a Law School and found himself domiciled in a Refined Joint that was a
Cross between a Salon and a Beanery. It was one of those Regular Places
kept by a thin Lady who had once ridden in her Own Carriage. Her Long
Suit was Home Atmosphere. She had the Hall-Ways filled with it. What is
more, she came from an Old Family. Lord Cornwallis once stopped at their
House to get a Drink of Water and George Washington came very near
sleeping in one of the Bed-Rooms. So that made the Board about 50 cents
more on the Week.
Like all high class Boarding Houses, it was infested by some Lovely
People. There was the girl who spelled it Edythe and was having her
voice done over. She had a Mother to keep Cases on her and do the Press
Work. Also there was the Grass Widow who remembered her Husband's name
but had mislaid the Address. Also the Old Boarder who was always under
the influence of Pepsin. He would come down to Breakfast wearing the
Hoof-Marks of a Nightmare Seventeen Hands high and holler about the Food
and tell the Young Lawyer how you can't believe anything you see in the
Papers. Also there was a young man employed in a Furniture Store who
knew that he could put Eddie Sothern on the Fritz if he ever got a Whack
at the Drama. Unless some one got out an Injunction he would recite
Poe's "Raven" while Edythe played Chills and Fever music on the
Once-Piano. So the Astute Reader will understand that this was a sure
enough Boarding House.
Ranse could have stood for the Intellectual Environment if there had
been a little more doing in the Food Line. Instead of stacking it up on
the Table and giving the word to Pitch In, the Refined Landlady had it
brought on in stingy little Dabs by several Beautiful Heiresses who
hated to hold Converse with Ordinary Boarders. About the time that
Ranse, with the Farm Appetite, began to settle down to Business he would
notice all the other People rolling up the Red Napkins and trying to get
them into the Rings. If he kept on eating after that, they would give
him the Eye.
Cereals were strongly featured at the polite Prunery. Ransom, while
employed on the Farm, had often mixed up Chop Feed and Bran for the
Shoats and Yearlings, but he never thought he would come down to eating
it himself. Another Strong Card was a Soup that was quite Pale and had a
couple of Vermicelli swimming around in it. And every Tuesday they
served Dried Currants with Clinkers in them.
Before Ranse had been against the Health Food Proposition many moons he
began to hanker for the yellow-legged Plymouth Rocks, the golden Butter
and the kind of milk that comes from the Cow--take a Tin Cup and go
right out to the Spring House and dip it up for yourself. Poor, eh?
Still, he figured that as soon as he got into Practice and began to
connect with the Currency he could shake the Oatmeal Circuit and put up
at an A1 Hotel.
Like all the other Country Boys of the Story Books, Ransom made a
Ten-Strike in the City. He worked 18 hours per and in Due Time he was
taken into the Firm and stopped shaving his Neck and wore Pajamas
instead of a home-made Nightie.
Then he moved into a Hotel that had $40,000 worth of Paintings on the
First Floor, so that no one had a right to kick even if the Push Button
failed to work. All the Furniture was Louie Something. You take an
ex-Farm-Hand and let him sit in a Gold Chair with Satin Monogram that is
too Nice to lean against, and you can see at a Glance that he is sure
enjoying himself. Ranse now began to go against the à la Carte Gag. The
Menu was prepared by a Near-French Chef. For Fear that People might find
Fault with the Food he always smothered it and covered it over with Goo.
Ranse began to find out that Goulasch meant Boiled Dinner with Perfumery
in it, and also that there were seven different names for Hash. The only
Thing that saved it from being Hash was the Piece of Lemon Peel tucked
on the Side.
Ranse was not very strong for the French Cooking. Sometimes he would
find himself Chicken-Hungry and he would order what he thought was
Chicken and he would get a half section of cold storage Poulet covered
with Armor Plate, a neat Ruffle around the Ankle and an Olive reposing
on the Bosom. If he ordered Ice Cream he got something resembling a
sample Paper Weight from the Quarries at Bedford, Indiana. And the
Buckwheat Cakes! They looked like Doilies and tasted like Blotters. And
the Demi-Tasse is an Awful Joke to spring on the Man who wants a Cup of
Coffee.
Here was the Hon. Ransom, rich and prosperous and apparently happy, but
in reality he was Dead Sore. Things appeared to be coming very Soft for
him and yet that which he wanted most of all he could not get. He wanted
the real old simon-pure Home Cooking: He recalled the Happy Days of Bean
Soup and Punkin Pie and Cottage Cheese. Time and again he would see one
of those old Friends on a Score-Card in a Restaurant and he would order
it and get some Fake Imitation with Smilax all around the edges. So,
after a while, he became discouraged and ate all the Junk that was set
before him--Dope, Lemon Peel, Floral Decoration and all.
