The indications are not varied; but the exhibitions are. Even if a man were gifted with the power of uttering the severe witticisms and cutting repartees which are nectar and ambrosia from the lips of a pretty woman, he dare not; for he would be inevitably kicked down stairs—if the fellow were worth the exertion. In a witty woman who can skirmish with unflinching quickness and dexterity, we can even forgive a slight moral delinquency. A little white-lie simpered out with arch assurance by a pair of demure lips, “Like leaves of crimson tulips met,” by no means offends us as it would in a man; in whom we should attribute it to low cunning or mean cowardice. Indeed, the exquisite look of arch impudence with which a delicately chiselled marble-ine Celestial tells you a most palpable falsehood is maddening, perfectly beautiful, almost sublime. The cool assurance and sharp raillery with which she persists after detection! the assumption of injured innocence! the impudent look of defiance! By Jove! truly “The dear creatures lie with such a grace, There’s nothing so becoming to the face.” And then when they are beaten from their last defence, and can resist no longer, when they are compelled to surrender and beg pardon, they do it as if _they_ were forgiving _you_; and make you feel almost as if you were being forgiven, as if you, not she, had all the while been erring: at all events you feel very like a fool, though very happy; and so a few tears, and a few (or not a _few_) kisses set all to rights, “And so we make it up; And then—and then—and then—sit down and sup.” “Ha, ha, ha!” roars Mr. A. flinging down the book—which he has been reading aloud to his wife—in a paroxysm of laughter. “It’s abominable!” exclaims Mrs. A., in high indignation, “and I wonder, Mr. A. you ain’t ashamed to read it.” Mr. A. resumes the book, and his lady continues to listen with great interest, though apparently wholly absorbed by her crochet-work. All things considered therefore, and inasmuch as we prefer the naturalness of a witty woman to the artificialness of a learned woman, we confess to a liking for the Celestial Nose feminine, while we abhor the masculine. It is not, however, every female Celestial Nose that we admire (Heaven, for our peace’s sake forbid—they are so numerous). It must be of the purest and most delicate chiselling; have no tendency to cogitativeness, lest it should look as if its owner thought; and its hue must be of the palest and most evanescent flesh-tint. These are essential to indicate that delicacy of mind which alone makes wit in a woman fascinating and which pardons breaches of strict morality committed from the purest and most benevolent intentions.