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There are people, in the romantic period of their lives,
who delight in bestowing tender terms upon objects of
their affection, borrowed from the pretty things of nature
or fancy, such as “My Rose Bud,” “My Pink,” “My
Diamond,” “My Lily,” or some such nice and delicate
name. Of all that we have ever heard, however, the
Irish term, “My Bloomer,” sounds to us the best.

These terms are all well enough when used in private
endearment, but when uttered in the presence of others
they operate with a most nauseating effect. Fancy a
man, brimfull of the charms of his Dulcinea, to whom he
has given some romantic appellative, coming into a tailor's
shop, among the forty girls there employed, of whom his
heart's hope is one, and asking if his “Rose Bud” is
present, or addressing her as his “Rose Bud,” if she be
there. If the girl has any sense she will prove a “Rose
Bud” with a thorn when she gets him out somewhere.

We had a friend who was smitten with this mania for
pretty names, and had adopted the romantic one of “My
Light” for his idol; and for several years she had lighted
his path and his pocket in the way that lovers understand.
It grew near the period when the word was to
be spoken that should make them “one flesh,” when,
calling at her dwelling one evening, he asked the house-girl,
who met him in the entry, if his “Light” was
in.

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“No,” said she, “your light has just gone out —
with Mr. —,” naming an old rival.

Jealous pains seized him; he rushed to his boarding-house,
dashed madly up stairs, three at a time, opened
his drawer, and, seizing a — pen, wrote a letter that
extinguished his “Light” forever. It was a severe blow
to his spirit, and in six months from the time of his
disappointment the poor fellow committed matrimony
with another and a more steady “Light,” the flame of
which burns undimmed even now.