KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



121 



that it was good." The golden grain, on 

 every side, waved its graceful head by way 

 of obeisance. 



We will not attempt to pursue here the 

 long train of pleasing thoughts that passed 

 rapidly through our brain ; suffice it to say, 

 that we would have gladly relinquished the 

 whole world, had it been ours, for another 

 such treat. It is at such seasons as these, 

 that we get a true insight into the " grand 

 end of life." Need we say how despicable, 

 at such seasons, appear the avocations which 

 we all so busily pursue from day to day 

 in this modern Babylon ! Glad are we that 

 our heart revolts against them. As units, 

 however, of society, called upon to play a 

 minor part in some grand design of Nature, 

 we bow our head to philosophical necessity, 

 and bide the issue of what is now wisely 

 hidden from our ken. Rural enjoyments 

 are open to us ; we have a heart to appre- 

 ciate them ; and many other loving hearts 

 are ever ready to share with us what we so 

 much prize. Let us be thankful for this : 

 we are — devoutly thankful. 



We feel, sometimes, inclined to pick a 

 serious quarrel with those who would have 

 us all wear " long faces." Long faces ! No, 

 no ! Let our faces be " short and crisp" — 

 radiated by love to our Maker, love to each 

 other and for each other. Let us be full of 

 brotherly and sisterly kindness — and then 

 see " how the world will wag with us : " 



The world is not a hermit's cell. E'en by 

 The bare rock, where th' Ascetic seeks repose, 

 From what he calls life's conflict and vain 



throes, 

 By vanity supplanting vanity. 

 The flower cheers his sense and charms his eye ; 

 Seeming, with silent comment, to expose 

 His joyless creed, and teach him, as it grows 

 In loveliness, the mild theology 

 Of Nature ! Were this Earth a wilderness, 

 Then haply we in such a creed might trace 

 A fitness ; but its wealth and loveliness 

 Are such, that she doth Solitude displace 

 With songs of joyance, and with flowers dress 

 The waste, that Man may smile, and love 



her face. 



The world, as it is now constituted, is full 

 of petty jealousies. " Envy, hatred, malice, 

 and all un charitableness," we pray to be de- 

 livered from ; yet do we cultivate them in 

 the hot-houses of our hearts ! No wonder 

 then that the world is so divided, subdi- 

 vided, rent, torn, and agitated. It ever has 

 been so ; it ever will be so. But give us 

 the " honorable few" whose hearts are made 

 of better stuff. Kindred spirits are to be 

 found. We have found some; we are 

 greedily seeking for more. 



We did intend to have offered a few ob- 

 servations on the operations of harvest ; but 

 as we write currente calamo, and let the 



freshness of our thoughts distil upon the 

 paper as they arise, perhaps it will be better 

 to leave all these delights to our readers' 

 vivid imagination. The joys of harvest are 

 inappreciable. Certainly indescribable. They 

 induce a train of reflections both pleasing 

 and profitable. 



We must not take our leave, before di- 

 recting especial attention to the genial in- 

 fluences that prevail during this month of 

 August. When the sun has sunk to his rest, 

 there are sights, sounds, and associations 

 connected with an August evening in the 

 country — perfectly delightful. At such a 

 time, the occupations and pleasures of the 

 day are over. Now are all, even the busiest, 

 fain to give way to that " wise passiveness," 

 one hour of which is rife with more real en- 

 joyment than a whole season of revelry. 

 Who is there amongst us, that cannot call 

 to mind many pleasing recollections when 

 wandering abroad, — his eye firmly fixed upon 

 the evening star ! Hark how our sweet poet, 

 Clare, assists the memory : — 



How blest I've felt on summer eves, 



When resting on a stile, 

 Half hid in hazel's moistening leaves, 



So weary after toil ! 



And gazing on the Evening Star, 



That shed its ruddy light 

 Like joys, which something came to mar, 



Retreating out of sight. 



O'er the wood- corner's sombre brown, 



That lamp of dewy eve, 

 No sooner up than sloping down, 



Seemed always taking leave. 



Yes, 'tis a lovely sight to see, 



And beautiful the time 

 It shines in heaven's canopy 



At evening's gentle prime ! 



Akin to images and things 



That glad the quiet mind, 

 A calmness o'er the heart it flings, 



That poets love to find. 



It shines o'er sheep within the fold, 



O'er shepherds whistling home ; 

 The plough lies in the fallow mould, 



The horse is free to roam. 



'Tis welcome to the weary breast, 



It sweetens life's employ, 

 It sees the laborer to his rest, 



The lover to his joy. 



The wanderer seeks his easy chair, 



The light is in his cot, 

 His Evening Star is shining there, 



And troubles are forgot. 



It looks on many a happy place, 



Where lovers steal to meet; 

 It gilds the milkmaid's ruddy face, 



While on her rustic seat. 



Upon the old tree in the glen, 



That by the hovel lay, 

 The shepherd there had set his pen, 



And whistled on his way. 



