exquisite adaptation of form and propriety of contrast - above all, the suitableness of the color and costume to the peculiar style of personal adornment- never think again of their dress except as a common accessory to their general appearance, which, being persons of intelligence and refinement generally, they are too highly bred to allow a spectator to perceive occupies them unduly. Supposed to be wealthy, they are all the more assiduous, when not so in reality, to suppress all those little demonstrations that might give rise to the suspicion of an excess of personal vanity, or the presumption that the coarser and more material features of existence occupy the greater part of their time or concern. And nothing is more grateful to the feelings, nor more delightful to the eye, even to a woman and how much more must it be to a man! than to witness, upon many of those little, and sometimes annoying and irremediable misfortunes to the toilette of a lady that are so frequent upon the street or in the crowded "party-room what is more admirable and soothing than to notice the gracious bend, the charming deprecatory shake of the gracefully set head, protesting against your self-reproach and excuses -the brilliant bit of jest, if proximity permit, in the sweet and gentle smile that assures you, better than words, that "it is not of the least consequence, and can be easily remedied!" I can fancy such a woman exciting a tender reverence, and being the one any man would feel delighted to honor” or a woman either.

Yes; I am much inclined to say, with the vast majority, such important and ferocious personages as Dr. Johnson, Dean Swift, Christina of Sweden, and Lady Mary Wortley, notwithstanding - "Vive la mode!" but I might add, with double enthusiasm, "Vive le bon gout!" The world would, indeed, be an ugly place, if all the women wore tumbled or limp skirts, soiled collars pinned awry, shoes unlaced, and fingers stained with ink; for, in this age of educational advancement, two-thirds at least of our charming, clever women may very justly lay claim to "blue-stockingism," or the more attractive title of littérateur. Or it would be a very monotonous world if every face, oval, or round, or long-if all brows, high or low, prominent or receding, square or round, massive or delicate· were adorned with hair worn in long, rich ringlets, like Madame Roland, or short, charming frieze, like pretty Nell Gwynn, or à l'Impératrice or à la Grec very carelessly done too; the end trailing behind, no matter whether the neck upon which it rests be wrinkled and yellow and freckled, or whether it be à la Eugenie or à Marie Antoinette, the loveliest necks ever possessed by mortal woman, except, perhaps, poor Anne Boleyn the two last food for the axe! Alas! what may yet be the fate of the third?

There is one singular fact, however, with regard to careless women, which, being paradoxical, will have its objectors, I know, but which long experience and close observation has taught me is correct beyond a doubt, or with few exceptions. It is this: that many of those women who are the most seemingly indifferent to personal appearance, are the very ones whom

attention to the rules and taste in the arrangement of costume would vastly improve, and who, after all, are the most inordinately vain of all

women!

I have said above, the order of slovenly "blue stockings" had become almost extinct. There is, however, a remnant of the school who act upon a new principle. I suppose it used to be that carelessness saved time, and dirt, trouble. Ablution has certainly become a universal and imperative necessity of the age. But carelessness is now viewed from a new stand-point by the disciples of the reformed school. They have taken their cue from such poetical licenses as 66 Beauty unadorned is adorned the most!" “Sweet simplicity ! ” "Charming negligence!" "Delightful indifference to personal appearance!" Entrancing abandon!" and the like hackneyed hyperboles.

And the phrases are well enough after all, time, place, and circumstances corresponding or considered. The careless simplicity even the extreme approach to negligence and abandon, or recklessness, and rebellion against all accepted rules of propriety in costume, pose, and style that certainly became the "fairest Adelaide” - gave a bewitching air of espièglerie to that loveliest hoyden, Laura or that enhanced the divine grace of the proud, silent, beautiful Myra heightened the dazzling attractions of the brilliant and haughty Semiramis, or the daring, passionate, bewilderingly entrancing Cleopatra, are all well enough. These trespassers may carry it off grandly triumphant in the very face of rules of art or propriety, but woe to the miserable, mistaken mediocrity, personal or mental, that ventures to follow where these daring, self-confident guerillas and pioneers undertake to lead !

