 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
155
ELI'S BELLE OF SARATOGA.
There she goes—the old belle—and thus we sum
her up: Nine gallons of inflated pannier, 176 yards
of muslin in trailing underskirts, $48 worth of wig, $36
worth of dangling smelling-bottles, fans, card-cases,
and straps; 196 yards of gros grain silk, some cotton,
one box of pearl powder; $72 worth of teeth on gutta
percha; six-button gloves, mammoth umbrella, copy of
Edmund Yates's book—and all hanging on the arm of
something intended to represent a man—a sort of amateur
gentleman.
Saxe says:
Hark to the music of her borrowed tone;
Observe the blush that purchase makes her own;
See the sweet smile that sheds its beaming rays,
False as the bosom where her diamonds blaze.
Observe the blush that purchase makes her own;
See the sweet smile that sheds its beaming rays,
False as the bosom where her diamonds blaze.
See how the changes of her walk reveal
The patent instep and the patent heel;
Her patent pannier rounds her form divine,
Its patent arch supports her patent spine,
Lends matchless symmetry and stylish gait,
And bears the label, “Patent—'68.”
A patent corset holds her flimsy form,
And patent dress-pads keep her bosom warm.
Behold the plaintive glance of patent eyes,
As she lifts her patent eyebrows in surprise.
She shakes her head—four pecks of patent hair
Fly like a hop-yard in the August air,
The patent instep and the patent heel;
Her patent pannier rounds her form divine,
Its patent arch supports her patent spine,
Lends matchless symmetry and stylish gait,
And bears the label, “Patent—'68.”
A patent corset holds her flimsy form,
And patent dress-pads keep her bosom warm.
Behold the plaintive glance of patent eyes,
As she lifts her patent eyebrows in surprise.
She shakes her head—four pecks of patent hair
Fly like a hop-yard in the August air,
156
And twenty grim ghosts whisper her aside,
“Dear Sylph! we wore that wig before we died.”
To whom respondeth, unabashed, the beauty,
Git out, you spooks! I guess I know my jute-y.”
How gnash her patent teeth with gutta percha ire,
And flash her patent eyes with belladonna fire!
As drops her patent chignon in a chair,
She jumps to pick it up—
“Dear Sylph! we wore that wig before we died.”
To whom respondeth, unabashed, the beauty,
Git out, you spooks! I guess I know my jute-y.”
How gnash her patent teeth with gutta percha ire,
And flash her patent eyes with belladonna fire!
As drops her patent chignon in a chair,
She jumps to pick it up—
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |