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the chilled heart, and revive in it the warmth 
of nature. Half—aye, three-fifths of the 
world at least, live cold-hearted, die cold- 
hearted,—wholly destitute of those loveable, 
enchanting, enchaining, innocent joys, which 
flow from a union between kindred spirits. To 
differ from the world, is to become heterodox. 
Yo publicly express the strange doctrines 
WE do, calls down upon us maledictions innu- 
merable. 
During the past two years, we have had, as 
our noble-hearted correspondent “WALTER” 
words it, “ all up-hill work to do.” We have 
told mammas the truth, and they have hated 
us. We have alarmed some of their tricked- 
out daughters, whilst depicting their moral 
and physical deformities, and they have cried 
shame upon us. Let us be honest, however, 
and say that there have been many exceptions. 
With some mammas, we are an object of special 
regard; and by some of their daughters we 
are held in the very highest reverence and 
esteem. They know we labor for their good ; 
and they see we go to work with an amiable, 
not a presumptuous spirit. We want them 
to be “natural.” 
Contact with the world is a serious draw- 
back to good feelmg. Impressions wrought 
to-day, are as easily effaced to-morrow. 
Ridicule is a sad enemy to benevolence and 
Christian charity. Few can resist its influ- 
ence. The state of modern society reduces 
everything to external appearance. Accom- 
plishments must be had, whatever the cost ; 
and the mind must go to waste. So says 
Fashion; so says Habit; so say their 
votaries. 
For ourself,—we love to be exercised in 
the opposites of what we are tilting at. We 
love virtue for itself; innocence for itself; 
purity for itself. Let us share the heart of 
those we love, and take possession of its 
affections. Moonshine and hypocrisy suit 
us not. We claim no merit for this. It is 
natural to us. 
And here let us put in a good word for 
those to whose care we were confided in 
early life. ‘To their unwearied kindness, 
careful watchings, maternal solicitude, and 
bright example, do we owe all our happiness. 
They trained us in the path of rectitude, and 
made us love it. They told us what was good, 
and we found they were right. We will not 
say that we never wandered out of the straight 
path ;—but how glad were we to return to 
it! We love to breathe in a wholesome 
atmosphere, and we can feel happy in no 
other. 
The Human Heart is indeed ‘a curiosity,” 
—we freely admit it. Yet is it an object of 
our special regard. Had we possessed ten 
thousand pounds ; had we invested the whole 
amount in the conduct of this JOURNAL; had 
we lost every penny of it,—even then we 



KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
We have not labored in 
should not grumble. 
vain. 
Two years have now nearly passed away. 
During that period,we have received we know 
not how many thousands of letters. These 
have presented the world to us in all its varied 
aspects. We have had to do with pride, 
insolence, arrogance, presumption, ignorance, 
folly, bigotry, intolerance. OUR JOURNAL 
has not been stained by any extracts from 
these records. But what have we not had by 
way of recompense? If abuse has abounded, 
praise of no common kind has more than 
atoned for all. 
How many are the timid, modest, retiring, 
confiding, amiable, loving spirits that have 
sought refuge under our wing! Does not thes 
repay us? Oh, yes !—Ten thousand pounds! 
What a consideration were that, in comparison 
with the living jewels that now lie buried in 
our heart of hearts! Is there yet room for 
more guests? Most assuredly. 
The Human Heart,—yes, Phoebe, it zs “a 
curious structure.” It will be the theme of 
many an article from our pen. Fortuuately 
for the public, our life has been singularly 
varied; and the heart of man and woman a 
favorite study with us from boy-hood. 

THE FATE OF THE OAK. 
BY BARRY CORNWALL. 

The owl to his mate is calling ; 
The river his hoarse song sings ; 
But the Oak is marked for falling, 
That has stood for a hundred Springs. 
Hark !—a blow, and a dull sound follows ; 
A second,—he bows his head ; 
A third,—and the wood’s dark hollows 
Now know that their king is dead. 
His arms from their trunk are riven ; 
His body all barked and squared ; 
And he’s now, like a felon, driven 
In chains to the strong dock-yard ; 
He’s sawn through the middle and turned, 
For the ribs of a frigate free ; 
And he’s caulked, and pitched, and burned ; 
And now—he is fit for sea! 
Oh! now,—with his wings outspread, 
Like a ghost (if a ghost may be), 
He will triumph again, though dead, 
And be dreaded in every sea. 
The lightning will blaze about, 
And wrap him in flaming pride ; 
And the thunder-loud cannon will shout, 
In the fight, from his bold broad-side. 
And when he has fought, and won, 
And been honored from shore to shore ; 
And his journey on earth is done,— 
Why, what can he ask for more ? 
There is naught that a king can claim, 
Or a poet, or warrior bold, 
Save a rhyme, and a short-lived name, 
And to mix with the common mould! 


