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MEMOIR OF THE LATE MR. JOHN JUST, OF BURY. 



So much has the length of this memoir exceeded my 

 intentions, that only a few extracts from his private corres- 

 pondence can be given here ; and they are selected as revealing 

 some of the phases of his mind and character. Writing to a 

 poetic correspondent, he asks — 



'* Is poetiy a sound of words ? 

 Or is't a happy thought ? 

 There's poetry in many a soul 



That rhymed not what it wrought." 



" Real poetry (he observes) flashes through the mind, like 

 lightning through the heavens; — it comes only at intervals, 

 unsought for, unpremeditated. Like the rod of Moses, it 

 only veorks miracles when inspiration is upon it. You may 

 strike the rock at other moments, but there is then either no 

 flow, or the few drops which follow are but muddy water." 

 * * " 1 still feel and enjoy poetry — the poetry of the mind 

 and of fine feeling — aspirations devout, kindled by nature, 

 burning with the fragrance of her incense, and ascending, 

 like the smoke of the altar, towards heaven, waiting for 

 admittance there." 



In reply to a correspondent who had spoken of his genius, 

 he denied the possession of that high attribute, adding — " If 

 knowledge has thrown some rays of her light upon me, so 

 that daylight shines around me upon subjects which are in 

 midnight darkness to many others, it is labour which has 

 struck out the treasure from a barren mind — like Moses 

 striking out rivers of water from the flinty rock ; — it is dili- 

 gence and perseverance that have surmounted all. A man 

 knows nothing of himself till he tries himself. Want of 

 exertion, — that idleness which springs from the cowardice of 

 our nature, — ruins all." 



Writing in April, 1834, to a friend, he says— ** You rally 

 me upon the gaiety of the life I am leading. It is far from 

 being congenial with my feelings, and instead of adding to, 

 subtracts very materially from, my happiness. I often envy 



