The third time, I was blacking my boots, according to Dr. Howl's
advice, 'expands the deltoid muscles, is of benefit to the
metacarpis, stretches the larynx, opens the oilsophagers, and
facilitates expectoration!' I had chosen what Fanny calls her
conservatory for my field of operation--the conservatory has two
dried fish-geraniums, and a dead dog-rose, in it, besides a
bad-smelling cat-nip bush; when, who should come running in but
the identical Miss X---- who caught me shaving.
'Poor Fanny,' said she, before I could turn round; 'do you have to
black the boots of that odious brute?'
'Miss X----,' said I, turning toward her, folding my arms over my
dressing-gown, spite of having a damp, unpolished boot on one arm
and a wet blacking-brush in the other hand, for I wished to strike
a position and awe at the same time; 'Miss X----, I am that odious
brute himself!'
If you had observed her wilt, droop, stutter, fly!
My wife went to the sea-shore last summer. I kept the house open,
and staid in town; cause, business. When she returned, Miss X----,
who lives opposite, called to see her. In less than five minutes,
my wife was a sad, moaning, desolate, injured, disconsolate,
afflicted, etcet. woman.
'How-ow-ow c-could you d-do it, Al-lal-bert?' she ejaculated,
flooding every word as it came out with tears.
'Do what?'
'Oh-woh! oh-woe-wooh-wa-ah!'
Miss X---- here thought proper to leave, casting from her eyes a
small hardware-shop in the way of daggers at me, as much as to
say, You are vicious, and I hate cheese! (theatrical for hate ye.)
Fanny, left to herself, revealed all to me. Miss X----, through
the Venetian blinds, had seen a--_gown_ in my room, late at night.
'It is too true,' said I, 'too, too true.'
'Al-lal-al-bert! you will b-b-break my h-heart. I c-could tear the
d-d-destroy-oy-yer of my p-p-peace to p-p-pieces!'
'Come on,' said I, 'you shall behold the destroyer of your peace.
You shall tear her to pieces, or I'll be d--dashed if I don't. I
am tired of the blasted thing.'
I grasped her hand, and led her to the back-chamber. 'There,
against the wall.'
'It is--'said she.
'It is,' said I, 'my dressing-gown! I will never again put it on
my shoulders, never. Here goes!' Rip it went from the tails up the
back to the neck.
'Hold, Albert! I will send it to the wounded soldiers.'
'Never! they are men, bricks, warriors. Such female frippery as
this shall never degrade them. Into the rag-bag with it, and sell
it to the Jews for a pair of China sheep or a crockery shepherd.
_Vamos_!'
The age for dressing-gowns has passed away, Rococo shams are hastening
to decay!
* * * * *
He who writes a book on Boston should have something to say on the
ladies at lectures, in the libraries, and at Loring's--at which latter
celebrated institution for the dissemination of _belles lettres_
lettered belles do vastly congregate of Saturday, providing themselves
with novel--no, we mean novelties [of course of a serious sort] for
their Sunday reading. Which may serve as an introduction to the
following characteristic of