At the time of the French Revolution it was the fashion for ladies to
wear their dresses as tight round as pillow-cases; but now-a-days all is
confusion and bustle. That plaguy half-moon thing has set the ladies'
dresses swelling and swelling, till it will soon take as much stuff to
make a skirt as it does to make a tent. Forty years back a "full dress"
would go comfortably into a bandbox, but now it is only with a great
deal of pressing that more than one can be squeezed into an opera-box.
It was bad enough when "ye faire damezelles" had hoops all round, like
sugar casks or painted posts; but now they are encompassed with
air-tubes big enough for an atmospheric railway, and it is high time for
the husbands to meddle with what they don't understand, and pick the
ladies' dresses to pieces. In ten years, unless an Act of Parliament is
passed to prevent the spread of feminine dresses, ladies will be such
"awful swells" that there will be no coming near them. Husbands, to
obtain the least "peace and quiet," will be obliged to blow their wives
up not less than three times a day. Ladies' maids will be required to
have lungs like an ironfounder's blast; for if, when Mary is directed to
puff her mistress up into a "good figure," she cannot blow her out "nice
and full," of course she will be told to suit herself with a place where
"good wind" is no object. What a dreadful situation it would be for a
poor dear lady of fashion if any one should call when she's _en
déshabillé_—and consequently, by mere force of contrast, as thin as a
Passover biscuit. There she would be running about the house wringing
her hands, either promising, like a true Christian, to give a kiss for a
blow, or else crying, like the lady with the Mackintosh life-preserver
in a storm at sea, "Oh dear! Oh dear! Will nobody blow me out? Will
nobody blow me out?"
One thing is certain; our parties will soon become literal "_spreads_,"
and sink into very dull affairs, for there will be no dancing, since it
will be physically impossible for more than one to stand up at a time.
The hornpipe—sailor's or college—is the only English _pas seul_, and
_that_, we are afraid, would not exactly suit either Almack's or the
ladies.
If those dreadful "dress-extenders" come into fashion, flirting
assuredly must go out. It will be impossible for gentlemen, if the dear
creatures keep them at such a distance—at the very _outskirts_ as it
were of their soul's idol, to come within the mortal range of the very
best aimed eyeballs. A squeeze of the hand will be as rare as a squeeze
at Vauxhall. The supper room on the night of a "grand spread" will be a
curious place. There the gentlemen will stand, armed each with a long
baker's peel with which to hand the ladies their refreshments. The
greatest nicety, however, will be required in presenting a trifle, a
glass of wine, or a jelly by these means, lest the whole be deposited in
the fair creature's lap. Still if the ladies will persist in blowing
themselves out before they come, they must not complain that they cannot
eat anything when they are nearly bursting.
It would require the great prophet Moore himself to foretell all the
mischief to come unless these gowns are taken in a reef or two. If a cry
is raised against advertising carts for blocking up a street, what noise
will the city men make to a skirt stopping the way like a dead wall! No
doubt this last fact will be taken advantage of by every bill sticker in
London, and many a poor dear, on returning home, will find she has been
walking about all day with a three-sheet poster behind her, announcing
there then were "IMMENSE ATTRACTIONS, and had been entirely re-decorated
and painted."
The omnibus drivers, too, will throw up their reins to a man, unless,
like Pickford's, they are allowed to charge according to size and
weight, and their licences are altered from "thirteen people" to "two
skirts" inside. But the most frightful picture for contemplation is, in
the event of another French Revolution, what will become of the women?
With those dresses they are sure to be seized for making barricades
with. Three or four ladies, a carriage, and a pianoforte or two, would
be better than all the paving-stones in Paris.
The ladies had better be careful, or the gentlemen in revenge will
introduce the old Dutch costume.
[Illustration:
_A Splendid Spread._
]
[Illustration:
PORTRAIT OF THE CULPRIT.
]
AN AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES
WRITTEN BY
THE WRETCHED BRIDEGROOM,
ON
THE EVENING PREVIOUS TO THE AWFUL CEREMONY.
In grief and sorrow I rue the day,
A young woman first led me astray;
There is no hope for me, to-morrow,
My life must end in shame and sorrow.
In the morning, at ten, St. George's bell
Will toll for me—dreadful for to tell;
For then, alas!—oh, bitter lot—
They ties the horrid fatal knot.
Percival Spooney is my sad name,
I do confess I was much to blame;
I see my folly, now it is too late,
And do deserve my most dreadful fate.
