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the Lyons house invited him once more, and put the inquiry :6. What was the state of the weather when


made the experiment?

“The weather!” replied the Englishman, “the weather! I don't remember. What has that to do with it?"

“Everything,” replied the principal. “It is only on the fairest days in this favored climate, that we can make our carmine."

“If that's your secret,” said the visitor, “I had better have kept my thirty thousand francs, as it will do me little good in the London fogs."

There are numerous forms in which rouge is applied. The simplest is “rose powder,” which is merely the finest rice meal, tinged with carmine, and perfumed with oil of roses, or some other scent. What is called "enamel powder" is a mixture of equal parts of bismuth (pearl-white) and French chalk (soapstone), colored and scented in the same manner. Either of these is harmless, for neither carmine nor carthamine has any injurious action on the skin.

When rouge is sold by itself, it comes in shallow pots or saucers, rose en tasse, in pomade, en crépons, or en feuilles. The crêpons are pieces of silk or cotton gauze, twisted into the shape of a plug, and imbued with the coloring matter (carthamine.) Some of them are mounted on wooden or ivory handles, and are then



called tampons au rouge. The manner of using them is to moisten them with alcohol, and rub them gently on the cheeks or lips. The leaf rouge, rouge en feuilles, is a very elegant preparation. It is usually prepared by depositing a thin layer of the finest carmine on thick paper. The surface of the paper is to be moistened by a woollen rag or soft sponge, and gently rubbed on the skin. The effect is altogether satisfactory.

It is more prudent to use these preparations than those numberless ones sold under attractive names, about which nothing is known. One of these, which has a wide popularity, is a solution of carmine in rose, water with the addition of strong caustic ammonia, which latter cannot fail but injure the skin in time. Above all things, beware of cheap rouges, and those called “theatre rouges,” nearly all of which are coarse colors which give a tawdry and meretricious air to the user, and besides that are generally made of vermilion.

There has recently been introduced into the market, under the outlandish name of schnouda, and the more romantic one of “ Sympathetic Blush,” a very curious coloring for the skin, which is asserted to surpass all others in its absolute resemblance to the roseate hue oí health. What is not the least singular about it is that it is perfectly colorless itself, and remains so until it has been some minutes on the surface. It is prepared by mixing with cold-cream a small proportion of

alloxan, one of those newly-discovered combinations, the source of which we hesitate to explain. This undergoes a chemical alteration when brought in contact with the skin, and produces a strikingly natural pink hue. Whether or not it is as innocent as the rouges we have described, is as yet unknown.

When the inventive genius of the boudoir had in this manner prepared materials for whitening, and again for reddening the skin, it had not yet completed its task. There still remained the blue lines of the veins, which course beneath the skin, and unless something was found to include these in the “ make up," the art were sadly at fault.

It has been done. The elegant world can now provide itself with little jars which contain finely-powdered French or Venetian chalk, made into a paste with gumwater, colored to the proper tint with Prussian blue, and accompanied with little leather pencils, all manufactured on purpose to portray with anatomical fidelity the direction and hue of the veins. The effect, says Professor Hirzel, who talks on this subject with the gusto of a connoisseur," when the work is artistically performed, is good and natural.”



There has been such a noise in the newspapers of recent years about “enamelling” the face, that we are in duty bound to say a word about it. The most



absurd stories are afloat. One we noticed asserted that the late actress, Madame Vestris, was obliged to sit “ hours” by the fire to allow her “enamel” to dry. Another stated that certain New York belles visit Paris annually to have their complexions made up" for the year. An enterprising rascal, taking advantage of popular credulity, advertises in various papers to enamel faces “to last a day or a year.”

Such paragraphs arise from ignorance. The so-called method of "enamelling” is simply painting the face, and for this purpose the artists always prefer the poisonous salts of lead, as they yield much more striking effects. Practice often gives these persons a decided skill in their specialty, but their customers pay for it doubly, first in money and then in health.

The skin is usually prepared by an alkaline wash, wrinkles and depressions are filled with a yielding paste, and the colors are laid on to the requisite extent, first the white and then the red.

No such procedure can give a durable covering to the face, and no one should submit herself to the hands of the ignorant and unscrupulous parties who choose this for a business. The simple and harmless means which we have explained will suffice, if skilfully used, to conceal the ravages of years to any proper extent.


Antiquaries have puzzled themselves to explain the origin of patches. They could not understand why a woman with brilliant complexion would, as they thought, disfigure herself with little pieces of black plaster on her face. They did not remember, these simple antiquaries, that if we wish to set off in bold relief a white object, we place it on a black ground. It was not imitation of some noble dame who concealed a pimple with a plaster, but a coquetry founded on the law of contrasting colors, which introduced patches. Like other fashions, they

“Come, and pass, and turn again." Hints of them are scattered in classical lore, AngloSaxon monks saw their revival, and the gossipy Pepys witnessed their introduction at the Court of Charles II., and though he found it difficult, at first, to partake of Mrs. Pepys' enthusiasm for them, in a few months we find him not only reconciled to the novelty, but quite warm in its praise. A century later, Le Camus defines at length, with curious criticism, the varying expressions which the patch worn in different parts of the face gives to the wearer. He tells us that in his day they were diverse in figure, crescents, stars, crosses, etc.

Another century has gone by, and once more the patch seems to be coming into favor. The newspapers

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