that it was a
sort of enlarged family party, and I, having six married sisters, found
myself with unnumbered hosts of relations and connections. I retain
delightful recollections of the mid-Victorian girl. These maidens, in
their airy clouds of white, pink, or green tulle, and their untouched
faces, had a deliciously fresh, flower-like look which is wholly
lacking in their sisters of to-day. A young girl's charm is her
freshness, and if she persists in coating her face with powder and
rouge that freshness vanishes, and one sees merely rows of vapid little
doll-like faces, all absolutely alike, and all equally artificial and
devoid of expression. These present skimpy draperies cause one to
reflect that Nature has not lavished broadcast the gift of good feet
and neat ankles; possibly some girls might lengthen their skirts if
they realised this truth.

In the "seventies" there was a wonderful galaxy of talent at the old
Gaiety Theatre, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, Edward Terry, and Royce
forming a matchless quartette. Young men, of course, will always be
foolish, up to the end of time. Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan and Emily
Duncan all had their "colours." Nellie Farren's were dark blue, light
blue, and white; Kate Vaughan's were pink and grey; Emily Duncan's
black and white; the leading hosiers "stocked" silk scarves of these
colours, and we foolish young men bought the colours of the lady we
especially admired, and sat in the stalls of the Gaiety flaunting the
scarves of our favourite round our necks. As I then thought, and still
think, that Nellie Farren was one of the daintiest and most graceful
little creatures ever seen on the stage, with a gaminerie all her own,
I, in common with many other youths, sat in the stalls of the Gaiety
wrapped in a blue-and-white scarf. Each lady showered smiles over the
footlights at her avowed admirers, whilst contemptuously ignoring those
who sported her rival's colours. One silly youth, to testify to his
admiration for Emily Duncan, actually had white kid gloves with black
fingers, specially manufactured for him. He was, we hope, repaid for
his outlay by extra smiles from his enchantress.

Traces of the witty early nineteenth century still lingered into the
"seventies," "eighties," and "nineties." Lady Constance Leslie, who is
still living, and the late Lady Cork were almost the last descendants
of the brilliant wits of Sydney Smith and Theodore Hook's days. The
hurry of modern life,