Borrowed Finery Or Killed Off By A Ballet Girl

Shakspeare has written--"let him that's robbed--not wanting what is

stolen, not know it, and he's not robbed at all!" Now this fact often

becomes very apparent, especially so in the case of Mrs. Pompaliner,--a

lady of whom we have had occasion to speak before, the same who sent

Mrs. Brown, the washerwomen, sundry boxes of perfume to mix in her

suds, while washing the pyramids of dimity and things of Mrs. P. There

was a lady--no member of the sex, that ever suffered more, from

dread of contagion, fear of dirt, and the contamination of other people,

than Mrs. Pompaliner.

"Olivia," said she, one morning, to one of her waiting maids, for Mrs.

Pompaliner kept three, alternating them upon the principle of varying

her handkerchiefs, gloves and linen, as they--in her double-distilled

refined idea of things, became soiled by use, from time to time.

"Olivia, come here--Jessamine, you can leave:" she was so intent upon

odor and nature's purest loveliness, that she either sought

sweet-scented cognomened waiting-maids, or nick-named them up to the

fanciful standard of her own.

"Olivia, here, take this handkerchief away, take the horrid thing away.

I believe my soul somebody has touched it after it was ironed. Do take

it away," and the poor victim of concentrated, double extract of human

extravagance, almost fainted and fell back upon her lounge, in a fit of

abhorrence at the idea of her mouchoir being touched, tossed, or

opened, after it entered her camphorated drawers in her highly-perfumed



"Yes'm," was the response of the fine, ruddy, and wholesome looking


"Olivia, put on your gloves."


"Go down to Mrs. Brown's," she faintly says--"tell her to come here this

very day."



"Yes'm," replied the fine-eyed, real woman.

"Got your gloves on?"


"Well, take this key, go to my boudoir, in the fifth drawer of my

papier mache black bureau, you will find a case of handkerchiefs."


"Take out three, yes, four, close the case, lock the drawer, close the

boudoir door, and bring down the handkerchiefs upon my rosewood tray. Do

you comprehend, Olivia?"

"Yes'm," said the girl.

"But come here; let me see your hands. O, horror! such gloves! touch my

handkerchiefs or bureau drawers with those horrid gloves! Poison me!"

cries the terrified woman.

"Olivia," she again ejaculates, after a moment's pause, from overtasked


"Yes'm," the blushing, tickled blonde replies.

"Go call Vanilla, you are quite soiled now. I want a fresh servant,


"Ah, Vanilla, girl, have you got your gloves on?"

"Yes'm," the yellow girl modestly answers.

"Then do go and bring me six handkerchiefs from my boudoir, in the fifth

drawer of my black papier mache bureau. Let me see your gloves, dear.

"Ah, Vanilla, you are to be depended upon; your gloves are clean--now

run along, dear, for I'm suffering for a fresh, new, and untouched


"Ah, that's well. Now, Vanilla, go to Mrs. Brown's, my laundress--say

that I wish her to come here, immediately."

"Yes'm," says the bright quadroon, and away she spins for the domicil of

democratic Mrs. Brown, the laundress.

"Now what's up, I'd like to know?" quoth the old woman.

"Dunno, missus wants to see you--guess you better come," says Vanilla.

"Deuce take sich fussy people," says Mrs. Brown; "I wouldn't railly put

up with all her dern'd nonsense, ef she wa'n't so poorly, so weak in her

mind and body, and so good about paying for her work. No, I declare I

wouldn't," said the strong-minded woman.

"Bring the creature up," said Mrs. Pompaliner, as one of her fresh

attendants announced the washerwoman.

"Ah, you are here?"

"Yes," said the fat, hardy, and independent, if awkward, Mrs. Brown, as

she stood in the august presence of Mrs. Pompaliner, and the gorgeous

trappings of her own private drawing-room.

"Yes, I believe I am, ma'am!" says the she-democrat.

