Prue and I | Page 3

white cravat, too, but nobody supposes that it is in any danger
of being stained by Lafitte. It is a limp cravat with a craven tie. It has
none of the dazzling dash of the white that my young friends sport, or, I
should say, sported; for the white cravat is now abandoned to the
sombre professions of which I spoke. My young friends suspect that the
flunkeys of the British nobleman wear such ties, and they have,
therefore, discarded them. I am sorry to remark, also, an uneasiness, if
not downright skepticism, about the white waistcoat. Will it extend to
shirts, I ask myself with sorrow.
But there is something pleasanter to contemplate during these quiet
strolls of mine, than the men who are going to dine out, and that is, the
women. They roll in carriages to the happy houses which they shall
honor, and I strain my eyes in at the carriage window to see their
cheerful faces as they pass. I have already dined; upon beef and
cabbage, probably, if it is boiled day. I I am not expected at the table to
which Aurelia is hastening, yet no guest there shall enjoy more than I
enjoy,--nor so much, if he considers the meats the best part of the

dinner. The beauty of the beautiful Aurelia I see and worship as she
drives by. The vision of many beautiful Aurelias driving to dinner, is
the mirage of that pleasant journey of mine along the avenue. I do not
envy the Persian poets, on those afternoons, nor long to be an Arabian
traveller. For I can walk that street, finer than any of which the Ispahan
architects dreamed; and I can see sultanas as splendid as the
enthusiastic and exaggerating Orientals describe.
But not only do I see and enjoy Aurelia's beauty I delight in her
exquisite attire. In these warm days she does not wear so much as the
lightest shawl. She is clad only in spring sunshine. It glitters in the soft
darkness of her hair. It touches the diamonds, the opals, the pearls, that
cling to her arms, and neck, and fingers. They flash back again, and the
gorgeous silks glisten, and the light laces flutter, until the stately
Aurelia seems to me, in tremulous radiance, swimming by.
I doubt whether you who are to have the inexpressible pleasure of
dining with her, and even of sitting by her side, will enjoy more than I.
For my pleasure is inexpressible, also. And it is in this greater than
yours, that I see all the beautiful ones who are to dine at various tables,
while you only see your own circle, although that, I will not deny, is
the most desirable of all.
Beside, although my person is not present at your dinner, my fancy is. I
see Aurelia's carriage stop, and behold white-gloved servants opening
wide doors. There is a brief glimpse of magnificence for the dull eyes
of the loiterers outside; then the door closes. But my fancy went in with
Aurelia. With her, it looks at the vast mirror, and surveys her form at
length in the Psyche-glass. It gives the final shake to the skirt, the last
flirt to the embroidered handkerchief, carefully held, and adjusts the
bouquet, complete as a tropic nestling in orange leaves. It descends
with her, and marks the faint blush upon her cheek at the thought of her
exceeding beauty; the consciousness of the most beautiful woman, that
the most beautiful woman is entering the room. There is the momentary
hush, the subdued greeting, the quick glance of the Aurelias who have
arrived earlier, and who perceive in a moment the hopeless perfection
of that attire; the courtly gaze of gentlemen, who feel the serenity of
that beauty. All this my fancy surveys; my fancy, Aurelia's invisible
cavalier.
You approach with hat in hand and the thumb of your left hand in your

waistcoat pocket. You are polished and cool, and have an
irreproachable repose of manner. There are no improper wrinkles in
your cravat; your shirt-bosom does not bulge; the trowsers are accurate
about your admirable boot. But you look very stiff and brittle. You are
a little bullied by your unexceptionable shirt-collar, which interdicts
perfect freedom of movement in your head. You are elegant,
undoubtedly, but it seems as if you might break and fall to pieces, like a
porcelain vase, if you were roughly shaken.
Now, here, I have the advantage of you. My fancy quietly surveying the
scene, is subject to none of these embarrassments. My fancy will not
utter commonplaces. That will not say to the superb lady, who stands
with her flowers, incarnate May, "What a beautiful day, Miss Aurelia."
That will not feel constrained to say something, when it has nothing