ISS FLORA M'FLIMSEY, of Madison Square,
Has made three separate journeys to Paris,
And her father assures me, each time she was there,
That she and her friend, "Mrs. Harris'-
(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,
But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery),
Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping,
In one continuous round of shopping;
Shopping alone, and shopping together,
At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather;
For all manner of things, that a woman can put
On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders, or flt round her waist,
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind, above or below:
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls;
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls;
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ;
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ;
Dresses in which to do nothing at all;
Dresses for winter, spring, summer. and fall;
All of them different in color and pattern,
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin ;
Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material
Quite as expensive and much more ethereal;
In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of
From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sou frills;
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store,
While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore,
They footed the streets, and he footed the bills.
And yet though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,
This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square,
The last time we met, was in utter despair,
Because she had nothing whatever to wear!
Now I do mean to say, I have heard her declare,
When, at the same moment, she had on a dress
Which cost five hundred dollars, not a cent less,
And jewelry worth ten times more I should guess,
That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!
I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,
I had just been selected; as he who should throw all
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections,
Of those fossil remains which she called, "her affections,"
And that rather decayed, but well known-work of art,
Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart,"
So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,
Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove,
But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,
Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love.
Without any romances, or raptures, or sighs,
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes,
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions,
It was one of the quietest business transactions.
And she exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis,
And by way of putting me quite at my ease,
"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please,
And flirt when I like: now stop, don't you speak
And you must not come here more than twice in the week,
Or talk to me, either at party or ball,
But always be ready to come when I call;
So don't prose to me about duty and stuff;
If we don't break this off, there will be time enough
For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free;
For this is a sort of engagement, you see,
Which is binding on you, bnt not binding on me."
Well, thus having wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her,
With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,
I had, as I thought, a "contingent remainder"
At least in the property, and the best right
To appear as its escort by day and by night:
And it being the week of the STUCKUPS' grand ball—
Their cards had been out a fortnight or so,
And set all the Avenue on the tip-toe-
I considered it only my duty to call,
And see if Miss Flora intended to go.
The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,
And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon cher,
I should like above all things to go with you there;
But, really and truly-I've nothing to wear.'
Nothing to wear ! Go just as you are ;
Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,
I engage, the most bright and particular star
In the Stuckup horizon"-I stooped, for her eye,
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery,
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery
Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply,
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose-
(That pure Grecian feature!)—as much as to say,
"How absurd that any sane man should suppose
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”. "Wear tulle over satin"- I can't endure white.
"Your rose colored, then, the best of the batch"
"I haven't a thread of point-lace to match.”
"Your brown moire antique"-"Yes, and look like a quaker!
"The pearl-colored"-"I would, but that plaguey dressmaker
Has had it a week."—"Then that exquisite lilac,
In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock."
Here 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 ripped our 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. "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 pretense-Why, what a mere guess it is!
Pray, what do you know of a lady's necessities?
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 rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed
Interjections, verbs, pronouns !-till language quite failed
To express the abusive; and then its arrears
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears,
And my last faint, despaing 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 sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,
At home, and up stairs 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?"
Oh, ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day,
Please turn your steps just out of Broadway,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gatl ered, their city have built;
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair!-
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt;
Grope through the dark dens; climb the rickety stair
To the garret,-where wretches, the young and the old,
Half-starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold!
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street!
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor!
Hear the curses, that sound like the echoes of Hell,
As you sicken and shudder, and fly from the door :-
Then, home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare-
Spoiled children of Fashion-you've Nothing to Wear!
And oh if perchance there should be a sphere
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,
Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of Time
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime;
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,
Must be clothed, for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
Oh, daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest, in that upper realm, you have Nothing to Wear !
II. THE SCHOOL-MASTER'S GUESTS.
HE district school-master was sitting behind his great bookladen desk, Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque. As whisper the half-leafless branches, when Autumn's brisk breezes have come, His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum. Like the frequent sharp bang of a wagon, when treading a forest path o'er, Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck the floor.
There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth,
And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;
There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could
bloom,
And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room,
With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,
Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin,
There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into the brain,
Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train;
There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,
And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate,
And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist,
As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist !"
A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains,
How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;
And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood,
Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could.
Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o’er,
And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door;
And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row.
And stood themselves up by the hot fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow ;
And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad,
Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had :
"We've come here, school-master, intendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round,
Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found:
To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about,
An' see if it's payin' to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out.
The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read,
You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need ;
You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han',
An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on their an';
There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see,
Providin' you know what the facts is, an 'tell 'em off jest as they be.
An' then there's that readin' in concert, is censured from first unto last;
It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is travelin' past.
Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say,
Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And nodded obliquely, and muttered, "Them'ere is my sentiments tew.”
"Then, as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by them as has looked into this,
That you turn the u out o' your labour, an' make the word shorter than 'tis ;
An' clip the k off o' yer musick, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed,
An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next.
They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along;
But if it is so, just depend on't, them new-grafted books is made wrong.
You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war,
As to say that old spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was for."
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said, Them's my sentiments tew.”
"Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me,
Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, and also the old Rule o’Three ;
An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please,
With saw-bucks an' crosses and pot-hooks, an' w's, x, y's an' z's.
We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached
By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached.”
And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,
And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said, "Them's my sentiments tew.'
"Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day, Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin our gals for to say.
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