A Satire Anthology

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 parlour, 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 exclaimed, 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 a’ways 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 wooed Miss McFlimsey, 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 for 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; “but the dinner is swallowed,
And digested, I trust; for ’tis now nine or 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
(Al’ 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-coloured, 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-coloured – ” “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.”