Now I'll wager a pair of new kid gloves that the writer of the above article is a whole-souled, loveable, handsome son of Adam. If all the men were like him the women would lay down their arms and take his!—there'd be no more drumming up recruits for petticoat parliaments—they'd 'resolve' to stay at home and 'do as they oughter.' I think there should be a raffle for him! (You don't find such a man every day!) He takes a liberal view of things—you don't catch him but toning his coat up to his chin, folding his arms, strutting round and looking daggers at us, like the rest of the men. No, he isn't on the 'anxious seat'—HE isn't! He just takes off his hat to us, like a gentleman, and says, with an irresistible smile:—'Dear ladies—there's a soft place in your hearts somewhere, after all. Who's afraid! Your gunpowder plots will all end in smoke! Three cheers for the ladies!' Now THAT'S doing the thing handsomely.

"Nobody but a very 'wiry sister' could hold out against such an incarnation of good-humored gallantry. It's only the bad husbands who see their own ugly mental phizes in the looking-glass these 'female philanthro-pesses' hold up to them, that raise such a breeze about it. 'It's only the truth that wounds,' as the French proverb says.

"If I had been of that convention, I should just draw off my glove, shake hands with that 'Sunday Times' writer, and sign an everlasting and repentant recantation of all incendiary resolutions,—now, henceforth and forever! Pass him round; send us a lock of his hair!—give us his daguerreotype!"