ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES.
My Dear Creatures,
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.
THE BANQUET OF THE BLACK DOLLS
In commemoration of the Reduction of the Duty on Rags.
The Cooks of England offering up their Kitchen Stuff to their Black Idol.
It shall have all the kitchen stuff—so it shall.
A Lover of Grease.