect. Alas! What are 
mankind made of? Hearts are broken daily, 
by the hundred ; simply because people will 
not be honest enough to pay what they owe! 
It has become “a crime’”’ to ask for one’s 
own. 
But why need we multiply cases of sorrow? 
Daily is the bell heard ‘‘tolling”’ for the 
dead. Daily are funeral processions passing 
in array before us. Daily are pictures of 
sorrow, starvation, and horror, haunting us 
at every step,—still is the game of life played 
merrily out. Nothing seems to soften a heart 
naturally callous. Selfishness and exclusive- 
ness close the door against all sympathy. 
Sad, but true! 
Such is the world! But are there no 
exceptions? Yes; thank God there are. 
Whilst Mammon holds his court in public, 
there are many secret angels of mercy tracing 
out the abodes of sorrow, and ministering to 
the necessities of the unfortunate. No record 
is there in the newspapers of their good deeds ; 
neither knoweth their right hand what is 
done by the left. This is true charity. Do 
not let it be imagined for one moment that 
our remarks have reference to those well- 
meaning, but misguided, silly Englishwomen, 
who, at all hours (seasonable or otherwise), 
rush hither and thither, distributing a parcel 
of “Tracts.” Surely not! We allude to 
something more sensible, something more 
rational, something more pure and holy. 
The love of praise too often rules the one; 
the other proceeds from a purer fountain. 
We allude to those who— 
Do good by stealth,—and blush to find it fame. 
Our much-loved correspondent, “‘ ForEs- 
TIERA,” has placed in our hands facts con- 
nected with the labors of certain religious 
women, that cause us to love the sex better 
than ever. She has arrayed her facts in the 
simple garb of truth. The narrative is un- 
adorned, but sweetly eloquent. Her examples 
are worthy of imitation. It is true they relate 
not to England. We wish they did! But 
they are pleasing proofs of what may be 
done, and zs done, by many a noble-hearted 
woman. We care not where she dwells. 
It is sad that we should require to be 
taught by foreigners what is “ our duty to- 
wards God and our fellow-creatures.” Yet 
do the documents sent us by “‘ FORESTIERA ” 
prove that we have much to learn in this 
matter. Self-denial, privation, poverty, and 
devotion, prevail largely abroad. Can this be 
said truly of England? Hardy indeed must 
he be, who would dare to assert it! 
No! We who inhabit a ‘ Christian land,” 
must hide our heads when any searching 
inquiry be made touching our “ self-sacri- 
fices.” Our lives are patent to all. Whilst 
human misery dogs our footsteps wherever 
we tread, we pass on, Levite like,—without 
feeling much, if any compassion, for the suf- 
ferer (unless, indeed, our names are to be 
printed up). Our pleasures must not be in- 
terfered with,—nor our amusements inter- 
rupted. In a word, ‘‘ Charity begins at 
home.” Is it not so? 
Surely we shall be pardoned for having 
raised the question,—“ What do we all Live 
for.” Life never could have been bestowed 
upon us for the unworthy purpose to which 
we are in the habit of applying it. 
Let us reflect upon this. 
THE MORNING AIR. 
THERE is something in the morning air that, 
while it defies the penetration of our proud and 
shallow philosophy, adds brightness to the blood, 
freshness to life, and vigor to the whole frame. 
The freshness of the lip, by the way, is, accord- 
ing to Dr. Marshall Hall, one of the surest marks 
of health. If you would be well, therefore—if you 
would have your heart dancing gladly, like the 
April breeze, and your blood flowing like an 
April brook—up with the lark—‘the merry 
lark,” as Shakspeare calls it, which is “the 
ploughman’s clock,” to warn him of the dawn— 
up and breakfast on the morning air—fresh with 
the odor of budding flowers, and all the fragrance 
of the maiden spring. Up, up from your nerve- 
destroying down bed, and from the foul air pent 
within your close-drawn curtains, and, with the 
sun, “walk o’er the dew of yon high eastern 
hills.” 



