KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

69 

sensible men say that “ English women have 
no minds;’’ and they prove this assertion by 
pointing to the deformity of their persons, 
both at home andabroad. Walking or riding, 
the pieture, we confess, 7s a painful one to 
look at.* 
But we are wandering. The disfigurement 
of the human head and face are what we are 
now discussing. The remarks of a writer 
in ‘ Blackwood ” shallassist us. Heisaman 
of good taste, and speaks out quite to the 
point. ‘‘ How often,” says he, ‘‘do we see 
a good face made quite ugly by a total in- 
attention to lines! Sometimes the hair is so 
pushed into the cheeks and squared at the 
forehead, as to give a most extraordinary 
pinched shape to the face. Let the oval, we 
say, where it exists, be always preserved. 
Where it does not, let the hair be so 
humored that the deficiency shall not be 
perceived. 
‘““Nothing is more common than to see a 
’ face which is somewhat too large below, made 
to look grossly large and coarse, by contract- 
ing the hair on the forehead and cheeks, and 
there bringing it to an abrupt check! 
Whereas, such a face should enlarge the fore- 
head and the cheek; and let the hair fall 
partially over, so as to shade and soften off 
the lower exuberance. Some, too, press the 
hair down close to the face, which is to lose 
the very characteristic of hair—ease and 
freedom. Many ladies wear the hair like 
blinkers. You always. expect these non- 
descripts will shy if you approach them.” 
The foregoing remarks are perfectly just. 
Nothing charms like simplicity. We dearly 
love to see a maiden come 
Tripping lightly forth, 
With all her budding blossomings of Spring— 
Her radiant promises around her head, 
Orbing themselves into fulfilment. 
And what can be more perfectly—more 
charmingly delightful, than to behold a lady’s 
jet-black tresses dipping carelessly on her 
alabaster neck. See! 
They dip like darkness on a snow-wreath 
Resting on a mountain side, 
Which they gloom, but cannot cover— 
Which they veil, but cannot hide ; 
Dip, like brown bees on a lily, 
Which they cannot darken quite, 
But which seem for their sweet presence 
All the fairer—purer white. 
Too well do we know with what an iron grasp 
“Fashion ” fastens on the female figure (pre- 
suming on female weakness), for us to ima- 
gine that WE can cause the hydra to relin- 
quish its hold. We would “bite” if we 
* A long and particularly eloquent argument 
on this all-important subject, will be found in our 
Second Volume (p. 36). We earnestly crave a 
reference to it. 


could, but we can’t. Yet we can ‘bark;”’ 
and that may do some good. Let us hope for 
the best. Meantime, let us remind our fair 
readers, in the words of the writer in ‘‘ Black- 
wood,” that a lady’s head-dress, whether 
in a portrait or for her daily wear, should, 
as in old portraits of Rembrandt and Titian, 
go off into shade, and not be seen too 
clearly, and hard all round. It should not, 
in fact, be isolated, as if out of sympathy 
with all surrounding NATURE. 
Whilst women show such an inveterate 
enmity against Nature (let us be very 
candid), one half at least of their loveliness 
—sad thought! is kept quite out of sight. 

TRUE FRIENDSHIP, 

Tue sors of Frrenpsuip hear me sing ! 
The trust, security, and mutual tenderness, 
The double joys, when both are glad for both! 
Our only wealth, our last retreat and strength, 
Secure against all fortune, and the world. 
True Friendship I sing—not the tide of applause 
Smoothly gliding from flattery’s tongue ; 
If Truth, in description, should rise from the vase, 
Oh! guard her from censure and wrong. 
True Friendship I sing. Not the smile that endears 
While malevolence rankles at heart ; 
Nor the hand which so ready and open appears, 
Where no want is, each good to impart. 
Not the blush so enchanting on woman’s fair cheek, 
That dies in soft tinges away ; 
If, in colors like these, Envy refuge should seek, 
At Beauty’s superior display. 
Not the air consequential, that gives double weight 
To trifles too small to be told ; 
That favor confers at as frugal a rate 
As the miser that parts with his gold. 
Not Profession, for she walks the last in her train, 
When the Goddess in triumph appears ; 
Above all pretence, holding promises vain, 
Nor seducing by smiles or by tears. 
True Friendship I smg—an unbounding desire 
That glows in the liberal breast ; 
Still to raise at Sincerity’s altar a fire, 
To cherish and warm the distressed. 
While the world it enlivens, its more genial heat 
Ts confined to the happier few ; 
For the mind that exults in affections that meet 
Would for ever its purpose renew. 
Let meek-ey’d Precaution, then, slowly prefer 
When to gain so important an end: 
Since the Gods have decreed it is human to err, 
First know, and then fix on, your friend. 
Nor survey every fault with a critical eye,— 
More wisely each virtue commend. 
Let wrongs undesign’d in the memory die, 
With reluctance still part with a friend. 
Iftruly I sing, may the myrtle’s gay wreath 
With fragrance my temples embower ; 
Iffalse—let my muse in oblivion meet death, 
And her praise be the praise of an hour! 