"Vanilla, tell Olivia to bring Jessamine here."


"Now Mrs. a--what is your name?"

"Brown, Dorcas Brown; my husband and I--"

"Never mind, that's sufficient, Mrs. a--Brown," said the reclining Mrs.

Pompaliner. "I wish to know if anybody is permitted to touch or handle

any of my wardrobe, my linen, handkerchiefs, hose, gloves, laces, etc.,

in your house?"

"Tetch 'em!" echoes the rotund laundress; "why of course we've got to

tetch 'em, or how'd we get 'em ironed and put in your baskets, ma'am?"

"Do you pretend to say, Mrs. a--Brown--O dear! dear! I am afraid you

have ruined all my clothes!"

"Ruined 'em?" quoth Mrs. Brown, coloring up, like a fresh and lively

lobster immersed in a pot of highly caloric water.

"I want to know if the things ain't been done this week as well as I

ever did 'em, could do 'em, or anybody could do 'em on this mighty yeath

(earth), ma'am!"

"Come, come, don't get me flustered, woman," cries the poor, faint Mrs.

Pompaliner. "Don't come here to worry me; answer me and go."

"So I can go, ma'am!" said Mrs. Brown, with a vigorous toss of her

bullet head.

"Stop, will you understand me, Mrs.--a--"

"Brown, ma'am, Brown's my name. I ain't afeard to let anybody know it!"

responded the spunky laundress.

The arrival of Olivia, who ushered in Jessamine, turned the current of


"Jessamine, your gloves on, dear?"


"Then go to my boudoir, open the rose-wood clothes case, bring down

the skirts, a dozen or two of the mouchoirs, the laces and hose."

The girl departed, and soon returned with a ponderous paper box, laden

with the articles required.

"Now," said Mrs. Pompaliner, "now, Brown, look at those articles; don't

you see that they have been touched?"

"Tetched! lord-a-massy, ma'am, how'd you get 'em ironed, folded and

brought home, ma'am, without tetching 'em?"

"Olivia, Vanilla, where are you? Jessamine, dear, bring me a fresh

handkerchief, ignite a pastile, there's such an odor in the room. Do

you smell, Mrs. a--Brown, that horrid lavender or rose, or, or,--do

you smell it, Brown?"

"Lord-a-massy, ma'am," said the old woman of suds, "I ollers smell a

dreadful smell here; them parfumeries o' yourn, I often tell my Augusty,

I wonder them stinkin'--"

"O! O! dear!" cries Mrs. Pompaliner, going off "into a spell;"

recovering a little, Mrs. Pompaliner proceeds to state that for some

time past, she had been troubled with a presentiment, that her fine

clothes had been tampered with after leaving the smoothing iron, and how

fatal to her would be the fact of any mortal daring to use, in the

remotest manner, any fresh garment or personal apparel of hers!

Suspicion had been aroused, the articles before the parties were now

diligently examined, when, lo! a spot, not unlike a slight smear of

vermilion, was discovered upon a splendid handkerchief--it gave Mrs. P.

an electric shock; but, O horror! the next thing turned up was a

spangle, big as a half dime, upon one of Mrs. P.'s most superb skirts!

This awful revelation, connected with the smell of vile lavender and

worse patchouly, upon another piece of woman gear, threw Mrs. Pompaliner

into spasms, between the motions of which she gasped:

"You have a daughter, Mrs. Brown?"

"Yes, I have."

"How old is she?"

"About seventeen, ma'am."

"And she a--?"

"Dances in the theatre, ma'am!"

The whole thing was out: the sacred garments of Mrs. P. had not only

been touched by sacrilegious hands, but had had an airing, and smelt

the lamps of the play-house! Mrs. Pompaliner was so shocked, that four

first-class physicians tended her for a whole season.

Mrs. Brown lost a profitable customer, and well walloped her

ballet-nymph daughter Augusty, for attiring herself in the finery of her

most possibly particular and sensitive customer! It was awful!