KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



193 



THE POETRY OF LIFE. 



Oh, never had the Poet's lute a hope, 

 An aim so glorious as it now may have 

 In this our social state ; where petty cares 

 And mercenary interests only look 

 Upon the present' 't littleness, and shrink 

 From the bold future, and the stately past. 

 'Tis the Poet's gift to melt these frozen waters. 

 L. E. L. 



HEREVER we may 

 chance to be, we never 

 fail to make good use both 

 of our eyes and of our ears. 

 Nor have we ever found any 

 valid reason for deviating 

 from this our general rule ; 

 every day adding something to what we knew 

 before. 



Seated, a few days since, in a snug corner 

 of a well-frequented hotel, a name not alto- 

 gether unknown to us was frequently and 

 earnestly repeated by two individuals from 

 whose gaze we were fortunately concealed. 

 That name was our own — and the subject of 

 conversation was this very Journal. 

 Naturally interested, we listened — and as 

 naturally expected to " hear no good " of 

 ourself. In this expectation we were, how- 

 ever, agreeably disappointed. 



It appeared that the two disputants were 

 canvassing the merits of our Journal; both 

 warmly applauding its matter and its manner, 

 and considering it calculated to be of great 

 public service. One of the parties, however, 

 marvelled that poetry should find such a place 

 in it. His companion asked, what could be 

 his motive for so odd a remark ; seeing that 

 Poetry was the presiding genius of the 

 periodical ? The reply was, that the dissent- 

 ient " never read poetry — did not like 

 poetry; it was so dry. " For his part, "he 

 could not understand it, and always skipped 

 it as he did the speeches of members of Par- 

 liament, reported in the newspapers. All the 

 rest was excellent." — Our Journal com- 

 pared with parliamentary speeches ! ! 



Well; as we feel quite sure that this article 

 will come under the immediate eye of the 

 two speakers referred to, let us quietly argue 

 the point with the gentleman who sees no 

 beauty in poetry. Perhaps if his friend 

 kindly seconds us, we may yet make a 

 convert of him ; and give a fresh zest to his 

 future pleasures in life. He cannot, we 

 surmise, have numbered more than four-and- 

 twenty summers ; and his experience, we 

 imagine, must have been very limited. Yet 

 did his presence greatly interest us, as the 

 remarks we are about to offer will show. We 

 write the more forcibly, in consequence of 

 the conversation that reached our ear. 



Poetry, although hardly to be defined in 

 words, is that which sets aside all that 

 morbid feeling which is observable in the 

 world at large. It moves in an orbit of its 



own, and dispenses around it a perfectly pure 

 atmosphere. It ridicules trifles, and makes 

 the best of everything that happens. There 

 is poetry in the smallest action of life — poetry 

 in rendering a little service, poetry in re- 

 turning thanks for it; poetry in receiving, 

 feeling, and acknowledging those thanks. 

 This refined feeling renders life a garden of 

 flo wers,and createsa sympathy in genial hearts 

 which is perfectly indescribable. Most of 

 our readers enter readily into the nature and 

 truth of our remarks. 



Feeling thus, when we go abroad for a walk 

 we see everything in our path with a loving 

 eye. We are not disposed to look on the 

 dark side of nature. We want everybody to 

 love what we love ; to see with our eyes ; 

 to feel with our heart. Nor is it unusual, in 

 the genial months now opening upon us, to 

 find many a frank disposition harmonising 

 with our own. The only thing to be lamented 

 is, the evanescent feeling. It changes too often 

 with time and circumstance. The impression 

 is neither deep nor lasting. It might be so, 

 but for circumstances. It is a too close 

 contact with sordid and mean spirits, that 

 has such a powerful influence over the in- 

 genuous mind ! " Like priest like people," 

 is an adage true of the domestic hearth, as it 

 is of the conventicle. 



Many a stroll have we had in a lovely lane ; 

 and many a strolling companion have we 

 fraternised with in our rambles. Somehow 

 — we cannot give a reason — heart seems to 

 respond to heart, and sympathy finds itself a 

 resting-place. We meet, we walk, we gossip, 

 we innocently touch some tender chord. 

 Distance melts away. The chance companion 

 of a morning's ramble carries home with her 

 half our heart ; and, if we never meet again, 

 the remembrance of such an interview is 

 " sweet." Brother, sister, friend ; all and 

 each have we met by turns. 



These rambles are now u on." The sun, 

 who at this season is all poetry, instinctively 

 calls us forth ; and as naturally finds us a 

 companion. We are not long in reading the 

 heart. One glance keeps us dumb, or unlocks 

 our sympathies ; and when we do find our 

 counterpart, who more happy than we ? If 

 such feelings, such companions, such an inter- 

 change of thoughts, be not poetical, then are 

 we a stranger to the true meaning of the 

 word poetry. There would be more of this 

 enjoyment felt, if we were a less artificial 

 people ; but when the winter comes, the 

 alas ! of spring and summer vanish, 

 descend to the regions of cold, icy 

 Nature, in England, is only used as 

 a convenience She is not idolised— not 

 worshipped. We talk of her, but are ever at 

 war with her. 



We have been speaking of poetry, and 

 eulogising it in its application to matters o- 



poetry 

 and we 

 prose ! 



Vol. III.— 13. 