On the first of April, it came to pass,
I well remember,—Alas! alas!—
The very thought makes my heart to bleed,—
I did vow to do this horrid deed.
Oh, hadn't I never seen Ann Power,
I might have been happy to this hour;
Keeping company with that artful Miss
Has brought me, in my prime, to this.
It was, while a-walking in Love Lane,
She first put the thoughts into my brain;
Sure, I had much better ne'er been born,
For now I must end my days in scorn.
Intent on effecting my vile plan,
I seeks her father—a grey-hair'd man;
And, like a madman, straight attacks him,
'Twas a heavy blow when I did _axe_ him.
With a heart of stone, or hardest metal,
The poor old man I quick did settle:
He soon was silenc'd, that fatal night,
And quite cut up—what a horrid sight!
Indeed—indeed, it was shocking sad:
How could I do it?—but I was mad;
When I did think on what I'd done
I felt inclin'd for to cut and run.
Her mother was,—oh, horrid fact!
A vile accessory to the act;
For she did urge me on, you see,
To do this here atrocity.
Young men, by me pray a warning take—
Shun woman's company ere 'tis too late;
If you're a-courting, strive your lives to mend,
Pity my sad untimely end.
To-morrow, many the crowd will swell,
To behold the awful spectacle:
What a dismal sight, alas! to see
A young man launch'd into misery.
As the church bell tolls the hour of ten,
The sad procession will begin;
And then, 'midst many a tearful eye,
My hands they will proceed to tie.
While the fatal noose they do prepare,
The Parson he will breathe a prayer,
Then vainly ask for me a blessin',
And pardon crave for my transgression.
Sadly, I confess, I've done amiss.
I know there is no hope for bliss.
To-morrow I shall be a public gaze,
And then in torments end my days.
[Illustration:
THE MELANCHOLY PROCESSION.
]
[Illustration:
WAITING FOR THE MAIL.
]
_BON MOT_-TO WAFERS:
OR, SEALS FOR "SHUTTING-UP" GOVERNORS, LOVERS, DEBTORS, AND CREDITORS.
┌────────────────────────────────────┐
│ Obliged to be _sharper_, │
│ because _less blunt_ than usual. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Love should come with a │
│ _ring_, but not _without a rap_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ To-day I write; │
│ To-morrow I writ. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Rat-a-tat! │
│ Look out for a Latitat. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ A little "soft solder" │
│ for a little tin. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ A _billet_ more than _doux_ │
│ for a _bill_ that's over-_due_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Pig's _cheek_ pleases—Woman's │
│ tickles—Man's offends. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ I send you _an oat_ (a note), │
│ Respondez _wheat_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ May we never _differ_, │
│ But always _correspond_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Like a sheep I seek │
│ consolation in my _pen_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ This is between you and me │
│ and the _post_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Though we correspond, I │
│ trust there'll be _no words_ │
│ between us. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ You can't _do wrong_, │
│ If you _do write_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ May the _female_ be as │
│ trustworthy as the _mail_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ I write on spec: │
│ and hope it will _answer_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ You know _the hand_; │
│ Become the possessor of it. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Though a person of extreme │
│ _diffidence_, │
│ I write this in _confidence_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Pray give me your _countenance_; │
│ it will put a _better_ │
│ _face_ upon the matter. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ I trust you wont be _dreadfully_ │
│ _affected_ on receipt of this. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Sow your wild oats, and │
│ reap five-p'un'-'_otes_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ You _do_! │
│ I _dun_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ The "Governor" holds out, │
│ and wont give up the keys. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Eat a hearty breakfast, and │
│ _Dinner_ forget. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ To one who possesses a good large │
│ _chere amie_ (_share o' me_). │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ If I _correspond_ with you, │
│ You must "_match_" with me. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ You're _dying_ for me you declare; │
│ So you _are_, poor old │
│ fellow,—_your hair_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Friendship is the _cement_ of │
│ life, and we the "_bricks_." │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ You require _bleeding_; │
│ Allow me to _stick_ you. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ This is the land of Liberty, │
│ so I take one. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Don't be always _for-getting_, │
│ And never _for-giving_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ For _cleaning_ your _tables_ │
│ there's nothing like a good │
│ "_Sponge_." │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ One chaste salute, │
│ Go it my _two-lips_. │
├────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Give your _countenance_, and │
│ you'll give something │
│ extremely _handsome_. │
└────────────────────────────────────┘