194 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



every-day life. It may not be amiss, before 

 closing this article, to give Addison's beau- 

 tiful definition of a poet. It embodies in its 

 fulness all we can conceive of excellence in 

 the human heart. Of all feelings, poetry is 

 the most sublime. It creates and sustains 

 innocence, and imparts a perfect purity of 

 mind. 



The poet, sa} T s Addison, is not obliged to 

 attend Nature in the slow advances she makes 

 from one season to another, or to observe 

 her conduct in the successive production of 

 plants and flowers. He may draw into his 

 description all the beauties of spring and 

 autumn, and make the whole year contribute 

 something to render it the more agreeable. His 

 rose-trees, woodbines, and jessamines may 

 flower together ; and his beds be covered at 

 the same time with lilies, violets, and ama- 

 ranths. His soil is not restrained to any par- 

 ticular set of plants ; bid is proper either for 

 oalcs or myrtles, and adopts itself to the products 

 of every climate. Oranges may grow wild in 

 it ; myrrh may be met with in every hedge ; 

 and if he thinks it proper to have a grove of 

 spices, he can quickly command sun enough 

 to raise it. Nay, he can make several new 

 species of flowers ; with rich scents and higher 

 colors than any that grow in the gardens of 

 Nature. His concerts of birds maybe as full 

 and harmonious, and his woods as thick and 

 gloomy as he pleases. He is at no more 

 expense in a long vista than in a short one ; 

 and can as easily throw his cascades from a 

 precipice of half a mile high as from one of 

 twenty yards. He has his choice of the winds, 

 and can turn the course of his rivers, in all 

 the variety of meanders that are most de- 

 lightful to the reader's imagination. 



With such instinctive powers as these, no 

 wonder that a true poet, or a lover of Nature 

 (for they are both " one ") should be a happy 

 man. Neither can we wonder if he labor hard 

 to make others as happy as himself. Our 

 time here is very short. Why should we not, 

 whilst we live, " enjoy " that which is so 

 completely within our reach ? 



NOTES BY A NATURALIST. 



A WET DAY IN KESWICK. 



Imagine a wet day in a place of summer 

 resort ; and you have one of the most misera- 

 ble pictures which can be presented to the 

 mind of a pleasure-seeking traveller. The 

 streets are flowing with a solution of clay and 

 other solubles, and the rain is running in dirty 

 streams down the white washed faces of the inns, 

 or perchance, down the equally dirty face of the 

 stable-boy, who undoes the reeking horses 

 from some shandy-dan, whose occupants, 

 tempted by a momentary gleam of sun- 

 shine, darted off to the waterfall, and now re- 



turn with faces which ruefully express their 

 unanimous opinion that they have had enough 

 of water, for the present. 



And then, to look at the windows and no- 

 tice the phrenological and physiognomical 

 developments ! and the many expedients em- 

 ployed by the storm-staid to express, or hide 

 their disappointment ! It is enough to draw 

 pity from the bosom of a Timon ; or to make 

 a Jacques laugh. 



In a town like Keswick, situated in the 

 very midst of the country where rain seems 

 to be fostered, if not born, it is necessary to 

 have some other, and more intellectual, 

 amusement than sitting at the windows of the 

 inn, admiring the different expressions of 

 countenance exhibited in the windows oppo- 

 site ; or watching the floods of water wan- 

 dering down the two narrow streets, (I could 

 never find their names) which, after skirting 

 the Town-hall, meet and pour their waters 

 into the milky way of the main street, the 

 union forcibly reminding us of a capsized 

 capital Y. Perhaps no little town would be 

 more fortunate in wet days. We do not 

 refer to the comforts of the inns ; or the books 

 contained in them, and in the circulating 

 libraries. These we care little about, as we can 

 have them at home. What we want here is, 

 something interesting in connection with the 

 country which we are in ; and about which, 

 even the softest drawing-room tourist would 

 like to know a little. Well, there are two 

 exhibitions especially fitted for wet-day- visits, 

 though profitably visited on dry days as well 

 — and these are, the Museum and the 

 Model. 



The day being wet, we had rushed down 

 the street so far as the post-office ; and while 

 waiting at the window for our letters, we 

 were astonished by the sight of the jaws of a 

 whale acting as portals over a door to our 

 left hand. We glanced at the sign above, 

 and the mystery was at once cleared up. 

 There we saw, in gold letters — we like gold 

 letters, they always read so smooth — " Cross- 

 thwaite's Museum." This was too much to 

 be resisted ; so in we went — not, of course, 

 looking for anything like a British Museum, 

 but expecting to find a little food for reflec- 

 tion, and amusement for part of a wet day. 

 Passing some interesting Roman relics of 

 ponderous size, we ascended the stair ; and 

 were received in the first room by the fair 

 expositor. The museum, like every other, 

 consists of Antiquities, and Natural History 

 specimens. Among the former are some good 

 vases, fibulae, and other articles of vertn ; also 

 a sword, evidently of Roman make, with 

 scabbard in good preservation, found at 

 Embleton, nine miles from Keswick ; and an 

 j eagle, which seems to have formed a portion 

 ! of the decoratives of some warrior's helmet. 

 | These were among the most beautiful. One 



