KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

73 

that issued from Noah’s ark,—living for | vividly the express image of him who is 
themselves only, or only under a blind impulse 
providing for another succession. 
But man, having consciously and with pain, 
labor, and peril, acquired his endowments, 
lives them over again by teaching them to 
his offspring; and apart from that happier 
existence to which he knows that he is des- 
tined in other worlds, feels that here too he 
has a kind of immortality: that as he has 
inherited knowledge, and virtue, and power, 
he too has to transmit them. ‘That his life 
and its achievements have a mortal metem- 
psychosis, a translation into the enlarging | 
attributes and brightening destinies of his 
children, and of unborn generations, and in 
the production of works which, like Milton, 
he knows that posterity will not willingly let 
die, and in the elaboration of systems which, 
like Bacon, he bequeaths with his fame to the 
next ages. In this realising anticipation of 
a posthumous renown, he survives his own 
death, passing by his living consciousness far 
beyond the narrow bounds affixed to his mere 
corporeal duration. 
But while habit, as we have seen, is so 
useful in abridging labor, in economising 
time, in preserving order, and method, and 
coherence in our thoughts, and in making 
the practice of virtue and religion easier to 
us, —still it imposes upon us no inevitable 
compulsion. It is not the blind necessity of 
an instinct. It is our own fault if we are 
enslaved instead of being merely assisted by 
habit. Human agency ought to be able to 
assert its freedom in this as in every other 
department of thought and action. The 
habit should be like a steed—so well broken, 
that though the will may have thrown the 
reins on its neck, while otherwise occupied, 
it can in a moment gather them up, and come 
to a sudden halt. 
Habit, we have seen at once, is the product 
and the sign of previous volition. And though 
in certain muscular actions belonging to the 
species, it closely resembles instinct, yet, as 
to the thoughts and actions of individual 
men, it is widely different. For as the will 
of every man has its own peculiar form and 
color,—making an important part of his indi- 
viduality, so his habits will have their own 
character and freedom of growth. Those 
who are attached to him will regard with 
partiality the verv habits which have grown 
out of his peculiarities. The singularities 
of his gestures, the eccentricities of his gait, 
carriage, and.\demeanor, the oddity of his featu- 
ral expression, the tone of his voice, his ways 
and his whims, his fancies and his philosophies 
his predilection, and prejudices, the whole 
complexion of his life, and the whole color 
of his conduet—his goings out and his com- 
ings in, his risings up and his lyings down,— 
all are valued, because they give us more 



endeared to us for his own individual sake. 
[We hardly need remark how cordially we 
coincide in sentiment with Dr.Symonds. It 
is our peculiarities, our shades of character, 
our habits, our ways, our sayings, and our 
manner of life—that endear us all so greatly 
the one to the other. 
But for these distinguishing characteristics, 
we could not be valued for ourselves alone. 
They are a part and parcel of our very exist- 
ence; and we prize them accordingly. | 
THE MAIDEN’S DREAM. 
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

Sue slept; and there was visioned in her sleep 
A hill: above its summit sang the lark— 
She strove to climb it: ocean wide and deep 
Gaped for her feet, where swam a sable bark, 
Manned with dread shapes, whose aspects, doure 
and dark, 
Mocked God’s bright image; huge and grim they 
rew— 
Quenched all the lights of heaven, save one small 
spark, 
Then seized her—laughing to the bark they drew 
Her, shuddering, shrieking—ocean kindled as they 
flew. 
And she was carried to a castle bright. 
A voice said, “ Sibyl, here’s thy blithe bride- 
groom!” 
See shrieked—she prayed ;—at once the bridal 
light 
Was quench’d and chang’d to midnight’s funeral 
gloom. 
She saw swords flash, and many a dancing plume 
Roll on before her ; while around her fell 
Increase of darkness, like the hour of doom ; 
She felt herself as chained by charm and spell. 
Lo! one to win her came she knew and loved 
right well. 
Right through the darkness down to ocean-flood 
He bore her now; the deep and troubled sea 
Rolled red before her like a surge of blood, 
And wet her feet; she felt it touch her knee— 
She started—waking from her terrors, she 
Let through the room the midnight’s dewy air— 
The gentle air, so odorous, fresh, and free, 
Her bosom cooled; she spread her palms, and 
there 
Knelt humble, and to God confessed herself in 
prayer. 
% # * % % 
H’en while she prayed, her spirit waxed more 
meek— 
"Mid snow-white sheets her whiter limbs she 
threw ; 
A moon-beam came, and on her glowing cheek 
Dropt bright, as proud of her diviner hue. 
Sweet sleep its yolden mantle o’er her threw, 
And there she lay, as innocent and mild 
As unfledged dove, or daisy born in dew. 
Fair dreams descending chased off visions wild ; 
She stretched in sleep her hand, and on the 
shadows smiled. 
