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An English Waiter's view of Freshly girls.

--August Sala, in the last number of Tempie Bar, observes:

‘ Now, of fat girls there are several varieties. There is your fat baby girl, a delightful little dumpling of a child, every one of whose dimples is a mine of delight, and every one of the creases in whose rosy limbs inspires you with an irresistible propensity to tickle it. These are the little baby children that Rubens painted so gloriously. He made their little puffed out cheeks celestial roseate, he curled their flaxen locks like unto the young tendrils of the vine; he tipped their little heels and elbows with rich carnations; he took away their sex and made them epicene; and when he had added little wings of green and golden plumage to their shoulders, they were no longer baby children, but angels, ministering in the apotheoses of kings and emperors, who I sincerely trust have reached the destination which the courtly pencil of Peter Paul ascribed to their dead majesties. Then there is your fat school girl, with long, fair ringlets, profuse as a Louis Quatoize perruque, with fixed blue eves, that remind you unpleasantly of the Pantheon Bazzaa and Madame Montanari's wax work shop, and with a dull, listless fixity of demeanor that makes one always wish to find out whereabouts the string is, in order to pull it, and cause the eyes to move and the great doll to squeak ‘"papa"’ and ‘"mamma"’ Yet another variety of the fat school-girl in there in the romp, or ‘"tom-bov,"’ who has cheeks as ruddy and as hard as a Ribstone pippia, who is continually grazing the skin off her arms, and tearing the trimming of the ends of her trousers; who, if she lives in the country, is in the habit of catching young colts and riding them without saddle or bridle round paddocks; who is always getting into domestic trouble through her transactions with a big black dog fond of the water and of chivying cats; who is always laughing has a tremendous appetite, and once fought with a boy and came off victorious. The decline of the old-fashioned system of education, and the rise of seminarics and collegiate institutions, where young ladies attend lectures on the Odie force and the Therapeutic Cosmogony of Ancient Art, has made the tom boy fat girl an exceedingly rare specimen of feminity; but she is still occasionally to be met with — notably in Westmoreland boarding schools and in farm houses of the West. I lament the progressive extinction of the merry fat girl. She usually grew up to be a jolly, comfortable matron, with a tribe of sunny children, all as great romes as she had been. Her pickled walnuts were perfection. She was one of those admirable women who always gives you something to eat when you call upon them, and if you are neither hungry nor athirst, insist up on your carrying away a pot of preserves or a slice of bride cake with you. It was in the golden age, and England was merry England indeed, when those fat matrons, who had been fat girls, flourished. They used to entertain you at meat teas bounteous repasts, where there were sausages and pressed beef, soused mackerel and potato cakes.

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