 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
BROWN'S GIRLS.
DIARY OF TWO DAYS IN HER LIFE.
Brown's Girls!
Yes, we have Brown's Girls, too.
They are a set of husband-hunting young ladies—
smart, accomplished, and pretty, but with no hearts.
They only marry for money. They are thus taught by
their mothers, and failing to catch fortunes, many of
them become blase old maids.
Below I give the diary of two days in the life of a
New York young lady. At nineteen she is honest,
loveable, and innocent. Seven years after she becomes
a blase, Brown's Girl.
HER DIARY—1875.
May 1, 1875.—Nineteen to-day—
and I'm too happy to live! How
lovely the Park looked this morning.
How gracefully the swans swam on
the lake, and how the yellow dandelions
lifted up their yellow faces
—all smiles!
Albert—dear Albert—passed mamma
and me, and bowed so gracefully! Mamma frowned
at him. O, dear! I am not quite happy.
Last night my first ball, and Albert was there.
my card—then mamma frowned savagely. She said I
ought to be ashamed to waste my time with a poor
fellow like Albert Sinclair. Then she brought up old
Thompson, that horrid rich old widower, and I had
to scratch Albert's name off. When Albert saw me
dancing with Thompson the color came to his cheeks,
and he only just touched the ends of my fingers in
the grand chain.
O, dear, one of Albert's little fingers
is worth more than old Thompson's
right arm. How stupidly old Thompson
talked, but mamma smiled all the time.
Once she tipped me on the shoulder,
and said in a low, harsh voice, “Be
agreeable, Lizzie, for Mr. Thompson is
a great catch.” Then Thompson, the stupid old fool,
tried to talk like the young fellows. He told me I
looked “stunning,” said the ball was a “swell” affair,
and then asked me to ride up to the Park in his four-horse
drag. Bah! Mother says I must go, but, O,
dear, I'd rather walk two blocks with Albert than ride
ten miles in a chariot with the old dyed whiskers.
After supper such an event took place. Albert
joined me, and after a lovely waltz we wandered into
the conservatory and had a nice confidential chat together.
It is wonderful how we both like the same
things. He admires the beautiful moon—so do I. I
love the stars, and so does he! We both like to look
out of the open window, and we both like to be near
each other—that is, I know I do. Albert dotes on
Albert, and the little tears fairly started (but Albert
didn't see them) when he repeated softly in my
ear:
Of my beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of my beautiful Annabel Lee,”
sounding sea. Then Fannie Carter, who is in my class
at Mrs. Hoffman's, came by with Will Mason, and sat
right down in the next window. I do believe she
loves him!
What a nice, sensible talk Albert and I had! First,
we began talking about the soul—how destiny sometimes
bound two souls together by an invisible chain.
Then we considered the mission of man and woman
upon the earth—how they ought to comfort and support
each other in sickness and in health. And then
Albert quite startled me by asking me if I had ever
cared for any one. And when I said “Yes, papa and
mamma,” he laughed, and said he did not mean them,
and then I felt quite hurt, and the tears would come
into my eyes, for I do love mamma, even if she does
make me dance with that horrid old Thompson, with
his dyed whiskers.
Then Albert leaned his face towards mine. I felt
his mustache almost touch me as he whispered such
nice words in my ear. He told me how he had longed
for an opportunity to speak to me alone, how—and
then I was so happy, for I knew he was going to say
old widower, came along and interrupted us.
“Come, Lizzie, you go with Mr. Thompson, for I
want to present Mr. Sinclair to Miss Brown,” and then
ma—O, dear! she took Albert and presented him to
the girl that I hate worst of anybody in school. I
didn't see Albert again, for when he came around, ma
said, “Lizzie, it looks horrible to be seen dancing with
Albert Sinclair all the evening. You ought to be
ashamed of yourself.”
O, dear, I look like a fright—I know I do, but I
do hope I shall look better when I see Albert on the
avenue to-morrow. Let's see—I wonder if he won't
write to me? But I'll see him when he walks up from
business to-night—maybe.
HER DIARY, 1882.
May 1, 1882.—Out again last
night. What a horrible bore parties
are! I hate society. New
York women are so prudish, with
their atrocious high-neck dresses,
and the fellows are so wretchedly
slow. O, dear! Everything goes
wrong. If I hadn't met Bob Munroe,
who took us to the Mabille and
the Alhambra, on the other side
last summer, I'd 'a' died. Bob's double entendre rather
startled the poky New York girls, though. Gracious,
they ought to hear the French beaux talk! They do
make such a fuss about our Paris décolleté dresses.
Room with hardly any body on at all—and she
had that same dress on last night. Of course I
could not stand any chance with her, for décolleté
dresses do take the fellows so. But I'll be on hand
next time.
Young Sinclair, with whom I used to “spoon” years
ago, was there—and married to Fannie Carter, my
old classmate. Pshaw! she is a poky, old, high-necked,
married woman now, and Sinclair—well, they
say that he was almost broken-hearted at my conduct—that
he drank, and then reformed and joined
the church, and is now a leading clergyman. Well,
I'm glad Sinclair became a preacher. I always knew
black would become his complexion.
What if I should go and hear him
preach, flirt with him a little, and get
his poky old wife jealous! Goodness!
but don't he look serious,
though! There's a glass—gracious!
I'm as pale as a ghost! There's no
use of my trying to dress without
rouge. I do wish they would learn
how to put on pearl white here—why, every wrinkle
shows through. Them I do wish New York fellows
would learn how to dance! — that atrocious galop
upset my pads, and I had to leave in the middle of
the dance to arrange things. Old Thompson is dead,
died single—but his brother, the rich whiskey man,
was there, and gracious! it was fun to dance with
him after he had taken in his usual two bottles of
and all—into the Virginia reel. That's Bob Monroe's
pun. But after we got through dancing, didn't I
have a flirtation with Old Thompson No. 2 while
Albert Sinclair was helping mother to some refreshments!
Dear old thing, she don't bother me in my
conservatory flirtation any more. Well, Old Thompson
No. 2 got quite affectionate—wanted to kiss my hand,
and when I let him he wanted to kiss me! The
old wretch—when he's got a wife and three daughters.
But I had my fun—I made him propose conditionally—that
is, if Mrs. Thompson dies; and I tell ma
then I'm going to be one of our gay and dashing
young wives with an old fool of a husband—and
plenty of lovers. O, dear! I'm tired and sleepy, and
I do believe my head aches awfully, and it's that
abominable champagne. What goosies Fannie Carter
and Albert Sinclair have made of themselves! What
fun can she have with the men? O, dear!
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |