before.

Seated, a few days since, in a snug corner of a well-frequented hotel, a name not altogether 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, however, 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 dissentient never read .6 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 Parliament, reported in the newspapers. All the rest was EXCELLENT."-OUR JOURNAL compared 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-andtwenty 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

VOL. III.-13.

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 returning thanks for it; poetry in receiving, feeling, and acknowledging those thanks. This refined feeling renders life a garden of flowers,and creates a 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 ingenuous 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. "on." The sun,

These rambles are now 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 interchange 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 poetry, alas! of spring and summer vanish, and we descend to the regions of cold, icy prose! 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 of

every-day life. It may not be amiss, before closing this article, to give ADDISON's beautiful 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, says 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 amaranths. His soil is not restrained to any particular set of plants; but is proper either for oaks or myrtles, and adapts 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 may be 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 miserable 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 whitewashed 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 sunshine, 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 notice the phrenological and physiognomical developments! and the many expedients employed 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 opposite; or watching the floods of water wandering 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.

and the mystery was at once cleared up; We glanced at the sign above, There we saw, in gold letters-we like gold letters, they always read so smooth-" Crossthwaite'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 reflection, 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, fibulæ, and other articles of vèrtu; also a sword, evidently of Roman make, with scabbard in good preservation, found at Embleton, nine miles from Keswick; and an eagle, which seems to have formed a portion of the decoratives of some warrior's helmet. These were among the most beautiful. One

vided with brains. An easy and nearly borizontal position is the best for the moment of immersion.

swollen from a violent tooth-ache.

The same

effects were produced in a case of head-ache, which had continued for ten days, with excruciating torture, and was nearly subdued by the first immer sion, and wholly in a very short time. In short, I have scarcely a doubt that when evil has resulted from bathing, it has been from the injudicious manner in which it has been used.

In regard to the best time for bathing, it is when the natural indication is the strongest, and this, generally speaking, will be after considerable exercise (but short of producing sensible perspiration or fatigue). The body is then in that adust state which renders bathing so highly luxurious; and a vigorous circulation will ensure the full effect of reaction. Nothing then can be more operative of ill, or at least of diminished good, than lingering on the margin of the flood till the stagnating fluids refuse to obey even the spur of immersion. Hunger is the first sensation in a healthy body on rising from the repose of the night; and as digestion takes place in the most perfect manner during sleep, and many hours have passed without supply, the stomach should then be recruited. This, therefore, is not the most proper time for bathing. I consider the best time, generally, to be between breakfast and dinner; but every one will be able to determine this point, who is capable of a small degree of reflection, and will give it as much consideration as he often bestows on matters of less importance. Perhaps, where there is great rigidity of fibre, the morning may not be objectionable, and the warm bath may be a good preparative.

I cannot too often repeat, that every subsequent dip lessens the effect of the first immersion; and that the bath should be used once, and once only, every day; and were it so used every day in the year, it would ensure a life of health, barring the effects of intemperance, and all other ill habits; though even these enemies to health and life will labor against such an antagonist. I cannot here help smiling at the idea, that three or four dips, twice or thrice a week, are better than one every day. I really should be provoked to call this notion absolutely idiotic, had I not met with persons of good sense who had fallen into this egregious error; and I knew a lady who actually took ten dips on the last day of her stay at a watering-place, and would have gloried in her economical exploit, had not the chattering of her teeth, instead of her tongue, prevented her recounting it to her friends for at least ten

hours after.

A part of my subject now presents itself, upon which I can never sufficiently expatiate while any thing remains unsaid which may tend to enforce its interest; I mean, the bathing of children. The little innocents are entirely at the mercy of those into whose hands they may happen to fall; and the brutal or senseless indifference to their feelings, their fears, their almost convulsive apprehensions, is sometimes productive of the most afflicting consequences, and too often prevents any beneficial effect from bathing.

and that with the greatest care, that the immersion Children should never be dipped more than once; may be deep, but quickly done. The practice of dipping them three times (Folly's magic number), and generally without allowing them sufficient time to recover their breath, is so preposterously absurd, so evidently injurious, that one would almost wonder it could ever obtain. The child is made to look with increased dread to the hour of bathing, through the pain it has experienced from the distress which the lungs have undergone; by which the chance of benefit is reduced to almost nothing. Let parents, then, and all who have the care of children, weigh well these suggestions, and rescue the little sufferers from the hands of ignorance and inattention; that they may partake of the benefit of this invaluable remedy, preservative as well as curative. When a child knows that it is only to be dipped once, it will soon be reconciled; for it will be put to no pain; on the contrary, the sensation will be highly agreeable.

The proper depth for bathing is about four feet and a half; a less depth were disadvantageous, and a greater would be too deep for general use. Persons attending bathing-machines should be very attentive to this circumstance, as it will greatly contribute to the satisfaction as well as benefit of the bathers, who are seldom aware of its importance.

Volumes of cases might be adduced, incontest

ably proving the efficiency of the bath, and showing the absurdity of those apprehensions which cation in particular complaints. There is much some people have entertained respecting its applimore danger of deranging the frame, and occasioning local injury, by medicines uncongenial with the natural economy, and powerful in their sensible or less perceptible ravages, than can possibly be experienced in any case from judicious bathing.

In a word, when the bath is used with due consideration and judgment, its advantages are certain and universal.