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KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

DEAR DERBYSHIRE DALES! 
BY ELIZA COOK. 

I steu for the land where the orange-tree flingeth 
Its prodigal bloom on the myrtle below ; 
Where the moonlight is warm, and the gondolier 
singeth, 
And clear waters take up the strain as they go. 
Oh! fond is the longing, and rapt is the vision 
That stirs up my soul over Italy’s tales ; 
But the present was bright as the far-off Elysian, 
When I roved in the sun-flood through Derby- 
shire Dales. 
There was joy for my eye, there was balm for my | 
breathing ; 
Green branches above me—blue streams at my 
side : 
The hand of Creation seemed proudly bequeathing 
The beauty reserved for a festival tide. 
I was bound, like a child, by some magical story, 
Forgetting the ‘‘ South” and “ Ionian Vales; ” 
And felt that dear England had temples of glory, 
Where any might worship, in Derbyshire Dales. 
Sweet pass of the “‘ Dove” ’mid rock, river, and 
dingle, 
How great is thy charm for the wanderer’s 
breast ! 
With thy moss-girdled towers and foam-jewelled 
shingle, 
Thy mountains of might and thy valleys of rest. 
I gazed on thy wonders—lone, silent, adoring, 
I bent at the altar whose “ fire never pales: ” 
The Great Father was with me—Devotion was 
pouring 
Its holiest praises in Derbyshire Dales. 
Wild glen of dark “ Taddington”—rich in thy 
robing 
Of forest-green cloak, with grey lacing bedight ; 
How I lingered to watch the red Western rays 
probing 
Thy leaf-mantled bosom with lances of light ! 
And ‘‘ Monsal,” thou mine of Arcadian treasure, 
Need we seek for ‘‘Greek Islands” and _ spice- 
laden gales, 
While a Tempe like thee of enchantment and 
pleasure 
May be found in our own native Derbyshire 
Dales? 
There is much in my past bearing way-marks of 
flowers, 
The purest and rarest in odor and bloom ; 
There are beings and breathings, and places and 
hours, 
Still trailing in roses o’er Memory’s tomb. 
And when I shall count o’er the bliss that’s de- 
arted, 
And Old Age be telling its garrulous tales, 
Those days will be first when the kind and true- 
hearted 
WERE NURSING MY SPIKIT IN 
Dates. 
DERBYSHIRE 

ANOTHER NEW FASHION! 
THE MAN-MONKREY. 

FASHION’S the word which knaves and roots do use, 
Their FILTHINEss and folly to excuse. 
CHURCHILL. 

MY DEAR S1r,—You and I have lots of 
hard work to perform. All up-hill, eh? 
Never mind. We are a mighty host in 
ourselves. We will hold the glass up—wuntdl 
people do look in it. 
A new game is “up.” Now strenuous 
efforts are being put forth, to convert men 
who already closely resemble monkeys, into 
the actual monkey itself.* Some wiseacre, 
an outcast we imagine from female society, 
has discovered that the filthy appendage 
of hair, in the form of lots of beard and 
moustache (a foreign fashion ‘‘ of course”), 
is not only ornamental to a man’s face, but 
a preservative of health! The subjoined 
abridged extract is going the rounds of the 
papers ; and it is treated, not as a joke, but 
as a fact. Listen, loveliest of your sex, 
what is preparing for you to be “fond of.” 
Where will you ever find room to impress 
the “tribute of affection,” if this Esau-rian 
project be carried out? Why, it will take a 
little month to discover the smallest spot 
on the human frontispiece that is clear of 
weeds !— 
A fine flowing beard, bushy whiskers, and a 
well-trained moustache protect the opening of the 
mouth, and filter the air. They also act asa 
respirator, and prevent the inhalation into 
the lungs of air that is too frosty. In the 
case of blacksmiths who wear beards and 
moustaches, the hair about the mouth is dis- 
colored by the iron dust caught on its way into 
the mouth and lungs. Travellers often wait until 
their moustaches have grown, before they brave 
the sandy air of deserts. 
Men who retain the hair about the mouth, are 
less liable to decay or achings of the teeth. Both 
dust and smoke get into the lungs, and only in a 
small degree is it possible for them to be decom- 
posed and removed by processes of life. The air- 
* When in London, I occasionally meet a most 
singular specimen of the genus homo, who culti- 
vates the moustache and whiskers. He moves in 
high society; is only recently out of his teens, 
and exhales the odor of a civet cat. When he 
salutes any of his family or relatives, he 
approaches their face on tip-toe, and deposits 
the “salute” with a degree of careful foresight 
perfectly astounding. If but one single hair 
were deranged by the operation, he would be 
cross all that day. When he is “ prepared” for 
going out to dinner, catch him “ saluting” if 
youcan! His face is then sacred —unapproach- 
able. A curious specimen of humanity is this 
budding youth—well educated indeed, and of a 
good family, but so steeped in vanity, and so 
shackled by fashion’s trammels, that one must 
pity him.—W. 

