probably will be to the latest; but
it was reserved for the modern toilet to project a regular theory of
harmony between odors and colors--a theory which might never have been
dreamed of in the studio of the painter, but is not unworthy of the
boudoir of the belle. It is the young Englishwomen at Vienna who, if
we may believe Eugene Chapus, have taken the initiative in this new
refinement of coquetry, which employs not only a greater variety and
quantity of perfume than in previous years, but employs it according
to a certain scientific system. At balls, perfumes are especially _de
rigueur_, and it is in her ball-dress that Araminta aims to establish
a species of relation between the nature of the perfume she carries
and the general character of the toilette she wears. That is to say,
gravely proceeds Monsieur Chapus, if pink predominates in the stuff
of her gown, the proper perfume will be essence of roses; if light
yellow, it will be Portugal water; if the color be reseda (which has
such a run at present for ladies' costumes), the chosen perfume
will be an essence of mignonette; and so on with the other flowers
corresponding to the shades commonly used in fresh ball-toilettes.
Undoubtedly to a Rimmel the relation between different odors and
different styles of personal beauty or personal traits would be
as obvious as is this newly-discovered harmony between perfume and
costume; but we fear that the new fashion is due to coquettish art
rather than aesthetic taste, and that, like many another whim of
the drawing-room, it will die out before the science is fairly
established.

* * * * *

The _enfant terrible_ plays an important role in literature as in
society during these modern days, and although a little of him goes a
good way, yet it must be owned that his sayings are sometimes spicy.

A grandfather was holding Master Tom, a youth of five, on his knees,
when the youngster suddenly asked him why his hair was white. "Oh,"
says grandpapa, "that's because I'm so old. Why, don't you know that I
was in the ark?"

"In the ark?" cries Tommy: "why you aren't Noah, are you, grandpapa?"

"Oh no, I'm not Noah."

"Ah, then you're Shem."

"No, not Shem, either."

"Oh, then I suppose you're Japhet."

"No, you haven't guessed right: I'm not Japhet."

"Well, then, grandpapa," said the child, driven to the extremity of
his biblical knowledge, "you must be one of the beasts."

Not less crit