ival as a treatise upon
Artifice. It is more than a poem, it is a manual; and if there be left
in England any lady who cannot read Latin in the original, she will do
well to procure a discreet translation. In the Bodleian Library there
is treasured the only known copy of a very poignant and delightful
rendering of this one book of Ovid's masterpiece. It was made by a
certain Wye Waltonstall, who lived in the days of Elizabeth, and, seeing
that he dedicated it to 'the Vertuous Ladyes and Gentlewomen of Great
Britain,' I am sure that the gallant writer, could he know of our great
renaissance of cosmetics, would wish his little work to be placed once
more within their reach. 'Inasmuch as to you, ladyes and gentlewomen,'
so he writes in his queer little dedication, 'my booke of pigments doth
first addresse itself, that it may kisse your hands and afterward have
the lines thereof in reading sweetened by the odour of your breath,
while the dead letters formed into words by your divided lips may
receive new life by your passionate expression, and the words marryed
in that Ruby coloured temple may thus happily united, multiply your
contentment.' It is rather sad to think that, at this crisis in the
history of pigments, the Vertuous Ladyes and Gentlewomen cannot read the
libellus of Wye Waltonstall, who did so dearly love pigments.

But since the days when these great critics wrote their treatises, with
what gifts innumerable has Artifice been loaded by Science! Many little
partitions must be added to the narthecium before it can comprehend all
the new cosmetics that have been quietly devised since classical
days, and will make the modern toilet chalks away more splendid in its
possibilities. A pity that no one has devoted himself to the compiling
of a new list; but doubtless all the newest devices are known to the
admirable unguentarians of Bond Street, who will impart them to their
clients. Our thanks, too, should be given to Science for ridding us of
the old danger that was latent in the use of cosmetics. Nowadays they
cannot, being purged of any poisonous element, do harm to the skin
that they make beautiful. There need be no more sowing the seeds of
destruction in the furrows of time, no martyrs to the cause like Maria,
Countess of Coventry, that fair dame but infelix, who died, so they
relate, from the effect of a poisonous rouge upon her lips. No, we need
have no fears now. Artifice will claim not another victim from among