‘Miss X——­,’ said I, turning toward her, folding my arms over my dressing-gown, spite of having a damp, unpolished boot on one arm and a wet blacking-brush in the other hand, for I wished to strike a position and awe at the same time; ’Miss X——­, I am that odious brute himself!’

    If you had observed her wilt, droop, stutter, fly!

My wife went to the sea-shore last summer.  I kept the house open, and staid in town; cause, business.  When she returned, Miss X——­, who lives opposite, called to see her.  In less than five minutes, my wife was a sad, moaning, desolate, injured, disconsolate, afflicted, etcet. woman.

    ‘How-ow-ow c-could you d-do it, Al-lal-bert?’ she ejaculated,
    flooding every word as it came out with tears.

    ‘Do what?’

    ‘Oh-woh! oh-woe-wooh-wa-ah!’

    Miss X——­ here thought proper to leave, casting from her eyes a
    small hardware-shop in the way of daggers at me, as much as to
    say, You are vicious, and I hate cheese! (theatrical for hate ye.)

    Fanny, left to herself, revealed all to me.  Miss X——­, through
    the Venetian blinds, had seen a—­gown in my room, late at night.

    ‘It is too true,’ said I, ‘too, too true.’

    ’Al-lal-al-bert! you will b-b-break my h-heart.  I c-could tear the
    d-d-destroy-oy-yer of my p-p-peace to p-p-pieces!’

    ‘Come on,’ said I, ’you shall behold the destroyer of your peace. 
    You shall tear her to pieces, or I’ll be d—­dashed if I don’t.  I
    am tired of the blasted thing.’

    I grasped her hand, and led her to the back-chamber.  ’There,
    against the wall.’

    ’It is—­’said she.

    ‘It is,’ said I, ’my dressing-gown!  I will never again put it on
    my shoulders, never.  Here goes!’ Rip it went from the tails up the
    back to the neck.

    ‘Hold, Albert!  I will send it to the wounded soldiers.’

’Never! they are men, bricks, warriors.  Such female frippery as this shall never degrade them.  Into the rag-bag with it, and sell it to the Jews for a pair of China sheep or a crockery shepherd. Vamos!’

The age for dressing-gowns has passed away, Rococo shams are hastening to decay!

* * * * *

He who writes a book on Boston should have something to say on the ladies at lectures, in the libraries, and at Loring’s—­at which latter celebrated institution for the dissemination of belles lettres lettered belles do vastly congregate of Saturday, providing themselves with novel—­no, we mean novelties [of course of a serious sort] for their Sunday reading.  Which may serve as an introduction to the following characteristic of

    YE BOSTON YOUNGE LADIE.