" 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 plaguy 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!--oh, you men have no feeling.
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures,
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preache