144 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



hubbub of London. Accordingly, there is 

 hardly a street that is not associated with an 

 author. Their very names are redolent of 

 pencraft ; and how delightful to wander 

 through them, unconscious of the heartless 

 throng, oblivious of the stranger's lot, with 

 the heart filled by the endeared images of 

 these intellectual benefactors ! The disguised 

 caliphs enjoyed no higher pastime. Aladdin's 

 lamp transmuted not vulgar objects into a 

 more golden substance. We luxuriate in 

 the choicest society, without the drawback 

 of etiquette ; we revive the dreams of youth 

 while in the very bustle of the world. We 

 practically realise what a kingdom the mind 

 is, without any technical aid." 



We are not disposed to differ from the 

 author in his calculations on the effects pro- 

 duced by our odd climate on the human 

 brain. No doubt he is right. So also is he 

 in the subjoined extract on 



THE STATE OF ART IN ENGLAND. 



Nature herself has abridged the artistic 

 development of England. Her climate is 

 unfavorable to ideal achievement, and to 

 that elemental harmony between atmosphere, 

 light, and temperature, and the purposes 

 and effects of the artist, which render Italy 

 and Greece a paradise in comparison. A 

 dome or a column should paint itself against 

 a densely blue sky, to be truly effective. A 

 cadenza should ring through such a crystal 

 air as hangs over Naples or Mexico, to 

 reveal its sweetest melody ; and color, to be 

 transparent and vivid, must be studied where 

 the purple evening mantles with radiant hues 

 the Adriatic Sea. Marble grows black, and 

 bronze corrodes, in England, when exposed 

 to air. 



How like a fossil coal looks Canning's 

 form ; and what a sooty hue invests Nelson, 

 as the metal and the stone have become 

 superficially decomposed by moisture ! 

 Half the time, we must shiver instead of 

 being cheered at the sight and sound of a 

 fountain ; and walking round St. Paul's the 

 walls look as if snow and soot had alternately 

 drifted against them — especially the latter. 

 The chiaroscuro made by smoke, gas, and 

 drizzle, do not promote a desirable relievo in 

 objects architectural or statuesque. The 

 absence of the sun, keeps invisible the more 

 delicate touches of Leonardo and the finer 

 tints of Claude on the noble's wall ; and even 

 the daguerreotypist must watch, like the fog- 

 shrouded navigator on the banks, for days 

 before he can " get the sun." In such a 

 climate, great thinkers and indefatigable arti- 

 sans prosper. 



But Art must be aided by pilgrimages to 

 clearer horizons ; and to latitudes where the 

 firmament is oftener visible. At home, it 

 will inevitably require the hotbed of munifi- 

 cent patronage." 



These sensible remarks by a foreigner, are 

 worthy attentive perusal ; nor will Mr.Tucker- 

 man's book fail to suggest many other "ma- 

 terials for thinking. " 



MY OLD COMPANIONS. 



BY ELIZA COOK. 



My heart has yearned like other hearts, 

 With all the fervor Youth imparts; 

 And all the warmth that Feeling lends 

 Has freely cherished "troops of friends." 

 A change has passed o'er them and me, 

 We are not as we used to be : 

 My heart, like many, another heart, 

 Sees Old Companions all depart. 



I mark the names of more than one, 

 But read them on the cold white stone ; 

 And steps that followed where mine led, 

 Now on the far-off desert tread; 

 The world has warped some souls away, 

 That once were honest as the day ; 

 Some dead, some wandering, some untrue ; 

 Oh ! Old Companions are but few ! 



But there are green trees on the rill, 

 And green flags sweeping o'er the hill ; 

 And there are daisies peeping out. 

 And dog-rose blossoms round about. 

 Ye were my friends, " long, long ago," 

 The first bright friends I sought to know; 

 And yet ye come — rove where I will, 

 My Old Companions — faithful still. 



And there are sunbeams rich and fair, 

 As cheering as they ever were : 

 And there are fresh winds playing nigh, 

 As freely as in time gone by ; 

 The birds come singing as of yore, 

 The waves yet ripple to the shore ; 

 Howe'er I feel, where'er I range, 

 These Old Companions never change. 



I'm glad I learnt to love the things 

 That Fortune neither takes nor brings : 

 I'm glad my spirit learned to prize 

 The smiling face of sunny skies ; 

 'Twas well I clasp'd with doating hand 

 The balmy wild flowers of the land ; 

 For still ye live in friendship sure, 

 My Old Companions, bright and pure. 



Though strong may be the ties we make, 

 The strongest mortal tie may break ; 

 Though warm the lips that love us now, 

 They may perchance forswear the vow; 

 We see pale Death and envious Hate 

 Fling shadows on the dial-plate; 

 Noting the hours when dark sands glide, 

 And Old Companions leave our side. 



But be we sad, or be we gay, 



With thick curls bright, or thin locks grey, 



We never find the Spring bloom meet 



Our presence with a smile less sweet. 



Oh ! I am glad I learnt to love 



The tangled wood and cooing dove 



For these will be in good or ill 



My Old Companions, — changeless still ! 



