Then, why does the _chevelure_ of dark-haired persons always resemble the 'raven's wing?' Why not his tail-feathers, occasionally, for the sake of variety? Or a crow's wing, a black-bird's wing? Or why not say, 'Dark as the wool on negro's poll?'--or as the mane of a bay horse?--or 'as black as my hat?' Is it absolutely necessary that it should always be a raven's wing? When you say, 'cherry lips,' do you particularize sufficiently? Some cherries are yellow, some black. Should you not say '_red_ cherry lips? If any 'young orphan' happens to be engaged in novel-writing when cherries are in season, let him place two in juxta-position, and remark what a mouth such a pair of labia would make! Why are these cherry lips always slightly parted? Does not this give that stupid expression which the French call '_bouche béante_? Why are all necks, not bull-necks, 'swan-like?' Why does swan-like in necks mean beautiful and well-proportioned, and crane-like abominably extended, when the neck of a crane is no longer than that of a swan? Why are handsome noses always 'chiselled?' Why are fingers always 'taper?' And finally, for we must stop somewhere, why are beauties '_lovelier far in tears_?' Did swollen eyes, bound with red, and nose pinkish in tinge at its extremity, ever improve the appearance of any mortal since the flood? As it is not fair to destroy without creating something to supply the place of the destroyed, we take the liberty of showing our own ideal in stories: 'UPON a crimson sofa, in a darkened room, sits a lovely lady. Bright are her eyes as gas-lights in a shop-window; dark her hair as Day and Martin's best; and her red lips contrast with her white skin as do the red stripes with the white in Stewart's peppermint candy. Salt tears trickle from her eyes as fall the drops from an umbrella in a gentle November drizzle; and James's last novel lies unnoticed upon her lap. Why sits the lovely lady on the crimson sofa? And why does she rest her pensive and pomatum'd brow upon her embroidered handkerchief?' _That_ we flatter ourselves _is_ an exordium, over which a discerning public may hang entranced. 'This young lady was hight Liner, Catherine Julia Liner. She wept for love of Shuffleshank, her inconstant beau. 'For one whole season Shuffleshank, whose soul, if he had any, was in his toes, hovered about Miss Liner, and attended her every where. He waltzed with her night after night, (and Shuffleshank twirled divinely,) and in the pauses of the dance he wiped the perspiration from his face, and with his touching and tender eyes, 'Gazed on the fair, Who caused his care, And wiped and looked, wiped and looked, Wiped and looked, and wiped again,'