KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



257 



LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITERS. 



A letter from my Love ! Come let me bless 

 The paper that her hand has travell'd o'er, 

 A nd her eyes looked on. Then her inward thoughts ; 

 See ! how amid the words of love they're traced 

 Like glow-worms amid buds of flowers ! 



Bailey. 



NO WING, — VERY KNOWING 

 MUST HE HAVE BEEN, who 



first taught people to con- 

 verse through the medium 

 of hieroglyphics, — for such 

 must letters have been in 

 their early infancy. He has 

 conferred a gift on mankind 

 which they can never sufficiently estimate, 

 and for which they can never be sufficiently 

 grateful. Men, women, and children, rich 

 and poor, gentle and simple, the prince, the 

 peasant, and the beggar, — all share in the 

 benefit, more or less. 



But for the power we possess of conversing 

 with our friends at a distance, what mise- 

 rable people we should be ! Of all the most 

 innocent and exquisite pleasures of this life, 

 surely that of hearing from an absent friend 

 is the greatest. It is Heaven upon earth. 

 When we are suddenly reminded, by a letter, 

 of one who is dear to us, and see our name in 

 the well-known hand on the direction, does 

 not a flash of delight pervade the whole frame ; 

 the heart beat with expectation while the 

 seal is being broken ; and, as the sheet is 

 unfolded, go forth in full benevolence to meet 

 the heart of the writer in the perusal of its 

 contents ? Surely yes. 



How welcome is the postman's knock ! 

 How we do love that man ! How cheerfully 

 do we give him his Christmas-box ! In his 

 hands are daily, hourly placed, secrets dear 

 to us as our life. He seems to know it, as 

 he presents us with the letters, — beginning 

 " One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight 

 — and one more, Sir, — nine !" He then smiles 

 significantly, after recognising certain hand- 

 writings, and looking at certain mottoes 

 attached to certain letters in wax ; and bow- 

 ing, he gradually backs out into the street. 

 We repeat it, we love these messengers of 

 peace, whilst we deplore the miserable par- 

 simony that pays them wages insufficient to 

 keep them alive. Talk about post-office 

 robberies, — the post-office deserves to be 

 robbed ! We detest the crime, but we mar- 

 vel not at the circumstance. 



Most sweetly does Montgomery write 

 about letters, and those who indite them. 

 His remarks are not, we admit, for the many; 

 but every reader of this Journal will 

 appreciate them at their full value. 



An epistolary correspondence, he says, be- 

 tween intimate, endeared connections, is a 

 spiritual communion, in which minds alone 

 seem to mingle, and, unembarrassed by the 

 bodily presence, converse with a freedom, 



and fervor, and an eloquence rarely excited 

 and perhaps never more felicitously indulged 

 in personal intercourse. Hence the chief 

 charm of a letter, if the term may be so ap- 

 plied, is its individuality ; as a message from 

 one whom we love or esteem, according to 

 the degree of kin or congeniality between 

 us, sent expressly on an errand of kindness 

 to ourselves. The consciousness that it was 

 written to and for him, gives the receiver a 

 paramount interest in its existence, as well 

 as in its disclosures. To him, therefore, it 

 becomes an object of affection ; and none 

 but himself (however some others may sym- 

 pathise with the feelings) can enter into it 

 with the same degree of ineffable emotion: 

 that, indeed, is " a joy with which a stranger 

 intermeddleth not." 



In letter-writing, when the heart is earn- 

 estly engaged, the first thoughts in the first 

 words are usually the best ; for it is thoughts, 

 not words, that are to be communicated; 

 and meaning, not manner, which is mainly to 

 be aimed at. The ideas that rise, and 

 thicken as they rise, in a mind full and over- 

 flowing with its subject, voluntarily embody 

 themselves in language the most easy and 

 appropriate ; yet are they so delicate and 

 evanescent, that, unless caught in the first 

 forms, they soon lose their character and 

 distinctness, blend with each other, and from 

 being strikingly simple in succession, become 

 inextricably complex in association, on ac- 

 count of their multiplicity and affinity. 



The thoughts that occur in letter-writing 

 will not stay to be questioned ; they must be 

 taken at their word, or instantly dismissed. 

 They are like odors from " a bank of violets 1 ' 

 — a breath — and away. He that would revel 

 on the fragrance, by scenting it hard and 

 long, will feel that its deliciousness has eluded 

 him. He may taste it again and again, and 

 for a moment ; but he might as well attempt 

 to catch the rainbow, and hold it, as long to 

 inhale and detain the subtle and volatile 

 sweetness. He who once hesitates amidst 

 the flow of fresh feelings and their sponta- 

 neous expression, becomes, unawares, bewil- 

 dered ; and must either resolutely disengage 

 himself by darting right forward through the 

 throng of materials, to recover the freedom 

 of his pen, or he must patiently select, 

 arrange, and array them, as in a premeditated 

 exercise of his mind on a given theme. 



The great beauty of letter-writing, either 

 with man or woman, consists in the freshness 

 with which ideas flow from the heart. But 

 to enjoy this, two minds must be united in 

 one. There must be one heart, one community 

 of feeling. Tastes must be similar, thoughts 

 similar. In no other way can sympathy 

 exist. 



We have had, during the conduct of this 

 Journal, some very remarkable opportunities 



Vol. III.— 17. 



