d
have me think. You utter abominable sentiments, but you behave as well
as other people--nearly."

"Thank you. But listen a moment. (_Laying down his pipe._) Do you have
the same tastes you had at eighteen? I don't refer to the bumpkins with
whom you played when a boy, and who, now that you have outgrown them,
look enviously askance at you. I don't care to dwell on your literary
tastes,--how you have outgrown Moore and Festus-Bailey, and are fast
getting through Byron. I won't pose you, by showing how your ideas in
Art have changed,--what new views you have of life, society;--but think
of your ideas of womanly, or rather, girlish beauty at different ages.
By Jove, I should like to see your innamoratas arranged in
chronological order!"

"It would be a curious and instructive spectacle."

"You may well say that! Let me sketch a few of them."

"I think I could do it better."

"No, every man thinks his own experience peculiar; but life has a
wonderful sameness, after all. Besides, you would flatter the portraits.
Not to begin too early, and without being particular about names, there
was, first, Amanda, aged fourteen; face circular, cheeks cranberry, eyes
hazel, hair brown and wavy, awkward when spoken to, and agreeable only
in an osculatory way. Now, being twenty-five, she is married, has two
children, is growing stout, and always refers to her lord and master as
'He,' never by any accident pronouncing his name. Second, Julia;
sixteen, flaxen-haired, lithe, not ungraceful, self-possessed, and
perhaps a little pert. She is unmarried; but, having fed her mind with
no more solid aliment than country gossip, no sensible man could talk to
her five minutes. Third, Laura; eighteen, black hair, with sharp
outlines on the temples, eyes heavily shaded and coquettishly managed,
jewelry more abundant than elegant, repeats poetry by the page, keeps a
scrap-book, and writes endless letters to her female friends. She is
still romantic, but has learned something from experience,--is not so
impressible as when you knew her. I won't stop to sketch the pale
poetess, nor the dancing hoyden, nor the sweet blue-eyed creature that
lisped, nor the mature and dangerously-charming widow that caused some
perturbations in your regular orbit.

"Now, my dear fellow," Easelmann continued, "you fancied that your whole
existence depended upon the hazel or the blue or the black eyes, in
turn; but at this time you could see their glances turned in r