That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,

No matter how fine, that she wears every day!"

So I ventured again—“ Wear your crimson brocade,”
(Second turn up of nose)—"That's too dark by a shade.”

"Your blue silk "-"That's too heavy;" "Your pink "—"That's too light."

"Wear tulle over

""
satin "I can't endure white."

"Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch

"I haven't a thread of point lace to match."

"Your brown moiré antique ”—“Yes, and look like a Quaker ;

"The pearl-coloured

Has had it a week.'

“I would, but that plaguy dressmaker "Then that exquisite lilac,

In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock" (Here the nose took again the same elevation)— "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation."

"Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more comme il faut——” "Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,

And I won't appear dress'd like a chit of sixteen."
"Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine;
That superb point d'aiguille, that imperial green,
That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine "-
"Not one of all which is fit to be seen,"

Said the lady, becoming excited and flush'd.
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crush'd
Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,

When you quite turn'd the head of the head of the nation;
And by all the grand court was so very much courted."
The end of the nose was portentously tipped up

And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,
"I have worn it three times at the least calculation,
And that and the most of my dresses are ripped up!”
Here I ripp'd out something, perhaps rather rash,
Quite innocent, though; but to use an expression
More striking than classic, it "settled my hash,"

And proved very soon the last act of our session.

""

THE END OF THE NOSE WAS PORTENTOUSLY TIPPED UP" (see p. 220). Drawn by H. Furniss.

"Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling
Doesn't fall down and crush you. Oh, you men have no

feeling!

You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures!

Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers.
Your silly pretence-why, what a mere guess it is!
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities?
I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear,
And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care,

But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher). 66 I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar.

Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot;
You're a brute, and a monster, and—I don't know what."
I mildly suggested the words-Hottentot,
Pickpocket and cannibal, Tartar and thief,
As gentle expletives which might give relief.
But this only proved as spark to the powder,
And the storm I had raised came faster and louder ;
It blew and it rain'd, thunder'd, lighten'd, and hail'd
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite fail'd
To express the abusive; and then its arrears
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears;
And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs-
Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too,
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,
In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say.
Then, without going through the form of a bow,
Found myself in the entry-I hardly knew how-
On door-step and side walk, past lamp-post and square,
At home and upstairs, in my own easy chair;

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,

Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare, If he married a woman with nothing to wear?

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited Abroad in society, I've instituted

A course of enquiry, extensive and thorough,

On this vital subject; and find to my horror,

That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising,
But that there exists the greatest distress
In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress,
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear."
Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts
Reveal the most painful and startling statistics,
Of which let me mention only a few :

In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue,

Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two,
Who have been three whole weeks without anything new
In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch,
Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church.

In another large mansion near the same place,
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case

Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace.

In a neighbouring block there was found, in three calls,
Total want, long-continued, of camels'-hair shawls ;
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ;
One deserving young lady almost unable

To survive for the want of a new Russian sable;
Another confined to the house, when it's windier
Than usual, because her shawl isn't India.

Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer PACIFIC ;
In which were engulfed, not friend or relation

(For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation),

But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars
Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars;

And all, as to style, most recherché and rare,
The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear,