LL LE LC TS ELE a SM Se eer rep ramen penrpemnnroneennenmenmpenonsnpennnenssonenee” 
168 KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

- lities and intellectual faculties in their depen- 
dence. 
Yet, though M. Sprengel regards the properties 
of the soul and mind, as consequences of the 
harmony of the solids, and the combination of 
the fluids, he nevertheless accords to man a free 
will, and says expressly that one need only blame 
himself, if he be led away by his temperament. 
Why, then, not be satisfied with my asserting also, 
that man has only himself to blame if he follows 
the impulse of his organs; and that I believe with 
St. Augustin, that God, in giving the power, does 
not mpose any necessity.* 
* It is a scriptural as well as a philosophical 
doctrine, that man possesses no power of his own 
creation ; that he is dependent for all power upon 
the Deity. If man received from the Deity only 
the power to act, and not the power to will, the 
power of divine origin is made subservient to the 
human power. Infinite wisdom and power are 
absolute causes; and we can as readily conceive 
of an effect without a cause, as we can understand 
a cause as not necessarily producing its legitimate 
effect.—Ep. K. J. 
peer See UMNO Die i tat Ae 2 ed Ee aa 
TO MY SOUL’S IDOL. 
T need not token-flowers to tell 
How deeply dear thou art ; 
Still on mine ear thine accents dwell, 
Thy virtues in my heart ; 
Thy beauty floats before mine eyes, 
In soft, celestial light ; 
Alike at orient day’s uprise 
And pensive shut of night. 
"Twas autumn—and the redbreast lulled 
With song the fading bowers, 
When for my hand thy fingers culled 
These wan and withered flowers. 
Fresh were they then; but, as I gaze 
The shrivelled blossom’s o’er, 
The mountain peaks are grey with haze, 
And gleams the snowy moor. 
The clouds of doubt between us rolled, 
In shadows passed the day ; 
But, like a star, thy love consoled 
My spirit with its ray ; 
For through the tempest and the night 
That beam was duly shed, 
To cherish with its steadfast light 
The hope which else had fled. 
Oh! hallowed, Heavenly to my view 
Is every gentle scene 
Where thy fair foot hath brushed the dew 
From off the daisied green ! 
Thy love, thy loveliness, thy worth, 
To me seem blessings given, 
To show my soul how things of earth 
Can raise its thoughts to Heaven ! 
Farewell! thou shalt not be forgot, 
My beautiful, Minz Own! 
Oh! may the sorrows of our lot 
Bow down my head alone! 
And these dried flowers, which, given to me 
Were moist with morning rain, 
Shall bloom of thee, and breathe of thee, 
UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN! 
5] 

AUTO-BIOGRAPHY OF A DOG.—No. XVII. 
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 
(Continued from Page 109.) 

Ler me begin to-day, my good friend, by 
asking you, confidentially—‘ Do you love roast 
pork?” [Alas, no! or rather, good Fino, it 
liketh not us. We nevereat it.| If you don’t, 
don’t J! ‘I believe you, my boy!” It is a 
delicious luxury either for dog or man. A boiled 
leg of pork and pease-pudding, too—that is not to 
be sneezed at, at least not by me. 
But I am not at all particular; and as for vege- 
tables, I like them passingly well. I should not 
object to dine any day upon a neat little bit of 
streaky bacon and some tender Windsor beans ; 
nor have I any disrelish for a little morceau of 
fat, more or less. Indeed, I think every part of 
the flesh of that very improperly despised animal 
—a pig, is delicious. 
In my country, Mr. Editor, we call this animal 
a ‘‘ Cayon;” and what better sport than hunting 
a pig? especially if you meet with a long, lanky 
animal that can run well. How many have I 
chased in my time! Sometimes I have really 
mistaken them for a “gazelle;” so sleek and 
graceful are they! We do not, in my country, 
admire the fat, round, plump, comfortable-looking 
Chinese breed, but we prize those most which 
nearest approach the towrnure of a greyhound 
(mind, I speak generally, Mr. Editor). I grant 
the Chinese breed is occasionally met with, and 
that it is also much valued by its owner; but our 
bon paysan prefers his “ Cayon”’ of the lanky 
breed. J don’t refuse a bit of pork, even though 
it has never been cooked at all. I think it excel- 
lent when raw. It was my greedy brother Carlo 
who first gave me this taste. He had a wonderful 
fancy for uncooked pork, and he did not care how 
he got it. Hntre nous, he was a sad thief; and 
at the risk of my life I was obliged to accompany 
him on his foraging expeditions. I blush to say 
it, but having cnce yielded to temptation, I soon 
became as great an adept as himself! 
But these are sins of my youth, Mr. Editor; 
and therefore must not be handled with too much 
severity—especially as I am now an old dog, and 
could look at a leg of pork with the greatest 
complacency. It would be unwise, however, to 
tempt any other dog but myselftoo much. But 
now to my story. I forget now what brought it 
back to my memory; but it made me laugh so 
much, that I determined to brush up my memory 
and send it to ouR JOURNAL. 
You must know that my brother was never 
happy unless he was in mischief. The scrapes he 
sometimes got me into are quite shameful to think 
of. I have often thought, if it had not been for 
his bad example, and his irresistible comic ways 
in persuading me to join him in all his mad pranks 
(to say nothing of his catching me by the ear, and 
making his teeth gradually meet, in case I took 
too long a time to deliberate before deciding), that 
I should have been a perfect model of politesse 
and elegance. However, I am again digressing ; 
and that will not do. It so chanced that there 
was a worthy “‘ Vaudois’”’ wine-merchant, byname 
G. His vaults and offices were on the Place St. 
Francois. He had travelled a great deal over 
Europe ; and he had also visited Egypt, Syria, &c. 

