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 dress-maker
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."
'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 pretence,-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."

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 knew how,
On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,
At home and up stairs, 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!"

Oh, ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its whirl 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, oh, 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 pretence,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
Oh, daughters of earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest, in that upper realm, you have nothing to wear.

IRISH ALIENS.*-R. L. SHIEL.

There is a man of great abilities-not a member of this house, but whose talents and boldness have placed him in the topmost place in his party-who has been heard to speak of the Irish "aliens." Disdaining all imposture, and abandoning all reserve, he distinctly and audaciously tells the Irish people that they are not entitled to the same privileges as Englishmen; that they are "aliens." Aliens? Good heavens! Was Arthur, Duke of Wellington, in the house of Lords, and did he not start up and exclaim, "Hold! 1 have seen the aliens do their duty!" The "battles, sieges, fortunes that he has passed," ought to have come back upon him. He ought to have remembered that, from the earliest achievement in which he displayed that military genius which has placed him foremost in the annals of modern warfare, down to that last and surpassing combat which has made his name imperishable,-from Assaye to Waterloo,-the Irish soldiers, with whom your armies are filled, were the inseparable auxiliaries to the glory with which his unparalleled successes have been crowned.

Whose were the arms that drove your bayonets at Vimiera through the phalanxes that never reeled in the shock of war before? What desperate valor climbed the steeps and filled the moats of Badajos? All, all his vic

*In reply to Lord Lyndhurst (1837), who had stigmatized the Irish as aliens,

tories should have rushed and crowded back upon his memory; Vimeira, Badajos, Salamanca, Albuera, Toulouse; and, last of all, the greatest- -Tell me, for you were there, I appeal to the gallant soldier before me (Sir Henry Hardinge), who bears, I know, a generous heart in an intrepid breast,-tell me, for you must needs remember, on that day, when the destinies of mankind were trembling in the balance, while death fell in showers; when the artillery of France, leveled with the precision of the most deadly science, played upon them; when her legions, incited by the voice, inspired by the example, of their mighty leader, rushed again and again to the onset; tell me if, for an instant, when to hesitate for an instant was to be lost, the "aliens" blenched! And when, at length, the moment for the last decisive movement had arrived; when the valor, so long wisely checked, was at last let loose; when with words familiar, but immortal, the great captain commanded the great assault, tell me if Catholic Ireland with less heroic valor than the natives of your own glorious isle precipitated herself upon the foe! The blood of England, Scotland, Ireland, flowed in the same stream, drenched the same field. When the chill morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together; in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited; the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust; the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave! Partakers in every peril; in the glory shall we not be permitted to participate?—and shall we be told, as a requital, that we are estranged from the noble country for whose salvation our life-blood was poured out?

CLERICAL WIT.

A parson, who a missionary had been,
And hardships and privations oft had seen,
While wandering far on lone and desert strands,
A weary traveler in benighted lands,

Would often picture to his little flock
The terrors of the gibbet and the block;
How martyrs suffered in the ancient times,
And what men suffer now in other climes;
And though his words were eloquent and deep,
His hearers oft indulged themselves in sleep.
He marked with sorrow each unconscious nod,
Within the portals of the house of God,
And once this new expedient thought he'd take
In his discourse, to keep the rogues awake:-
Said he, "While traveling in a distant state,
I witnessed scenes which I will here relate:
'Twas in a deep, uncultivated wild,

Where noontide glory scarcely ever smiled;
Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness howled,
Where bears frequented, and where panthers prowled
And, on my word, mosquitos there were found,
Many of which, I think, would weigh a pound!
More fierce and ravenous than the hungry shark-
They oft were known to climb the trees and bark!"

The audience seemed taken by surprise-
All started up and rubbed their wondering eyes;
At such a tale they all were much amazed,
Each drooping lid was in an instant raised,
And we must say, in keeping heads erect,
It had its destined and desired effect.
But tales like this credulity appalled;
Next day, the deacons on the pastor called,
And begged to know how he could ever tell
The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell.

"Why, sir," said one, "think what a monstrous weight
Were they as large as you were pleased to state?
You said they'd weigh a pound! It can't be true;
We'll not believe it, though 'tis told by you!"

Ah, but it is!" the parson quick replied; "In what I stated you may well confide. Many, I said, sir,-and the story's good,Indeed I think that many of them would!” The deacon saw at once that he was caught, Yet deemed himself relieved, on second thought. "But then the barking-think of that, good man! Such monstrous lies! Explain it if you can!” "Why, that my friend, I can explain with easeThey climbed the bark, sir, when they climbed the trees!"