KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



15 



and gates, and our gravel-walks resemble 

 saturated sponges. 



Abroad, the streets are flooded with 

 muddy water, and slippery with patches of 

 ice and half-melted snow, which strikes 

 through our shoes in a moment. The houses, 

 and all objects whatever, have a dirty and 

 disconsolate aspect ; and clouds of dun and 

 smoky haze hover over the whole dis- 

 spiriting scene. In the country, the pros 

 pect is not much better. The roads are 

 full of mire. Instead of the enchantments 

 of hoar-frost, so beautifully described by 

 the poet, — 



Artist unseen ! that dipt in frozen dew 



Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid, 

 Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade, 



Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew ! 



Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue, 

 Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made, 

 And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade, 



That liquid pearl distil : — thy scenes renew, 



Whate'er old bards or later fictions feign, 

 Of secret grottoes underneath the wave, 

 Where Nereids roof with spar the amber cave ; 



Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train, 

 Who, frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen, 

 Circle with radiant gems the dewy green. 



Instead of these we say, we have naked 

 hedges, with sallow and decaying weeds 

 beneath them ; pastures brown and wet ; and 

 sheets of ice which recently afforded such fine 

 exercise to skaters and sliders, are half sub- 

 mersed in water, — full of great cracks, and 

 scattered with straws, and dirty patches, and 

 stones half liberated by the thaw. Let us 

 felicitate ourselves, however, that such a 

 joyless time is seldom of long continuance. 

 The winds of March will speedily come pip- 

 ing their jovial strains ; clearing the face of 

 the blessed Heavens from their sullen veil of 

 clouds, and sweeping away the superabun- 

 dant moisture from earth and air. 



The banks are partly green ; hedges and trees 

 Are black and shrouded, and the keen wind 

 roars, 



Like dismal music wand'ring over seas, 

 And wailing to the agitated shores. 



The fields are dotted with manure — the sheep 

 In unshorn wool, streaked with the shepherd's 

 red, 



Their undivided peace and friendship keep, 

 Shaking their bells, like children to their bed. 



The roads are white and miry — waters run 



With violence through their tracks — and sheds, 

 that flowers 



In summer graced, are open to the sun; 



Which shines in noonday's horizontal hours. 



Frost claims the night ; Morning, like a bride, 

 Forth from her chamber glides ; Mist spreads 

 her vest ; 



The sunbeams ride the clouds till eventide ; 

 And the wind rolls them to ethereal rest. 



Sleet, shine, cold, fog, in portions fill the time ; 



Like hope, the prospect cheers ; like breath it 

 fades : 

 Life grows in seasons to returning prime, 



And beauty rises from departing shades. 



Oh ! blithe and animating is the breath of 

 March ! It is like a cool, but spirit-stirring 

 draught of some ancient vintage; elating, 

 but not enervating the heart, deadening the 

 memory of past evil, and expanding the 

 mind with the delicious hope of future de- 

 lights. Such a precious boon, however, is 

 not exclusively permitted to March. Feb- 

 ruary is often allowed to be a liberal par- 

 taker ere its close ; and we have known the 

 winds lift up their voices, in this month, with 

 all their triumphant and sonorous energy. 



Nothing, perhaps, can illustrate so vividly 

 our idea of spirit as a mighty wind, — present 

 in its amazing power and sublimity, yet seen 

 only in its effects. We are whirled along by 

 its careering torrent with irresistible power; 

 we are driven before it, as Miss Mitford says, 

 as by a steam engine. How it comes rush- 

 ing and roaring over the house, like the 

 devouring billows of an ocean broke loose ! 

 Then for the banging of doors — the swinging 

 and creaking of signs — the clatter of falling 

 shutters in the street ! Then for the crash 

 of chimnies — the toppling down of crazy 

 gables — the showering of tiles upon the pave- 

 ment, as if the bomb- shells of a besieging 

 army were demolishing the roofs, and render- 

 ing it death even to walk the streets. Then 

 for a scene of awful grandeur upon the shores 

 of the glorious ocean. That which but an 

 hour before was calm and sun- bright, a 

 variety of vessels lying at anchor, or sailing 

 to and fro in serene beauty, — then is become 

 a scene of sublime and chaotic uproar ; the 

 waves rolling, and foaming, and dashing their 

 spray over rocks, pier-heads, houses, and 

 even over the loftiest towers and churches too 

 — as we have seen it, — to an amazing extent, 

 till the water ran down the walls like rain, 

 and the windows, at a great distance from the 

 beach, were covered with a salt incrustation 

 — the vessels meanwhile laboring amidst the 

 riotous billows as for life, and tugging at 

 their cables as if mad for their escape. 



Many a beautiful, many a wild, many an 

 animated spectacle is to be witnessed on the 

 shores of our happy isle in such moments ! 

 What a solemn and sublime war, also, is 

 there in the woods — a sound as of vast and 

 tempestuous seas ! What poetical spirit can 

 hear it without being influenced by incom- 

 municable sensations ; and ideas of power, 

 majesty, and the stupendous energies of the 

 elements ! 



Oh ! storm and darkness ; ye are wondrous strong. 



What picturesque ruin is there scattered 

 around us ! Trees overwhelmed — immense 



