lor 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



As regards ourself, we very strongly object 

 to all tliese u ready cut and dried " effusions. 

 They are tasteless — spiritless — meaningless. 

 They have no point. They will do for one ; 

 they will do for all. Over-grown Cupids 

 rolling over clouds, their cheeks bedaubed 

 with vennillion— ugly little hump-backed 

 churches, botched with imitation-ivy (where 

 no sane mortal could ever think of getting 

 married ; and top-heavy chariots shining in 

 ochre — such attempts at heart-stealing as 

 these, delight us not. Nor have we ever been 

 seriously smitten by those hosts of little nude 

 Cupids, who so mysteriously creep out of full- 

 blown cabbage-roses, making the best of their 

 way to large over-grown hearts, stuffed with 

 double-headed arrows — these said hearts 

 uttering dolorous complaints in so called 

 verse, whilst frying in their own flames. 

 These never took our fancy. 



"We believe we were the first to originate 

 the idea, of sending the girl of our heart an 

 emblematical device on pasteboard of a 

 closed cabinet, with a latch attached. On 

 lifting this, the doors flew open ; and an ele- 

 gant silvered mirror, concealed by a veil of 

 silver gauze, was seen suspended in the front. 

 Beneath it was written : — 



Remove this veil with care, and see 

 The only girl who's dear to me ; 

 If she will let me call her " mine," 

 I'll seek >o other Valentine. 



This, though a boyish effusion, was. we 

 remember, a dead shot. The idea was a 

 pretty one ; we were suspected, accepted, 

 beloved, and caressed (of course). 



Hurdis says, writing of this memorable 

 day : — 



This day doth herald in St. Valentine ! 

 Now maids are brisk,. and at the break of day 

 Start up and turn their pillows, curious all 

 To know what happy swain the fates provide 

 A mate for life. Then follows thick discharge 

 Of true-love knots, and sonnets nicely penned ; 

 But to the learned critic's eye no verse, 

 But prose distracted. 



We have not made much progress since 

 the days of Hurdis. If ladies 1 hearts fall 

 before the poetry of modern Valentines, they 

 must, we think, be indeed made of " melting 

 stuff!" 



It is said that the sweet air of " Rousseau's 

 Dream " was first imported into this country 

 some fifty years ago ; and that the first Eng- 

 lish words ever written to it were in the 

 form of a serenade from a lover to his be- 

 trothed, on the morning of St. Valentine's 

 Day. We have a copy of the lines in our 

 possession, and we subjoin them : — 



Health to thee, mine own sweet lady ! 



Health and blessing, first and last ! 

 Now may Heaven, all bounteous, aid me 



Round thy path new spells to cast. 



Blessed be thine early morning! 



Blessed be thine evening close I 

 Blessed thy going and returning, 



Summer hours and winter snows ! 



Not to thee, all undeceiving, 



Pure of spirit, frank of heart, 

 Shall the Muse, her fictions weaving, 



Act the faithless flatterer's part. 

 "V\ in and wear thy prize, fair lady ! 



Faith as true, as pure as thine, 

 Love and service ever ready, 



From thy well-known Valentine. 



We must confess that, as we grow older, 

 we cling more to the poetry of love than to 

 the rattling jingle of School-boy sonnets. 

 Love is an expansive element — not a mere 

 simpering look of yes or no. It is a deep 

 stream, into which the lower you plunge the 

 sweeter the feeling. We could write on this 

 subject for ever ; but we forget that this is a 

 mere piece de cir Constance. Let us conclude, 

 therefore, with the ''Valentine Wreath,'' by 

 Montgomery. It is a gem worth " setting" 

 in Ouu own Journal : — 



Rosy red the hills appear 



With the light of morning ; 

 Beauteous clouds in aether clear, 



All the East adorning. 

 White through mist the meadows 6hine, 

 Wake, my love — my Valentine ! 



For thy locks of raven hue, 



Flowers of hoar-frost pearly, 

 Crocus-cups of gold and blue, 



Snow-drops drooping early, 

 With Mezereon sprigs combine : 

 Rise, my love — my Valentine ! 



O'er the margin of the flood, 



Pluck the daisy peeping ; 

 Through the covert of the wood, 



Hunt the sorrel creeping. 

 With the little celandine, 

 Crown my love — nry Valentine ! 



Pansies, on their lowly stems, 



Scattered o'er the fallows ; 

 Hazel-buds with crimson gems, 



Green and glossy sallows ; 

 Tufted moss and ivy-twine, 

 Deck my love — my Valentine ! 



Few and simple flow'rets these ; 



Yet to me less glorious 

 Garden beds and orchard trees ! 



Since this wreath victorious 

 Binds thee now for ever mine, 

 Oh ! my love — my Valentine ! 



One parting remark about Valentine, who 

 to-day woos the fair. Ladies! one little 

 word in your ear, if you please : — 



Let virtue, honor, sense, and truth unite, 

 Whate'er the fortune, Valentine is right. 

 Absent these qualities (thus ends our song), 

 Whate'er the fortune, Valentine is wrong. 



