
348 
Profit to himself—if any, must be very 
remote; whilst the immediate benefit derivable 
from his exertions by the reading public is 
immense. If Mr. Cooke be not a philan- 
thropist, in the true meaning of the word, 
then do we err exceedingly in judgment. ‘The 
Paternoster-Row publishers cannot—do not 
attempt to—compete with him. He leaves 
them far, very far, behind. They grumble, 
of course. What of that ? 
Of the book before us, we need say little. 
“There is no royal road to learning,” we 
admit; but an incitement to learning like 
this,—rendered so enchanting to the eye by 
its numerous well-executed illustrations, and 
so interesting to the mind by its pleasing 
style of composition—wins a child’s heart at 
once. 
Books got out in this style (and at a mere 
nominal expense), go far towards “ forming”’ 
the mind even of an infant. The eye is at 
once captivated by copies of birds, animals, 
insects, &c., and the attention thus arrested, 
progresses healthily. We repeat it,—this 
Alphabet is a nursery gem; and all parents 
should procure it for their children’s library. 
Mr. Cooke has “ oceans” more of these 
labors of love in hand. We shall glory in 
introducing them, one by one, as they see 
the light. 
THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON ALMANAC, for 
1854. Published at 198, Strand. 
This Almanac fully sustains its high 
character of former years. Indeed, the wood- 
engravings of the Months are even better 
than ever. The information is very varied ; 
and the getting-up every way worthy of the 
establishment whence it is issued. The 
astronomical department, in particular, de- 
serves mention. Ii is full of interest. 
MS WIL, 
DAVIDSON’s MusIcAL TREASURY. Peter’s 
Hill, Doctors’ Commons. 

We have received from Mr. Davidson such 
a multitude of songs, waltzes, quadrilles, 
ballads, and polkas, that to enumerate them 
would be impossible. 
A happy idea was it, to christen this issue 
a “treasury.” Let us add the word “inex- 
haustible” to it, and some notion may be 
formed of its value and extent. And what 
is the cost of each of these really beautiful, 
popular, and admirably-composed pieces of 
music? In most cases, threepence; in a few 
cases, sixpence; and in rare cases, one shilling. 
Really, society owes Mr. Davidson a weight 
of gratitude that they will not find it easy to 
repay. 
Already are these polkas, quadrilles, &c., 
in the hands of our fair friends, who are 
practising them early and late—to be ready ! 
——$—— 


KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

for Christmas. Loud, even now, are they in 
their songs of mirth; and they promise us 
‘“such a treat!” 
What with the Edinburgh Quadrille, the 
Dublin Quadrille, and the Zurich Waltz; 
that sweet ballad, “The Voice and the 
Flower,” together with others too numerous 
to name,—this number of Our JOURNAL 
promises to be “ musical” indeed ! 
Well; let us hope that there will be no 
‘discordant notes” amongst us,—then will 
three hearty cheers be raised for “‘ Davidson’s 
Musical Treasury ! ’’ 
Hain! Prince Aubert. W. Sprague, 7, 
Finsbury Pavement. 
This is an ode in honor of Her Majesty 
the Queen, H.R.H. Prince Albert, and the 
Royal Family, written and arranged by 
James Turner. It isa most loyal effusion. 
The words are full of feeling, and the music 
is admirably adapted to give them the most 
powerful effect. 
This ode, well played and efficiently sung, 
will be listened to with great delight. 

SOON I SHALL HEAR MY MOTHER’S VOICE. 
BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 

Soon I shall hear my mother’s voice! 
Yes,—she will come to me, 
And bid my weary heart rejoice, 
With its soft melody ! 
My lips are pale to-day, I know, 
My voice, perhaps, is weak— 
Consumption, with its hectic glow, 
Is mantled on my cheek. 
But tell her not the pain I feel, 
Let not our fears be known ; 
And when I meet her I’ll conceal 
The grief I dare not own. 
Tl check the anguish of my heart, 
The tear that dims mine eye ; 
The sigh that tells her we must pait,— 
That one so loved must die ! 
Tl talk to her of those we love, 
Perchance ’twill soothe my pain ; 
I'll calmly lead her thoughts above ; 
Yes, and I’ll smile again! 
And when she hears, with anguish w.ld, 
No power on earth can save ; 
Death will not spare her fairest child,— 
Her darling, from the grave, 
I'll tell her of a happy land, 
Where tears for ever cease ; 
Of Saints that form a holy band, 
And all is joy and peace. 
[ll lead her to a little spot, 
Beneath the tall yew tree, 
A home the proud man envieth not,— 
There my last rest shall be. 
And when this weary scene is o’er, 
Of sorrow, grief, and pain ; 
We'll meet upon a happier shore, 
AND NEVER PART AGAIN! 



a EE, 
