Qualified as she is to receive pleasure from books, she hardly ever adds a volume to her collection; but expends as much money as might purchase an elegant library, in amassing all the various washes that are said either to give or to preserve a very delicate complexion. She examines the advertisements for a new lotion for the face, with as much avidity as the curious Old Maid discovers in looking into the list of marriages. Having tried all that the newspapers have celebrated, from the Milk of Roses to the Olympian Dew; as their effects, however, seldom correspond with her wishes, she is often tempted to try new inventions of her own, and she fre|quently watches the simmer of a little pipkin, with as much eagerness and an|xiety as the alchymist used to exhibit over the vessel that he expected to teem with his imaginary gold: I might add, indeed, with similar success; for, whether devices of this kind have little or no efficacy in themselves, or whether her raging passion for a clear countenance makes the strongest cosmetic appear defective, she never at|tempts to render herself more fair, but she grows more discontented with her com|plexion. Such attempts, by leading her to look more frequently in her mirror, only confirm her more and more in that most grievous apprehension, that she cannot ap|pear quite so young as she wishes to be thought. This apprehension seems to haunt her like an evil genius, and is for ever marring all the natural grace, both of her words and actions. In moments when she had just enchanted a little party of friends by her various talents, I have seen this un|fortunate foible start up, and dissolve the spell of pleasure in an instant; so that the persons who had for some time heard and beheld her with the highest admiration, began to survey her with an odd mixture of pity and derision, which nothing but the deference due to her sex and character in|duced them to conceal. This oppressive dread of not appearing young, which is, in|deed, for ever present to her fancy, was re|markably conspicuous the other day, when she sat for her picture to oblige a relation. When she cast her eye upon the sketch, after the first sitting, in which the painter, to secure a likeness, had given peculiar strength to his outline, her vexation arose to agony; she apprehended, that all the spectators of her portrait would read the horrid words, forty-seven, in every line of her countenance. This idea continued to prey on her mind to such a degree, that when she ascended a second time into the sitting chair of the painter, her features ex|hibited more visible terror, than those lovely victims, Anne Boleyn and the Queen of Scots, are said to have discovered when they mounted the block.