It is a pity their imitators could not "see themselves," etc., etc. And yet, there are moments when verily, in spite of their intense silliness, I could not help but pity their discomfiture and crushing disappointment.

I once knew a beauty who used to take half an hour extra at her toilette to arrange a curl upon her forehead so as to give it the appearance of accident. Chance did first reveal to her keen, artistic perceptions that it enhanced her charms. Her lover admired it, too; and she availed herself of the hint. She was much complimented upon the "sweet" pet straggler, and it received all sorts of caresses and encouragements from every slender hand that dared the familiar approach to that queenly brow; and when, with an enchanting little moue of impatience, and a still more enchanting blush and smile, accompanying an espiègle glance at me, who was in the secret, she would attempt to push back the intruding lock, she was immediately besieged with intercessions to permit the pretty trespasser to remain.

It came about, then, that shortly after that, when spending some weeks at a gay country-place, I chanced to be cognizant — unwillingly — of an attempt to imitate this illustrious "renegade curl," on the part of one of these indifferents — these lovers of "interesting simplicity," who “did n't care the least in the world how they looked!" and whose broad, majestic brow and quiet face, that was almost plain in its grave repose, and which did look far

more interesting, and decidedly more soft and feminine, crowned by her smooth, glossy wealth of braids, than in artificially tumbled locks.

It followed naturally enough, then, that the poor thing was most desperately, but unconsciously teased by her artless companions' constant attempts to force the deserter back to his proper quarters, and fasten it all the more securely for fear of new attempts at insubordination, for "Hermine looks hideous with that strand always in her eyes. How on earth came your hair so uneven, Hermine?" "To make that set for your sister Claudia?" "But you should have taken it from the back hair, dear!" They were also lavish in their condolences concerning the "stiff" quality of the little "twist," or, as the more irreverent termed it, "pig-tail," and positive in their assurances that it would become pliable as soon as it "grew out" again. I pitied the poor girl's flushes of impatience and pallors of suppressed anger, annoyance, and disappointment, though sometimes the by-play was comic enough. But the innocent gravity of my face then and there was a chef-d'œuvre of selfrestraint a fitting and commendable holocaust to - charity!

TROUBLES OF A "POETICAL WOMAN."

I have a great passion for looking at the stars at night, in consequence of which, I found it absolutely necessary to learn by heart the following exquisite lines:

"Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven,

If in your bright leaves we could read the fate
Of men and empires, 't is to be forgiven

If, in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with ye; for ye are

A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such longings from afar,

That fortune, fame, power, life have named themselves a star."

Yet this penchant for star-gazing and apostrophizing entails ennuis and mortifications extreme. It so happens, sometimes, that one finds one's self in one of those assemblages of houses called a town, not so extensive as to prevent nearly all the inhabitants from knowing you almost personally, and your affairs quite intimately; at the same time, you may find therein some of those very agreeable streets in which your opposite neighbor can easily distinguish the color of your eyes.

In such a situation, you find yourself a prey to this celestial emotion-you abandon yourself to it; and if, by chance, one of the neighbors opposite, more nocturnal than the rest, happens to see you at the window at midnight

star-gazing, tranquilly, perchance mournfully, she rises a full hour earlier next morning, hurries through her domestic duties, takes her embroidery, and goes round to tell all the other neighbors the extraordinary occurrence; whereupon they make their comments and form their conclusions that "no doubt you are a little unsettled in your mind—you never did behave like other people;" "perhaps a love-disappointment; " or perhaps it's "them queer books your 'pa' allows you to read — works on astrology — which have turned your young head, poor thing!”

