KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



373 



men of genius. They were all plodders— hard- 

 working, intent men. " Genius ifl known by its 

 works. Genius without works is a blind faith, 

 a dumb oracle. But meritorious works are the 

 result of time and labor, and cannot be accom- 

 plished by intention or by a wish. The immortal 

 thoughts, that seem as if they flowed spontaneously 

 from the soul of Shakspeare, were, nevertheless, 

 moulded in a die which doubtless required many 

 years of unremitting attention to fashion it to his 

 exquisite taste. His intellect, by constant study, 

 had at length been trained to that perfect dis- 

 cipline which enabled it to move with a grace, 

 spirit, and liberty incomprehensible to those minds 

 which have not passed through the same severe 

 ordeal. Every great work is the result of vast 

 preparatory training. Facility comes by labor. 

 Nothing seems easy — not even walking, that was 

 not difficult at first. The orator, whose eye 

 flashes instantaneous fire, and whose lips pour 

 forth a flood of noble thoughts, startling by their 

 unexpectedness, and elevating by their wisdom 

 and their truth, has learned his secret by patient 

 repetition, and after many bitter disappointments. 

 — Nobody can hope to shine successfully without 

 study.— E. W. 



An Evening Thought : — 



Far within the charmed circle 



Of a fairy-haunted grove, 

 Where but Elfin songs are chanted, 



And but Elfin footsteps move, — 

 I would ever dwell and dream, 

 Near the music of a stream, — 

 Wearing morn and night away 

 In such quiet company. 



On a starbeam's golden pavement, 

 Wandering up the lonely sky — 



Where no sound might break the silence, 

 But deep spirits rushing by — 



List'ning — from the rainbow's rim, 



Angels at their evening hymn — 



I would wear, in sweet decay, 



Year on happy year away ! 



Lucy Noreis, Tottenham. 



Employment, Activity, Idleness. — What a world 

 we live in, my dear sir ! To see how some people 

 revel in ceaseless, giddy pleasure, whilst others 

 toil from morning till night, — knowing no rest ! 

 [We can speak to a point about this !] It never 

 was intended by Providence that anybody should 

 be inactive. I detest an idle person ; indeed few 

 would dare openly to defend idleness. It is the 

 greatest bane of society, as well as of individuals. 

 It corrodes all it touches. The idle man produces 

 nothing, yet he is always in mischief; always 

 potent for evil, yet powerless for good. He is an 

 incumbrance to himself and everybody else, until 

 finally used up in the sheer exhaustion — the ashes 

 of the false charity on which he has subsisted ! To 

 society at large, idleness is a cancer eating its way 

 into the heart and soul, until the whole community 

 is affected and ulcerated to the core. The crime 

 — for in its consequences it is a great crime — is 

 always found in the extremes of civilisation, among 

 the very rich and the very poor. The middle and 

 operative classes are never idle. If they were, 



productive organisation would soon come to an 

 end — Europe would be one vast lazar-house. 

 Happily for civilisation and the world — indeed 

 every great interest — idleness is the exception ; 

 and the countries afflicted with it are a curse and 

 a warning to the rest of mankind. — Puss. 



[Your remarks, Puss-y, do you honor. An idle 

 man, an idle woman, an idle boy, or an idle girl, 

 are a terror to us. They are altogether useless 

 members of society.] 



A Lovely Portrait : — 



A beam of braided moonlight fell 



Upon a sleeping girl, 

 And shot its silvery lines athwart 



A neck of dazzling pearl. 



Her hands, like folded leaves were claspt, 



Her head serenely bent ; 

 Her spotless form, love's proper shrine, 



Reclined in sweet content. 



Her brow was polished, arched, and smooth, 



Her eyes of raven hue ; 

 Her lips were pouting, rich, ripe, moist, 



And steeped in rosy dew. 



Her teeth were white as garden drops 



That droop in wintry bowers, 

 And glimmer'd 'twixt her ruby lips 



Like glowworms 'neath the flowers. 



Her frolic curls of jet embraced 



Dissolvingly below, 

 Upon a queenly sculptured neck 



That mocked the Alpine snow. 



And when those brilliant orbs peeped out 



Beneath their silken shroud, 

 It seemed as if the sun had burst 



Some dark o'ercharging cloud. 



But when the torch itself lit up 



Each calm unslumbering eye, 

 It was as though two stranger stars 



Were shining in the sky! 



Her step was musical and soft, — 

 Her speech one stream of song, 



Sweet as the dying swan's last wail, 

 Breeze-loving borne along.* 



Her presence breathed the balmiest air ; 



One glance of that dear face 

 Brought back earth's banished Paradise — 



Her long-lost Eden race. 



I send you these elegant lines, without knowing 

 by whom they are penned. I copied them from a 

 lady's Album.— J. E. W. 



The Nightingale— found near JBarnsley. — The 

 account in the Doncaster Gazette of the capture 

 of nine nightingales in Edlington Wood, near that 

 town, will give pain to every true lover of nature ; 

 and few there will be who will not unite in the 



* What will Charles Waterton say to this 

 simile about the " swan's last wail ? " — Ed. K. J. 



