Not of grizzled spinsters dully staring, in the mummy stage of existence, out of vitreous eyes furnished by the taxidermist, but of plump, sound, hearty young girls do we now wish some scientific notes. Let the withered type-specimens remain in their glass cases for the benefit of Professor Shelfdust and the English novelists: our heroine is yet under twenty years of age; she has never heard of sociology and is marvellously ignorant of the ethics of elopement; but she is as clever as she is fascinating. Sappho knew the value of her sex in the bud, when perfect girl nature was just beginning to let go its charming essentials upon the air. “τἱς δ’ αγροιωτἱς τοι θἑλγει νοον ουκ επισταμενα τα βρακε’ εγκην επι των σφνρων?” “[Greek: tis d’ agroiôtis toi thelgei noon ouk epistamena ta brake’ enkên epi tôn sphyrôn?]” “What rustic lass can win your heart Without a touch of girlish art?” Or literally: “What rustic maiden, even, can captivate your mind, if she is not clever at drawing her skirts around her ankles?” There shows the brush of genius, a fine stroke, like the circle of Giotto, projecting a complete figure; and it is warm with life. The girl is pretty, brown as a berry, smiling, and lissomely graceful. Her sophistication is altogether hereditary. Sidney had her in mind when he wrote:— “Gay hair, more gay than straw when harvest lies, Lips red and plump as cherries’ ruddy side, Eyes fair and great, like fair great ox’s eyes, . . . . . . Flesh as soft as wool new dressed, And yet as hard as brawn made hard by art.” Like a bird in a bush, the strong, healthy girl shows her decorations with enthusiastic willingness, yet shyly, flitting betimes and keeping quite out of reach, while apparently not thinking of danger. Even the wild lass, saucing Daphnis from the doorway of her cave, knew perfectly well that he would hang his head and pass by. She was σὑνοφρυς κὁρα [Greek: synophrys kora]; that is, her eyebrows ran together across her nose, which was not as unfortunate as Herrick’s sort of girl, who was— “One of those That an acre hath of nose.” Why will the thought of berries come up? Dear old Suckling gave vent to it thus:— “No grape that’s kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice.” No wonder that it has been a persistent dream of masculine poets to— “Journey along With an armful of girl and a heart full of song!”