A CONVERSATION.
When Molière had completed a drama, he was accustomed to take the manuscript to the kitchen, and read it to the old crone who cooked his dinners. He always maintained that her suggestions were the most valuable he received from any quarter.
We entertain a similar respect for the literary acumen of the sex, and therefore submitted our papers from time to time to one of its members, who is none the worse critic because she differs from the dramatist's old woman in being young and pretty. During one of these conferences, it happened that our friend The Librarian (old bachelor and conservative) chanced upon us.
Naturally enough, the conversation found a wider field than our modest duodecimo, and from it as a starting point extended over the whole literature of personal beauty, and the cosmetic arts. It began by our critic, whom we will here call Portia, saying:—
