“‘Your reverence promised me a penny the last time I held your horse,’ squeaked Paddy again; upon which there was a grate laugh, in which his reverence joined. It was mighty sharp of Paddy. “‘Well, girls,’ continued his reverence, ‘you were all like paycocks, only some had longer tails than others, and very proud you were of them—mighty fine, and quite natural; showing them off, girls, not to one another, but at one another. Well, there is, as you all know, no accounting for drames, for all of a sudden who should come on the green, but the Black Gentleman himself! It’s downright earnest I am. I saw him as plain as I see you; hoofs and horns, there he was; and when you all saw him, of course you ran away like hares, and those that had short gowns got clean off, tight and tidy, but as for poor Mary Mulvany, and all like her, (in dress, I mean) all he had to do, was to put his hoof on the gown tails and they were done for—pinned for everlasting. Girls! remember _the morning drame comes true_! If ye make a vanity of your gown tails, it’s a sure sign that the devil has set his foot on them. Now be off every one of you, and let me see you next Sunday.’ Ah, aunt dear, the tails were cut off to the shoe binding. “Now, aunt, it would be the greatest blessing in life if the fine ladies here had some little contrivance (those who walk) for keeping their dresses off the streets; it’s a murdering pity to see the sweep they give to the dirt and dust as they float over the pavements; my mistress says, that long ago the upper petticoat reached the ancle joint, and was of quilted silk, mighty handsome, and the dress drawn up so as to show it a bit, and could be let down at pleasure; it’s next to impossible to keep shoes and stockings clean, while what our good old priest called the ‘paycock’s tail’ sweeps the streets as the lady walks. But, indeed, (as my dear, good lady says) ‘extremes meet;’ for will you believe it, that there has been an attempt made by some ladies from America (that wonderful uneasy country, that’s too big to contain itself, and must keep on a-meddling and a-doing for ever more) to revolutionize, that is, stir up a rebellion against every stitch we wear! There is reason in all things; and it would be both more clean and more convenient if the ladies left it to the dear little red-coated ragged-school boys, to sweep the streets; but these ladies (_Bloomers_ they call themselves) are for turning all the women into men, by act of parliament. I don’t know if they have got any plan for turning the men into women, but my mistress says _that_ must follow. You remember, aunt, that we used to call the darling Miss Mildred a ‘bloomer;’ and there was a poem made about her, in such beautiful rhyme: ‘Oh, you are like Cassandra fair, Who won great Alexander’s heart; A bloomer, sweeter than the rose.’ I forget it, aunty, but it continued very learned—about