Part 12

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first, Heaven help the husband then!" The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch. But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

BELLE OF THE BALL.

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,-- Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the county ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced,--O Heaven! her dancing.

Dark was her hair; her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows: I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talked of politics or prayers, Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,-- To me it mattered not a tittle,-- If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a dean,-- Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three-per-cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, O, what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,-- Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks As Baron Rothschild for the muses.

She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand,-- She made the Catilina jealous: She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories,-- Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leeboo, And recipes for elder-water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle-dog was quite adored; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed,--and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished; She frowned,--and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many just for fun,-- I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one, Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,--and O, How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was most like other loves,-- A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,--and then we parted.

We parted: months and years rolled by; We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh, Our meeting was all mirth and laughter! For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs.--Something--Rogers!

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

ECHO AND THE LOVER.

_Lover._ Echo! mysterious nymph, declare Of what you're made, and what you are.

_Echo._ Air!

_Lover._ Mid airy cliffs and places high, Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie.

_Echo._ You lie!

_Lover._ Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds,-- Hark! how my voice revives, resounds!

_Echo._ Zounds!

_Lover._ I'll question thee before I go,-- Come, answer me more apropos!

_Echo._ Poh! poh!

_Lover._ Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw.

_Echo._ Pshaw!

_Lover._ Say, what will turn that frisking coney Into the toils of matrimony?

_Echo._ Money!

_Lover._ Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow? Is not her bosom white as snow?

_Echo._ Ass! No!

_Lover._ Her eyes! was ever such a pair? Are the stars brighter than they are?

_Echo._ They are!

_Lover._ Echo, thou liest, but can't deceive me.

_Echo._ Leave me!

_Lover._ But come, thou saucy, pert romancer, Who is as fair as Phoebe? Answer!

_Echo._ Ann, sir.

ANONYMOUS.

ECHO.

I asked of Echo, t' other day, (Whose words are few and often funny,) What to a novice she could say Of courtship, love, and matrimony. Quoth Echo, plainly,--"Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry?--should it be A dashing damsel, gay and pert, A pattern of inconstancy; Or selfish, mercenary flirt? Quoth Echo, sharply,--"Nary flirt!"

What if, aweary of the strife That long has lured the dear deceiver, She promise to amend her life, And sin no more; can I believe her? Quoth Echo, very promptly,--"Leave her!"

But if some maiden with a heart On me should venture to bestow it, Pray, should I act the wiser part To take the treasure or forego it? Quoth Echo, with decision,--"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, She vow she means to die a maid, In answer to my loving letter? Quoth Echo, rather coolly,--"Let her!"

What if, in spite of her disdain, I find my heart intwined about With Cupid's dear delicious chain So closely that I can't get out? Quoth Echo, laughingly,--"Get out!"

But if some maid with beauty blest, As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest Till envious Death shall overtake her? Quoth Echo (_sotto voce_),--"Take her!"

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

"NOTHING TO WEAR."

Miss Flora Mcflimsey, 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 fit 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 shape, Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape, 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-francs robe to twenty-sous frills; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, They footed the streets, and he footed the bills!

The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago, Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest, that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, Gave _good-bye_ to the ship, and _go-by_ to the duties. Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt, Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout For an actual belle and a possible bride; But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside, Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry, Had entered the port without any entry,

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear!

NOTHING TO WEAR! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert--this, you know, is between us-- That she's in a state of absolute nudity, Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus; But 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, and 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 romance 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, With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, 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 kind of engagement, you see, Which is binding on you but not binding on me."

Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey 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 tiptoe,-- I considered it only my duty to call, And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her,--as ladies are apt to be found, When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual,--I found; I won't say--I caught her, Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered,--"Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" "So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more, So being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door; And now will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty and graces and presence to lend (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the STUCKUPS, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" 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 On the Stuckup horizon--" I stopped--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"-- "That's too light." "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 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 dressed 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 flushed. "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous _toilette_ which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation; And by all the grand court were 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 most of my dresses are ripped up!" Here I _ripped 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. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you--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 showed 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)-- 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 a 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, 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 doorstep 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?"

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited Abroad in society, I've instituted A course of inquiry, 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 neighboring block there was found, in three calls, Total want, long continued, of camel's-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; 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, And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic; For she touchingly says that this sort of grief Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare For the victim of such overwhelming despair. But the saddest by far of all these sad features Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance, And deride their demands as useless extravagance. One case of a bride was brought to my view, Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true, Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. The consequence was, that when she got there, At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, And when she proposed to finish the season At Newport, the monster refused out and out, For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, Except that the waters were good for his gout; Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, And proceedings are now going on for divorce.

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity Of every benevolent heart in the city, And spur up Humanity into a canter To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is So needed at once by these indigent ladies, Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter Cooper The corner-stone lay of some new splendid super- Structure, like that which to-day links his name In the Union unending of Honor and Fame; And found a new charity just for the care Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, The _Laying-out_ Hospital well might be named? Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters? Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses, For poor womankind, won't some venturesome lover A new California somewhere discover?

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And temples of Trade which tower on each side, To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt Their children have gathered, 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!