Alger Horatio Jr.
Nothing to Do

But now, long emerged from his chrysalis state,
Should his former acquaintances call at his gate,
They would doubtless receive speedy notice to leave—
Not the articles brought, but the dwelling instanter,
With their pace perhaps changed to a very quick canter.

So changes the world, and the men that are in it,
That those whom we hail as our equals, one minute,
We pass by the next with a very cold stare,
And gruffly inquire who the d—ickens they are.
From the past to the present—to close our review—
From the pawnbroker's shop to the Fifth Avenue,
To the parlors so full of objets de vertu,
And furniture most undeniably new,
Where on tapestry carpets the foot softly falls,
And family portraits look down from the walls,
Of martial old grandsires and stately old dames;
Which, bought cheap at auction, and set in new frames,
And dubbed with high-sounding and fanciful names,
At peace after many of Fortune's mutations,
Look impressively down on their new-found relations.
There's Sir Arthur Fitz-Herbert, an old English knight,
Who won his gold spurs in a hardly-fought field,
Where he rescued the life of the gallant Black Prince
By receiving a blow meant for him—on his shield;
Of which glorious action, so well worth attention,
Not a single historian makes any mention;
Though by family documents amply attested,
In possession of those who are most interested.
Then there's Lady Fitz-Herbert—a Queen's maid of honor,
Who spent her chief time in attendance upon her;
And when the Queen left on a visit to Calais,
Remained in sole charge of—the plate and the palace.
All which, the Fitz-Herberts may justly lay claim,
Invests with proud honor the family name.

There is something that puzzles me, let me confess—
Why these rare old antiques wear so modern a dress!
Unless, like the comet which now reappears,
For the first time, I think, within hundreds of years,
So fashions in dress run through regular courses,
And strictly obey the mechanical forces.
Let me hereby suggest that some almanac-maker,
In his very next issue but one, undertake a
Brief record of Fashions that may reäppear
In the course of the next or the following year.
With what eager eyes would our wives read, be sure,
About—this—time—expect—a—new—style—of—coiffure,
A black lace Fichu under dark satin loops;
Or, more ominous still, a recurrence of hoops!
Attended, perhaps, by the brief intimation,
Based upon strict and exact calculation,
That the first would enjoy but a limited reign, as
It was looked for next year in far-distant Uranus;
While the last had intended to visit us sooner,
But tarried a while with the ladies of Luna.

Apropos of the portraits—I've heard of a queer
Contretemps which befell the most famous last year;
I mean of Sir Arthur, who saved the Black Prince,—
Excuse my not knowing how many years since.
It seems a young lady—Miss Blanche Delarue—