turn of masculine admirers. George declares he could never own a wife who used powder; and yet Annie comes down, looking innocent in her pink bows, with a little white bloom on each temple, and a suspicious odor of Lubin's Violet floating round her. I don't think George meditates divorce on that account. There is something noble and ingenuous in the sight of an uncovered skin; but we reconcile ourselves to the pearly falsehood, accepting the situation with the false hair, not so gray as it is in front, and the, long, artificial-shaped nails, and the cramped feet. Every body knows they are inventions, and accepts them as such, like paste brilliants at a theatre.
The arts of the toilet are as old as Thebes. The painted eye of desire, the burning cheek and dyed nails, were coeval with the wisdom of Alexandria. Of old the Roman ladies used the fine dust of calcined shells and the juices of plants to restore their freshness of color. There is no end to the modern contrivances for the same purpose. Crushed ge-
