'Come on,' said I, 'you shall behold the destroyer of your peace. You shall tear her to pieces, or I'll be d--dashed if I don't. I am tired of the blasted thing.' I grasped her hand, and led her to the back-chamber. 'There, against the wall.' 'It is--'said she. 'It is,' said I, 'my dressing-gown! I will never again put it on my shoulders, never. Here goes!' Rip it went from the tails up the back to the neck. 'Hold, Albert! I will send it to the wounded soldiers.' 'Never! they are men, bricks, warriors. Such female frippery as this shall never degrade them. Into the rag-bag with it, and sell it to the Jews for a pair of China sheep or a crockery shepherd. _Vamos_!' The age for dressing-gowns has passed away, Rococo shams are hastening to decay! * * * * * He who writes a book on Boston should have something to say on the ladies at lectures, in the libraries, and at Loring's--at which latter celebrated institution for the dissemination of _belles lettres_ lettered belles do vastly congregate of Saturday, providing themselves with novel--no, we mean novelties [of course of a serious sort] for their Sunday reading. Which may serve as an introduction to the following characteristic of YE BOSTON YOUNGE LADIE. The Boston belle is a reader, and knoweth what hath lately appearyd in ye worlde of bookes as welle as in that of bonetts. Shee whispereth of Signore Brignoli and of Hinkley, and of ye Philharmonic, or of Zerrahn his concertes, and eftsoones of aeriall pleasures att parties and concertes, and anon flitteth to Robertus Browning his poetrie, or to Emerson hys laste discourse att ye Musicke Halle. Whan so be itt that twentie of ye sisterhode be gatheren together, lo! seven thereof wyll haue blonde tresses and nineteen be of fayre ruddie complexion, whych a man wolde gife hys lyfe to kisse--yea, and itt oftwhyles passeth that ye twentieth also hath more whyte and rudd in hir sweete face thann ye wolde see in other landes.