
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

275 

If people were to argue with us till dooms- 
day,we would never admit or believe that ANY | 
woman habited as our English women now | 
are, could be “modest.” Their seutiments 
are unmistakeably indexed by their faces. | 
Once, we remember—happy days those | 
things were very different. Modesty, inno- | 
cence, moral worth, and purity, were recog- | 
nised as social “virtues.” Now they have | 
become crimes. Alas! what have not our | 
fathers, mothers, and brothers to answer for! 
They see it all, and yet go with the stream.* | 
As for the men—resolved not to be out- | 
done by the women, they too have undergone | 
a metamorphosis. It is true they have not | 
plastered their hair all over their foreheads 
and cheeks. This, they feared, would be a 
trifle too feminine. But they have discarded 
the razor from chin and lip; and they are 
now fast becoming “ perfect pictures” of 
baboons. 
To call our men “beasts,” would be no 
libel on humanity. They are so very closely 
assimilated to the monkey, that, very soon 
we expect to see some of them “ caged up ” 
by mistake.t All glory be to the great 
master—Punch, for having so completely 
shown the filthy fellows up. If they cannot 
take the hint, at all events they are legiti- 
mate objects for scorn and derision. Their 
names are legion. 
Our correspondent “ WALTER” has earned 
himself an undying reputation for the noble 
stand he has made against this national 
abomination. We will aid him and our other 
allies to the utmost, in putting down such 
diabolical attempts to efface all traces of 
humanity. 



* We cannot help cleaving to the “old school” | 
in the matter of sterling worth. We are far from 
being an enemy to progress—quite the reverse ; 
but let us go on safely and surely. We love the 
sentiment of the old poet :— | 
Woman. is loveliest when retired ; 
When least obtrusive, most admired— 
Wowes from Mey protection find, 
Anp MEN py WoMEN ARE REFINED. 
This is what it ought to be, now more than ever; 
but is itso? No; but exactly the opposite. The 
“refinement ” of our modern women may be 
judged of, as Punch remarks, by their dress— 
they are “ made up ” of outsides. . 
7 “A recommendation ” having been made to 
the guards, firemen, &c., of the Scottish Central 
Railway, to allow Nature to have her own way. 
with chin and upper lip, they have discarded their 
razors; and they have recommended it to the 
general adoption of their brethren in similar ser- 
vice throughout the kingdom !—Liverpool Albion. 
The appearance presented by these savages is 
said to be truly di ing—so much so, that | 
passengers are reluctant to speak to them, or ask 
them questions. And yet our nobility and gentry 
are “ following suit !”—Ep. K. J. 


THE VILLAGE LOVERS. | 
“SUCH I8 LIFE!% i} 

I watch their mien of trembling joy, 
Their glance, with timid secrets laden; 
He is a rosy village boy, 
And she a graceful village maiden. 
His proud look hints, her blushes tell, 
What bliss begins when school-time closes ; 
He shielded her when snowflakes fell, 
And now ‘tis almost time for roses. 
Have lips yet given voice to heart? 
I know not—but each day shows clearer 
How conscious blushes draw apart 
The steps resistless Love draws nearer. 
Their world is changed ; historic names 
For her are shrunk to merest zero ; 
And poet-loves and novel fames 
Are poor beside the livmg hero. 
For him—all sweets of earth and air, 
The softest breath of soft May morning, 
Too coarse, too harsh, too common are 
To match that girlish beauty’s dawning. 
The walk upon enchanted ground ; 
The school, the streets, are lands elysian ; 
A song of spheres is every sound ; 
Each glance a beatific vision. 
O Teacher, sage! in vain you pore 
O’er black boards wide, with science laden ; 
The blindfold boy lends deeper lore 
To village youth and village maiden. 
O Time! secure these children’s dreams 
From ills that darken and destroy us; 
And make life all that now it seems, 
As full, as fresh, as pure, as joyous. 
I 
How soft the May-time hours sieal on; 
The merry school girls laugh and call ; 
Sweet sing the birds ; elm-blossoms fall ; 
The violets come ; but he is gone! 
Those steps that each to each did cling, 
‘Are parted by a wider space ; 
And long from thai slight girlish face; 
Has autumn dried the tears of Spring. 
How calmly flows the tide of time 
O’er all the wealth of smiles and dreams, 
And its forgotten beauty seems 
To live but in my careless rhyme. 
Yet not in grief the end is told, 
Death closed the iale and left it pure, 
With no dark chances to endure 
Of withered joys or love grown cold. 
Who knows what gathering dangers died 
When those clear eyes were closed to earth ; 
And what new dreams and deeds had birth 
When the new mysiery opened wide? 
And in her heart may yet be room 
Where one dim memory has remained, 
The thought of one brief love unstained, 
To tinge an aimless life with bloom. 
O Time! thon followest close upon 
The prayers of our presumptuous hours; 
"Tis well thou gatherest in thy flowers 
Ere the frail bloom grows sick and wan! 
From “ Putnam's Monthly Magazine.” 


