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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



because in the fullness of contentedness he 

 can afford to pity rather than hate ; in short, 

 imbued with all the better feelings, because 

 he daily sees their blessings. 



When Selfishness is laid aside, — then shall 

 we get on nobly through the world. 



PROFOUND TALKERS. 



There are profound talkers as well as pro- 

 found writers ; and your profound talkers 

 have the best of it, for it is impossible to 

 find them out. What is written and printed 

 may be read over again, canvassed, sifted, 

 and examined ; but that which is said, 

 vanishes, evaporates, is gone ; leaving not a 

 single idea in the mind of the hearer. 



A profound talker will tell you that he 

 can think, and that he can talk, but he 

 cannot write. Very true, because he has 

 nothing to write about ; and the nothing is 

 not so easily detected in talking, and in 

 thinking, as it is in writing. Writing is a 

 substance, that you may take by the nose 

 and bring to a confession ; but talking is a 

 mere ghost, a flitting shadow — which is here, 

 there, everywhere, and nowhere. You try 

 to get it, but you get only a handful of air. 

 Profound talking has the advantage over 

 profound writing ; because, in talking, you 

 may select your audience, and take 

 care that no profane anti-mysterialist shall 

 question your oracles. When you write 

 profundities and give them to the world, you 

 don't know who may get hold of them, 

 and condense your ocean of froth into a 

 thimbleful of slop. The shallower a man 

 is, the more intensely he admires profundity ; 

 he who understands nothing, understands all 

 things equally well ; and when a man fears 

 lest his ignorance should be detected on 

 subjects that everybody understands, his 

 best resource is to plunge into profundities, 

 and then, when he is completely out of sight, 

 he is quite safe. Thus have I known 

 ambitious simpletons, who not having 

 capacity for Greek and Latin, or other de- 

 lectable studies, have betaken themselves to 

 the inscrutabilities of Orientalism, and have 

 looked marvellously wise in Arabic, Sanscrit, 

 Bengalee, and all that sort of thing. 



So again, those whose understandings have 

 not been strong enough to bear them safe 

 over the Pons Asinorum in Euclid's Elements, 

 have cut a very pretty figure in gabbling 

 and prating about transcendentalism. I 

 know a very ingenious gentleman, who has 

 never read a line of Newton's Principia, and 

 knows nothing about mathematics, who is 

 perpetually propounding new theories of the 

 universe, new doctrines of the motion, 

 quality, and use of the planets, and new 

 notions of the comets. In proposing these 

 theories, and in starting these profundities, 



he, for the most part, keeps clear of mathe- 

 maticians ; seeing that in his mystic and 

 twilight flights, their demonstrations have 

 sometimes knocked him down, as boys knock 

 down bats by throwing their hats at them. 



Surely the flights of profundity may be 

 not inaptly compared to the flitting move- 

 ments of these ambiguous animals ; they 

 are a kind of something — nothing; seen — 

 but not seen ; quick — but not progressive ; 

 a sort of black lightning ; a shadow that has 

 no substance ; you never see where they 

 come from, nor where they go to, nor what 

 they come for. They are animal comets — in 

 the system, but not of it. 



But the safest profundity of all, is pro- 

 found thinking. Write profoundly, and 

 everybody may find you out ; talk profoundly 

 and somebody may find you out ; but 

 "think" profoundly, and nobody can find 

 you out. It may be asked, how is it to be 

 known that you " think" profoundly, unless 

 you make known your thoughts by talking 

 or writing? Easily enough. Shake your 

 head as Lord Burleigh does in the " Critic." 

 You will be astonished, after a few of these 

 " ambiguous givings out," with what ease 

 you have obtained the reputation of being 

 " a profound thinker ! " 



P. 



STANZAS TO MY LOVE. 



Methinks I love all common things, 

 The common air, the common flower ; 



The dear kind common thought that springs 

 From hearts that have no other dower : 

 No other wealth, no other power, 



Save Love ; and will not that repay 



For all else fortune tears away ? 



Methinks I love the horny hand 

 That labors until dusk from dawn; 



Methinks I love the russet band, 

 Beyond the band of silk or lawn ; 

 And, oh ! the lovely laughter drawn 



From peasant lips, when sunny May 



Leads in some flowery holiday ! 



What good are fancies rare — that rack 

 With painful thought the poet's brain ? 



Alas ! they cannot bear us back 

 Unto happy years again ! 

 But the white rose without stain 



Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers, 



When youth was bounteous as the hours! 



E'en now, were I but rich, my hand 

 Should open like a vernal cloud, 



Casting its bounty on a land, 

 In music sweet, but never loud : 

 But I am of the common crowd, 



And thus am I content to be, — 



If thou, sweet love, wilt cherish me! 



Q. 



