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Off we set-and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether
My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together
Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. And oh! as I gazed on the features and air
Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair
Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara !
This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about,
Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!” at each cracker, And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out
With the air, I will say, of a prince, to our fiacre.
Now, hear me--this stranger-it may be mere folly-
But who do you think we all think it is, Dolly?
Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia,
Who's here now incog.—he, who made such a fuss, you
Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff,
When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off!
he's come here to look after his money
(Not taking things now as he used under Boney),
Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore,
Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.
Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen
(Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen)
Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is,
Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.
Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief
Should—unless 't would to utter despairing its folly pushFly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief
By rattling, as Bob says, “like shot through a holly-bush."
I must now bid adieu-only think, Dolly, think
If this should be the King I have scarce slept a wink
With imagining how it will sound in the papers,
And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge,
When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors,
Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.
Nota Bene.—Papa's almost certain 'tis he
For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see,
In the way he went poising, and managed to tower
So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.
Well, it is n't the King, after all, my dear creature!
But don't you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in 'tFor grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,
He might be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he is n't.
At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own,
If for no other cause than to vex Miss MALONE-
(The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here,
Showing off with such airs and a real Cashmere,
While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!)
But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing,
“I am just as well pleased it should not be the King;
As I think for my Biddy, so gentilie jolie,
Whose charms may their price in an honest way fetch;
That a Brandenburg—(what is a Brandenburg, Dolly ?)—
Would be, after all, no such very great catch.
If the R-G-, indeed—” added he, looking sly-
(You remember that comical squint of his eye)
But I stopp'd him—“La, Pa, how can you say so,
When the R-T loves none but old women, you know!"
Which is fact, my dear Dolly-we, girls of eighteen,
And so slim-Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen;
And would like us much better as old—ay, as old
As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told
That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten,
And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover,
Who, though not a king, is a hero I'll swear-
You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air !
Let me see- —'t was on Saturday-yes, Dolly, yes-
From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;
When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,
Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage,
“Beginning gay, desperate, dashing down-hilly;
And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"
Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through,
And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,
With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,
Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit
Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,
Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois-
And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is,
Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses !
The gardens seem'd full—so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,
'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum,
And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue
There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!
The ponds, too, we view'd-stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes“ Live Bullion,” says merciless Bub, “which I think,
Would, if coin'd, with a little mint sauce, be delicious!"
But what, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove,
Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?
In vain did I wildly explore every chair
Where a thing like a man was no lover sat there!
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast
At the whiskers, mustaches, and wigs that went past,
To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl,
But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given,
For the angel to hold by that “lugs them to heaven!"
Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,
And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his !
Disappointed, I found myself sighing out “well-a-day,"
Thought of the words of T—M M-Re's Irish melody,
Something about the "green spot of delight,"
(Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day :) Ah, Dolly! my “spot” was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how tleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!
We dined at a tavern-La, what do I say?
If Bob was to know !--a Restaurateur's, dear; Where your properest ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine Bob (for he's really grown super-fine)
Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;
Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine,
And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty;
Indeed, Doll, I know not how ’tis, but in grief,
I have always found eating a wondrous relief;
And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same quite-
“My sighs," said he “ceased with the first glass I drank yon; The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light,
And now that's all o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!"
To my great annoyance, we sat rather late;
For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate
About singing and cookery–Bobby, of course,
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;
And Pa saying, “ God only knows which is worst,
The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it, What with old Laïs and Véry, I'm curst
If my head or my stomach will ever recover it !" 'T was dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,
And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, When sudden it struck me-last hope of my soul
That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's ! We enter'd-and scarcely had Bob, with an air,
For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters, When, oh! Doll, I saw him-my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leathe:
A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,
And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!
Oh Dolly, these heroes—what creatures they are !
In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter;
As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car
As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water!
He joined us—imagine, dear creature my ecstacy-
Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!
Bob wish'd to treat him with punch à la glace,
But the sweet fellow swore that my beauté, my grace,
And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'dl)
Were, to him, “on de top of all ponch in de vorld.”—
How pretty!--though oft (as, of course, it must be)
Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me.
But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did:
And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted,
That, if the next day should be pastoral weather,
We all would set off in French buggies, together,
To see Montmorency—that place which, you know,
Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau.
His card then he gave us—the name, rather creased
But 't was Calicot—something—a colonel, at least!
After which-sure there never was hero so civil-he
Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,
Where his last words, as at parting, he threw
A soft look o'er his shoulders, were——“how do you do ?"
But, Lord—there's Papa for the post-I'm so vex'd-
Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.
That dear Sunday night!—I was charmingly dress'd,
And—so providential-was looking my best;
Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce—and my frills,
You've no notion how rich-(though Pa has by the bills)
And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,
Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear.
Then the flowers in my bonnet-but, la, it's in vain-
So, good by, my sweet Doll-I shall soon write again.
Nota bena–our love to all neighbors about-
Your papa in particular-how is his gout ?
P. S.-I've just open'd my letter to say, In your
next you must tell me (now do, Dolly, pray For I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz) What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburg is.
At last, Dolly—thanks to a potent emetic
Which Bobby and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallowed this morning to balance the bliss
Of an eеl matelote, and a bisque d'ecrevisses-
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.