Yes, you are all dear to me—so dear that when I watch you, as I do at
times, most anxiously, I feel how sadly you stand in need of an adviser.
But do not alarm yourselves! I am not going to be ill-natured. No! I
will not find fault with Miss Crinoline's bustle; though I certainly
must confess it is rather absurd to see her doing the very agreeable in
one room, with the hind breadths of her skirt half-way across another.
Nor will I say anything to Miss Nude about wearing her dresses so low as
she does; for though I am an ardent admirer of the "blanches épaules,"
still I cannot help observing that she does allow her gown to slip a
_leetle_ too far off her shoulders sometimes. But I can't spare Miss
Carney, who calls Miss Nude "dear," and then tells me confidentially,
"how bad it looks to see such a nice girl as she is go about with her
shoulders so dreadfully exposed; that it really makes people think her
so bold, and that it's pity some one doesn't tell her of it." And this
Miss Carney does with a look of such pretty pity that for a moment I
think she is the most good-natured creature since Mrs. Adam, and feel
inclined to run and tell the bare shoulders that she ought to be ashamed
of herself. It's a great mark of talent in a young lady, by-the-bye, to
be able to say ill-natured things in a good-natured way.
And I should most strongly recommend Miss Madonna, who wears her hair
plain, not to find fault with Miss Chevelure's crisp ringlets. Why
should Miss Madonna say they are not becoming? Miss Chevelure's soft
blue eyes and aquiline nose certainly proclaim her to be the prettier of
the two; and I would bet my favourite whisker that Miss Madonna is a far
better customer to Isadore for cosmetique, bandoline, fixature, and
other toilet luxuries than she of the crisp ringlets whom she decries.
And why should Miss Madonna be severe upon Miss Blue Stocking (whom she
calls her "dear Cloè," and rushes to embrace when she enters the room)?
Why should she say that Miss Blue Stocking has her hair dressed "à la
Chinoise," to show off her forehead, and make her look more
intellectual? But I don't believe it; though I certainly must say that
it would be better if the fair _bas bleu_ did wear her hair a little
less like the ladies of China, and a little more like those of England.
My dear creatures, take my advice—never call a young lady "dear," when
every one knows you detest her; and never try to exalt yourselves by the
detraction of others. Depend upon it, the diminishing spectacles of envy
do not become you.
Again: I don't like to hear Miss Pertness abusing Captain Rover, and
calling him an impudent fellow and a coxcomb in so spiteful a tone;
especially when I know that a few evenings back she danced with him
nearly every quadrille, and that she is now curling her pretty lip
simply because Miss Flirt's sparkling eyes have bewitched the Captain
for a time. Nor should Miss Pertness run across the room to Miss Prude
(whom she laughs at for "dressing like a girl of eighteen, when all the
world knows she's thirty, if she's a day"), to point out how the said
Miss Flirt is coquetting with the said Captain Rover.
Rest assured, my dear creatures, when you can say nothing good of any
one, the best way is to keep your pretty mouths closed, and to say
nothing at all. Talk any little innocent nonsense you like that is
natural to you; but do not, for goodness sake, be satirical or
ill-natured. Leave that to philanthropists.
Above all, don't flirt _too_ much: it's very dangerous, and may ruin
your prospects in the world. For rely upon it, that though most men like
flirts very well for an evening, they would hardly think of linking
themselves to one for a lifetime.
Moreover, don't affect blueness, or music-madness, or any kind of
literary or scientific mania: though if you must, for mercy sake, don't
be silly enough to believe that you show your intellect by neglecting
your dress or personal appearance. Philosophy and Polkas are very
distinct things; so either throw up one or the other; for the song that
says, "I must have lov'd thee hadst thou not been fair," is one of those
fictions that Bunn and the other British Poets have been in the habit of
getting set to music, and foisting on the public from time immemorial.
Now, adieu! and though I am quite aware that the main object of your
lives is to make us the slaves of your charms, and then to render us
miserable by marrying us (the bare idea sets us trembling), still we
wish you success the most brilliant. May Park phaetons, opera-boxes,
diamond suites, and even coronets and plain gold rings, be showered at
your dear little feet; and, above all, may you be happy, whether your
wedding-cards bear the address of Belgrave Square or Clapham Common.
Yours, ever Platonically,
ALBERT DE BERLINS.
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