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, but not binding on me."

Well, having thus woo'd Miss M'Flimsey and gain'd 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 consider'd it only my duty to call,

And see if Miss Flora intended to go.

The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,

And answer'd 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 stopp'd, for her eye,
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery,
Open'd 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-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"-"I would, but that plaguy dress

maker.

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 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 flushed.
"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 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 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. "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 'tis 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 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 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 trundle your hoops 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 gather'd, 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 broider❜d 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 crouch'd 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-
Spoil'd 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,
Unscreen'd 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 !
WILLIAM ALLAN BUTLER.

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER.

The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright-
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done-
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!”

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying over-head-
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand: