218 KIDD’S. OWN JOURNAL. 
“Kidith May” is a history that will come 
home to many hearts. A young lady, pos- 
sessed of all the usual attractions of modern 
heroines, aiid, of course, possessing a doating 
lover (named Ainslie), chances to quarrel 
with him. It was a lovers’ quarrel; but 
what was its issue ? 
From a silly pique—what odd, foolish, 
rash creatures girls are!—Hdith marries Mr. 
Jefferson Jones, “an ossified old bachelor, 
who had but one idea in his head, and that 
was, to make money. ‘There was only one 
thing he understood equally well, and that 
was, how to keep it. He was angular, prim, 
cold, and precise; mean, grovelling, con- 
temptible, and cunning.” 
This Mr. Jones becomes aware of Edith’s 
former attachment, and with a view to as- 
certain whether it has been forgotten, he 
thus accosts her :— 
“Tm thinking of taking a short journey, 
Edith,” said he, seating himself by her side, and 
playing with the silken cord and tassels about 
her waist. “ As it is wholly a business trip, it 
would hamper me to take you with me ; but you'll 
hear from me. Meanwhile, you know how to 
amuse yourself, eh, Edith?” 
He looked searchingly in her face. There was 
no conscious blush, no change of expression, no 
tremor of the frame. He might as well have 
addressed a marble statue. 
Mr. Jefferson Jones was posed. Well, he bade 
her one of his characteristic adieux ; and, when 
the door closed, Edith felt as if a mountain weight 
had been lifted off her heart. There was but one 
course for her to pursue. She knew it; she had 
already marked it out. She would deny herself 
to all visitors ; she would not go abroad till her 
husband’s return. She was strong in her purpose. 
There should be no door left open-for busy scandal 
to enter. Of Ainslie she knew nothing, save that 
a letter reached her from him after her marriage, 
which she had returned unopened. 
And so she wandered restlessly through those 
splendid rooms, and tried, by this self-inflicted 
penance, to atone for the defection of her heart. 
Did she take her guitar, old songs they had sung 
together came unbidden to her lips ;—that book, 
too, they had read. Oh, it was all misery, turn 
where she would! 
Day after day passed by: no letter from Mr. 
Jones! The time had already passed that was 
fixed upon for his return; and Edith, nervous 
from close confinement and the weary inward 
struggle, started like a frightened bird at every 
footfall. 
It came at last—the letter—sealed with black ! 
“ He had been accidentaliy drowned. His hat 
was found—all search for the body had been 
unavailing.” 
Edith was no hypocrite. She could not mourn 
for him, save in the outward garb of woe. * * 
Ainslie was just starting for the Continent, by 
order of a physician, when the news reached him. 
A brief time he gave to decorum, and then they 
met. It is needless to say what that meeting 
was. Days and months of wretchedness were 
forgotten, like some dreadful dream. She was 

+ ~~ —~ -— 
A 
again his own Hdith—sorrowing, repentant and 
happy. 
They were sitting together one evening. Edith’s 
head was upon his shoulder, and her face radiant 
asa seraph’s. They were speaking of their future 
home. 
“Any spot on the wide earth but this, dear 
Ainslie. Take me away from these painful 
associations.” 
“Say you so, pretty Edith?”’ said a well-known 
voice. “I but tried that faithful heart of yours, 
to prove it! Pity to turn such a pretty comedy 
into a tragedy ; but I happen to be manager here. 
young man!” said Mr. Jones, turning fiercely 
toward the horror-struck Ainslie. 
The revulsion was too dreadful. Edith survived 
but a week. Ainslie became hopelessly insane. 
We introduce this episode, to caution 
young people against that flightiness of con- 
duct which too often destroys the happiness 
of two fond hearts. Girls are sadly brought 
up. The heart is altogether neglected in 
their education. It is not so in one only, but 
nearly in all the sex. 
A man’s happiness is not a thing to be so 
lightly esteemed. Flirtation is dangerous, 
—wicked, when people become formally be- 
trothed to each other. We shall be despised, 
we are aware, for giving utterance to such 
disgraceful sentiments; but thisshall not deter 
us from an act of stern duty. Matrimony is 
not a foot-ball. 
DA usir, 
I LOVE THE SprinG.—A_ Ballad.—Sung by 
Miss Rebecca Isaacs. The Words by 
HELEN HETHERINGTON. Composed by 
VILETTA BARBER. Charles Jefferys. 
As the words of this sweet ballad are by 
“our own’ Poet Laureate, and have already 
appeared in this JOURNAL, any commen- 
dation of them, thus late in the day, would 
be idle. Helen Hetherington is known and 
loved both at home and abroad. 
Of the music, however, we are free to 
speak ; and we sincerely rejoice to find that 
it is every way worthy ofthe words to which 
it is wedded. Miss Barber seems to have 
caught her inspiration from the poet. They 
have, together, produced a ballad that will, 
we trust, become nationally popular, and find 
its way into every drawing-room. 
We should observe, that it is dedicated, 
by permission, to Mrs. Charles Dickens ; 
and that Miss Rebecca Isaacs—a lady whom 
we have had the pleasure of knowing from 
her childhood — has rendered it doubly 
popular by the artless simplicity of her 
warbling voice. 
Helen Hetherington’s writings have been 
copied far and near. May this sweet ballad 
prove an accompaniment to them, and find 
its way also into all lands ! 



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