On the sandy shore, opposite the Glass-house village in Chelmsford, at the Great Bend where we landed to rest us and gather a few wild plums, we discovered the Campanula rotundifolia, a new flower to us, the harebell of the poets, which is common to both hemispheres, growing close to the water.  Here, in the shady branches of an apple-tree on the sand, we took our nooning, where there was not a zephyr to disturb the repose of this glorious Sabbath day, and we reflected serenely on the long past and successful labors of Latona.

     “So silent is the cessile air,
        That every cry and call,
     The hills, and dales, and forest fair
        Again repeats them all.

     “The herds beneath some leafy trees,
        Amidst the flowers they lie,
     The stable ships upon the seas
        Tend up their sails to dry.”

As we thus rested in the shade, or rowed leisurely along, we had recourse, from time to time, to the Gazetteer, which was our Navigator, and from its bald natural facts extracted the pleasure of poetry.  Beaver River comes in a little lower down, draining the meadows of Pelham, Windham, and Londonderry.  The Scotch-Irish settlers of the latter town, according to this authority, were the first to introduce the potato into New England, as well as the manufacture of linen cloth.

Everything that is printed and bound in a book contains some echo at least of the best that is in literature.  Indeed, the best books have a use, like sticks and stones, which is above or beside their design, not anticipated in the preface, nor concluded in the appendix.  Even Virgil’s poetry serves a very different use to me to-day from what it did to his contemporaries.  It has often an acquired and accidental value merely, proving that man is still man in the world.  It is pleasant to meet with such still lines as,

    “Jam laeto turgent in palmite gemmae”;
     Now the buds swell on the joyful stem.

    “Strata jacent passim sua quaeque sub arbore poma”;
     The apples lie scattered everywhere, each under its tree.

In an ancient and dead language, any recognition of living nature attracts us.  These are such sentences as were written while grass grew and water ran.  It is no small recommendation when a book will stand the test of mere unobstructed sunshine and daylight.

What would we not give for some great poem to read now, which would be in harmony with the scenery,—­for if men read aright, methinks they would never read anything but poems.  No history nor philosophy can supply their place.

The wisest definition of poetry the poet will instantly prove false by setting aside its requisitions.  We can, therefore, publish only our advertisement of it.

There is no doubt that the loftiest written wisdom is either rhymed, or in some way musically measured,—­is, in form as well as substance, poetry; and a volume which should contain the condensed wisdom of mankind need not have one rhythmless line.