Often he would go to Banquets that cost as much as Ten a Throw. He
would dally with Fish that had Glue Dressing on top of it and Golf Balls
lying alongside. He would tackle Siberian Slush that had Hair Tonic
floating on top of it. Then the Petrified Quail and the Cheese that
should have been served in 1884. Often, sitting at these Magnificent
Spreads, he thought to himself that he would willingly trade all the
Tiffany Water on the Table for one Goblet of real Buttermilk.
After Ransom had insulted his Digestive Apparatus for many years with
the horrible Concoctions of the Gents' Café he resolved to go back to
his native Town and visit some of his Blood Relations so that he could
get at least one more Crack at real American Grub.
He wrote that he was coming and his Kin became greatly Agitated.
"Our celebrated Cousin, the Hon. Ransom Peabody, is coming to visit us,"
they said. "We must make unusual Preparations to receive the big
Battleship. He is Rich and High-Toned and has been living at one of
those $6-a-Day Palaces and we must cut a big Melon when he shows up. He
is accustomed to City Food and we must not insult him with ordinary
Provender."
So they began framing up Dishes out of a Subscription Cook Book
purchased the year before from a Lady with Gold Glasses and a grand flow
of Language.
The Hon. Ransom arrived late one Evening and all Night he lay awake in
the Spare Bed-Room, gloating over the prospect of a Home Breakfast.
"Me for the Sausage Cakes with the good old Sage rubbed into them," said
Ranse. "I will certainly show the Buckwheats how to take a Joke and the
way I'll dip into that Coffee will be a Caution. And mebbe I won't go to
those Eggs direct from the Hen!"
He arose early, but had to wait two Hours. As he was from the City, the
Family had postponed Breakfast until 9 o'clock. When he faced up to the
Table he was Wolfish. First they gave him Grape Fruit au Kirsch. Then
the Finger Bowl with the cute Rose Leaves floating idly on the dimpled
Surface. Then a dainty Lamb Chop with an ornamental Fence around it and
a sweet little cup of Cocoa in the China that Uncle Henry bought at the
World's Fair. Then French Toast and Eggs à la Gazaza, with Christmas
Trees stuck into them.
The Hon. Ransom arose and howled like a Siberian Wolf, which was
Impolite of him. Before he went Home he did manage to get a little real
Eating, but every one said he was very Eccentric to prefer such a simple
dish as Fried Chicken.
Moral--Hurry up and get it before the Chef and the Cook-Book have us
entirely Civilized.
NOTHING TO WEAR
BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER
Miss 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 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 breakfast, 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-franc robes to twenty-sous 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!
The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer _Arago_,
Formed, M'Flimsey 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 muslin, embroideries, worked underclothes,
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those;
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties,
Gave _good-by_ to the ship, and _go by_ to the duties.
Her relations at home all marveled, 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 besides,
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 M'Flimsey 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's 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 exclaims, 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 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 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; "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 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, the sweet Mazarine;
That superb _point d'aiguille_, that imperial green,
That zephyr-like tarletan, 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 pretense--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 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 know how,
On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,
At home and upstairs, 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, heartrending 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 skeptic,
For she touchingly says that this sort of grief
Can not find in Religion the slightest relief,
And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare
For the victims 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! 'twas 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,
Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier,
Won't some one discover a new California?
O! ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day,
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its swirl 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 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!
And O! 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 pretense,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness and love,
O! daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!
A BRANCH LIBRARY[4]
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
There is an old fellow named Mark,
Who lives in a tree in the Park.
You can see him each night,
By his library light,
Turning over the leaves after dark.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] By permission of Life Publishing Company.
IS IT I?[5]
BY WARWICK S. PRICE
Where is the man who has not said
At evening, when he went to bed,
"I'll waken with the crowing cock,
And get to work by six o'clock?"
Where is the man who, rather late,
Crawls out of bed at half-past eight,
That has not thought, with fond regard,
"It's better not to work too hard?"
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Lippincott's Magazine.
NOT ACCORDING TO SCHEDULE
BY MARY STEWART CUTTING
"Haven't you any coffee spoons, Kitty? I thought you had a couple of
dozen when you went to housekeeping."
Marcia, with her sleeves rolled up from her round white arms, was
rummaging in the sideboard, as she knelt beside it on the floor, her
brown eyes peering into the corners.
"Yes, of course I have coffee spoons. Aren't they there? I'm sure I
don't know _what_ becomes of things."