"The change in the face is so gradual, too," continued Madame C----. "We see ourselves after thirty-five, each day looking a little less well (we are loath to think it ugly), and we attribute it not to the true cause, the approach of that enemy to beauty--age,--but to some temporary indisposition, a bad night's rest, or an unbecoming cap. We thus go on cheating ourselves, but not cheating others, until some day when the light falls more clearly on our faces, and the fearful truth stands revealed. Wrinkles have usurped the place of dimples; horrid lines, traced by Time, have encircled the eyelids; the eyes, too, no longer bright and pellucid, become dim; the lips dry and colourless, the teeth yellow, and the cheeks pale and faded, as a dried rose-leaf long pressed in a _hortus siccus_." "Alas, alas! who can help thinking of all this when one sees the trees opening into their rich foliage, the earth putting forth its bright verdure, and the flowers budding into bloom, while we resemble the hoar and dreary winter, and scarcely retain a trace of the genial summer we once knew." This conversation suggested the following lines, which I wish I could translate into French verse to give to Madame C----: GRAY HAIRS. Snowy blossoms of the grave That now o'er care-worn temples wave, Oh! what change hath pass'd since ye O'er youthful brows fell carelessly! In silken curls of ebon hue That with such wild luxuriance grew, The raven's dark and glossy wing A richer shadow scarce could fling. The brow that tells a tale of Care That Sorrow's pen hath written there, In characters too deeply traced Ever on earth to be effaced, Was then a page of spotless white, Where Love himself might wish to write. The jetty arches that did rise, As if to guard the brilliant eyes, Have lost their smoothness;--and no more The eyes can sparkle as of yore: They look like fountains form'd by tears, Where perish'd Hope in by-gone years. The nose that served as bridge between The brow and mouth--for Love, I ween, To pass--hath lost its sculptured air. For Time, the spoiler, hath been there. The mouth--ah! where's the crimson dye That youth and health did erst supply? Are these pale lips that seldom smile, The same that laugh'd, devoid of guile. Shewing within their coral cell The shining pearls that there did dwell, But dwell no more? The pearls are fled, And homely teeth are in their stead. The cheeks have lost the blushing rose That once their surface could disclose; A dull, pale tint has spread around, Where rose and lily erst were found. The throat, and bust--but, ah! forbear, Let's draw a veil for ever there; Too fearful is 't to put in rhyme The changes wrought by cruel Time, The faithful mirror well reveals The truth that flattery conceals;