Just before they reach home, they meet one of their best
friends, a person whom the lady regards most kindly, and the young man
admires and respects, and _he_ greets him with, "Why, Tom! have _you_
got one of those rowdy hats?" And so the stiff, stove-pipe monstrosity
keeps its place, and the only pleasant, sensible, graceful, becoming
hat that the nineteenth century has known, is called all sorts of bad
names, and quiet gentlemen are afraid to wear it.
Has it not been the fate of the shawl, too, the most simple and
elegant wrapper, and comfortable withal, that a man can throw around
him, to be scouted and flouted?
Yes, Deformed! Come on next winter with a white surtout in your hand
that must fit so tightly that your victims can but just screw
themselves into it, with a stiff, square collar touching the ears, and
seven capes, one over the other, "small by degrees and beautifully
less," and all respectable gentlemen will accept it, and virtuously
frown down, as dandies or rowdies, those who will not sacrifice their
shawls to the ugly idol.
A GROWL.
I know it is generally considered decidedly boorish to utter
complaints against the ladies. But I am for the present a bachelor,
and in that capacity claim freedom of speech as my peculiar privilege.
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