who has greatly aided us in bringing so many
details within the compass of a small cabinet
picture, gives the prettiest names in the world.
The asses'-milkmaid he calls Scaphion; the
painter of the cheeks is Phiale; the eyebrows
are dyed by Stimmi; the golden ointment is
rubbed in by Nape; Calamis holds the tongs;
the lips of Psecas are the living fountain whence
proceed the essences; and the handy negress is
Cypassis.

These ready handmaidens burst into loud
applause when their pleasing task is ended, and
their raptures are permitted, because their lady
regards them, not as signs of self-laudation, but
as tributes to her own beauty. And, to show
that nature and art have done their best, another
slave now enters, bearing a metallic looking-
glass.

We will assume that the domina is satisfied,
and dismisses all the beautifiers with a benignant
smile. Should she be dissatisfied——No, the mind
refuses to conjecture what will happen in the
event of such a frightful contingency.

The gradual process by which this living figure
becomes fashionably draped we shall not pause
to acquire, but merely enumerate the principal
articles of clothing. Of stays—those modern
implements of self-torture—the domina knows
nothing, nor would she have put them on if
they had been perfectly familiar to her, for she
does not believe in the beauty of a slender
waist. Over a short "tunica" is flung the
"stola," which is itself a long tunic reaching to
the feet, with sleeves that cover half the upper
part of the arm. When the opening in the
stola has been closed with the aid of brooches,
when embroidered gay-coloured shoes have been
put on, when the arms are encircled by golden
snakes with ruby eyes, when the ears are weighted
with pearls, when the fingers are loaded with
rings, and when a comb or two has been inserted
in the hair, the lady is completely attired for
indoors, presenting the strongest possible contrast
to the be-crinolined belle of the present day, and
suggesting the suspicion that if the beautifiers
are doomed to hard work, the dressers almost
enjoy a sinecure. If the domina goes out she
merely flings on her "palla," which is exactly
like the "toga" of the man, and her pride in
wearing it gracefully, exactly corresponds to that
of Parisian beauties in the matter of shawls. On
the whole, the main articles of clothing are not
very expensive. They are chiefly woollen, the
use of silk being exceptional. The semi-transparent
Coan robe is costly enough, but then it
is as disreputable as it is costly, and is not,
properly, to be associated with ladies of quality.

The toilette of our domina being complete,
she proposes to take a walk in the garden.
Accordingly, the fan-bearers make their appearance.
That pretty coquettish use of the fan, which
was brought to such high perfection in the last
century, is beyond the reach of the Roman belle,
who would deem it an indignity to carry the
cooling implement in her own hands. In good
old days fans were made of broad leaves, but
these have been abandoned for peacocks'
feathers; which, being in themselves rather too
pliant for fanning purposes, are supported by
a wooden framework. The lady is proud of her
fan, and when she goes abroad her slaves carry
it in an open basket, that it may be seen when
not in use.

At the first glance it seems that the garden
which she enters is altogether in the French
taste, so persevering has been the "topiarius,"
or ornamental gardener, in giving to the trees and
shrubs forms as different as possible from those
that naturally belong to them. Verdant beasts
of prey, clipped with shears out of box or
cypress, menace their haughty mistress, who
may sometimes gratify her pride by beholding
her name in foliage. If, however, she is weary
of these artificial beauties and terrors, she may
retire into another part of the garden, where
nature is altogether controlled, and again comes
a change in the shape of an orchard, or a
vegetable-garden, or an avenue of plane-trees
twined with ivy, which, under the name of
"gestatio," is regarded as the most delightful
spot on the premises, commanding as it does the
view of the surrounding country.

In the act of contemplating the distant hills
we leave our Roman lady.

SETTLED AMONG THE MAORIS.

AS a settler in New Zealand at the beginning
of another contest with the native Maoris, let
me tell the English public how I and most of my
neighbours feel. We are very far from desiring
to see an end of the Maori race. Our
sincere and earnest wish is to see them put on
such a fair footing as to be able to make common
cause with us, and, by association of interests,
find that of all things there is nothing so
unprofitable for either party as a deadly quarrel.
And even hitherto, instead of being the enemy
of the Maori, it is my opinion that the settler
has been his best and truest friend. He has
done most to bring home to him the civilisation
of which he is very capable. The settler has
done more than the missionary, though the work
of the missionary and schoolmaster has in New
Zealand not been altogether fruitless. They
had extinguished cannibalism, taught reading
and writing, imparted to many knowledge of the
Scriptures; but there they stopped. And when
they might have worked in harmony with the
natural movements of society, it is a simple and
undeniable fact that, their zeal outrunning their
discretion, they refused to do so. At the first
hint of New Zealand's becoming a field for
emigration, the missionaries as a body—there may
have been exceptions—busily informed their flocks
that the coming pakehas were the scum of society,
outcasts who could not live in their native land,
and endeavoured to the best of their ability to
put the natives on their guard against the
immigrants. Far from endeavouring to make, as,
with a grain of tact, they might easily have
made, the new comers coadjutors in the
missionary work, they opposed the alienation of