proceeds to apply a soft cool mixture which I do not see; he then cleanses, coaxes, and lovingly fondles each separate lock of hair. This done, I am treated to a warm shower which becomes gradually cooler and cooler, till a cold douche splashes over my sconce, causing me the most exquisite sensations. The more than womanly tenderness with which I am dried baffles description. The shampooing apparatus being removed, I am brushed (not patted on the head with a piece of board stuck over with bristles), but brushed with brushes moved with firm but gentle pressure through my hair, which is then parted with earnest care. A pang of regret passes over me whilst this is doing, for full well I know that the delicious operation is drawing towards an end. I would gladly pay double and ask the gentle operator to begin again, but conscience forbids me to revel in such luxury. I am pained to be compelled to tell my velvet-fingered attendant that I do not require any Balsamic Cream of Mesopotamia, or, in fact, anything else for my “’air,” and I quit that mansion of blissful sensations, a light-headed but clear-brained man, in just the right mood to turn an epigram or pay a compliment.
THE GLOVES.
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It was a sunny summer’s day,
The flowers deck’d dale and hill;
And gurglingly the streamlet ran
That turn’d the clatt’ring mill.
The murmurous flies of every tint
Flew glittering through the air;
And buzzing bees did from the limes
Their precious treasures bear.
The air was languid, calm, and sweet,
With fragrance overlaid;
The slenderest grass unruffled stood,
The trees no rustle made.
A slumb’rous feeling over all
Its gentle influence shed;
The lark could scarcely warble, as
He floated overhead.
And ’neath a broad far-spreading beech
A lovely girl reposed;
The deep-fringed curtains of her eyes
Serenely o’er them closed.
Her bright brown hair in clusters fell
Upon her healthy cheek;
Her rosy lips were parted as
Some gracious words to speak.
A sunbeam glinting thro’ the tree
Play’d on her forehead fair;
And still more bright and glowing made
The glory of her hair.
I stood and gazed upon that face
As beautiful as Love’s;
Nor wonder you, if stooping low,
I—won a pair of gloves.