Now, it happens that, despite your poetical temperament, you like a little gossip occasionally, as well as any one; and toward evening, fatigued with the day's occupations, whatever they may be, you throw on your bonnet, and go out to make a few social visits to the old ladies around, with whom you fancy you are a favorite. In the street, to your extreme annoyance and surprise, you find yourself more than usually an object of attention and interest. The little children, who listen to everything and do not entirely comprehend anything, on seeing you, collect in a group on the walk, and regard you with innocent, wide-open eyes of fear, as if they imagined you a Sorceress. You approach them, smiling as usual, and say "good evening in your way, which children like generally; but, instead of replying, they dash off at full speed, and tumble headlong one over the other, into the first open door which appears, in a tumultuous terror which resembles the whirring of a flock of partridges which one surprises sometimes under a bush in the woods. This circumstance shocks and bewilders you inexpressibly at first, but the air and exercise somewhat dissipate your painful emotions; you regain your good-humor, and enter gayly the house of Mrs. Strange! You find her cold also constrained in her manners, usually so free and gossipy. After the ordinary compliments of the day, she asks you: "When is the next comet expected? Is there any talk of an approaching astronomical phenomenon? Are the Millerites again creating an excitement?" As you know absolutely nothing of astronomy, not even to tell Jupiter from Venus, except by the beatings of your heart — and as you do not take the least interest in the scientific journals of the day which cumber papa's table, except to wish them to the mischief when a whole pile of the “horrid things" hide away such journals as you wish to read —you are overwhelmed with mortification at your ignorance, and endeavor to excuse yourself. But you find yourself arrested in your first sentence by a dolorous shake of the head, and a look, which says as plain as a look can say, “Ah, poor child, don't deny it—it's useless; I know, alas, I know!"

As you are not a philosopher, you begin to lose your patience, and you ask her, with the least touch of asperity in your manner:

"What do you mean?"

But in spite of your persistence you can get nothing from her but sighs of commiseration and ominously wise shakes of her head. You bid "good evering" brusquely, and resolve to go home. In the street, however, you

stand undecided. You had counted on making three visits - you have little philosophy in your composition, but great force of will. Notwithstanding that you are almost crying from vexation, you turn with an air of determination toward Mrs. -'s, instead of home. There, your agitation is in no wise soothed, for almost the first thing she remarks, is, "How badly you are looking! are you sure you are quite well? -- if you are not troubled with extreme nervousness and sleeplessness?" and insists on putting into your reticule a recipe for a very calming tea, and a parcel of dried rose-leaves and violets. As before leaving home you remarked, with a slight blush of satisfaction, whilst tying on your bonnet, that you were looking fresher than ordinary, you gaze at her in perfect bewilderment; then, as all the incidents of the past hour rush to mind, they begin to wear a ridiculous aspect, and, in spite of your indignation at so much undesired and needless sympathy, you burst out laughing.

This gayety, mal-à-propos, makes matters worse. You receive another glance of intense commiseration, and a sigh so profound that you shudder in spite of yourself. It is clear you don't stay "to tea." As you turn homeward, your step is unequal, your gait irregular now slow, now rapid; sometimes you stop altogether, as you ask yourself, in trouble and amaze, “But what in the world can all this mean?"

You reach home in a horrible humor, go straight to your room and look at yourself in the glass. Decidedly you are pale and looking ill. So, the consequence of this agreeable promenade is that you have an intense longing to look at the stars again that night; a most unusual occurrence that, of being sentimental two succeeding nights. But as in these narrow streets the sky is visible only immediately overhead, and it is impossible to look long without breaking your neck, moments of repose are necessary. There is certainly but “one step from the sublime to the ridiculous." During one of these resting-spells your attention is vividly attracted to the houses opposite by a most singular appearance. At several of the windows the curtains are pulled lightly aside by an invisible hand, and in the aperture appears a human head, ornamented with the coiffure which ladies, in small towns, usually wear after ten o'clock at night. At first sight you are stupefied; then you recoil—the mystery of the afternoon is revealed. Your first impulse is to dash yourself headlong from the window; but as there are very few persons gifted with firmness of head and will to execute this extravagant desire, it is soon superseded by that of throwing a book at the window opposite. A third reflection, however, shows the inexpediency of this proceeding also. Even should you succeed in breaking the window, (and, by good luck, the head thereat visible,) there are plenty others besides - and to-morrow will certainly come. This thought makes you shudder! It is worse than being dashed to pieces on the pavements. Oh, misery! At last your only resort is to close your window; and as you are not a philosopher, you shut it with a little noise. Then your rage, (as is the case with many another in this world,) not having