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How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady Jane in the novel less languish'd to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord Neville's
Was actually dying with love or—blue devils.
But love, Dolly, love is the theme I pursue;
With, blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do-
Except, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies
Any imps of that color in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, Doll, at his do the same;
Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, “Lord, sir, for shame !"
Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress
For the happy occasion—the sunshine express-
Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.
Though late when we started, the scent of the air
Was like Gattie's rose-water, and bright here and there
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet!
And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plumed Calicot had for her spouse,
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And-in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose;
And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!
There was but one drawback-at first when we started,
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted ;
How cruel-young hearts of such moments to rob!
He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BoB:
And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so.
For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of Boney's—
Served with him, of course-nay, I'm sure they were cronies;
So martial his features, dear Doll, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass
Which the poor Duc de B**ri must hate so to pass.
It appears, too, he made--as most foreigners do-
About English affairs an odd blunvier or two.
For example—misled by the names, I dare say,
He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord CASTLEREAGH;
And-such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on-
Fancied the present Lord CAMDEN the clever one!
But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;
’T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, Doll, to know
All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU !-
“'T was there," said he—not that his words I can state-
’T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate ;-
But "there,” said he (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose), “ there his Julie he wrote,
Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure,
Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
And-oh, what will genius and fancy not do ?-
Tied the leaves up together with nompareille blue !"
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!
Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions,
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear !
“ 'T was here, too, perhaps,” Colonel Calicot said-
As down the small garden he pensively led-
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle) —
“'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY,
(Who call'd him so sweetly her Bear, every day),
That dear flannel petticoat, pulld off to form
A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"
Such, Doll, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romauce, through that valley we wander'd,
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is !)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd me, with eagerness--who made my gown?
The question confused me—for, Doll, you must know,
And I ought to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ
That enchanting couturiere, Madame Le Roi,
But am forc'd, dear, to have VICTORINE, who-deuce take her-
It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker-
I mean of his party-and, though much the smartest,
LE Ror is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st.
Think, Doll, how confounded I look'd—so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammer'd out something—nay, even half named
The legitimate semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed,
“Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seen
It was made by that B**rb*n**t b- -h, VICTORINE !"
What a word for a hero, but heroes will err,
And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they were.
Besides, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you, 'tis not half so shocking in French.
But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass’d away,
And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,
The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us-
The nothings that then, love, are every thing to us-
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Bob calls the “ Twopenny-Post of the Eyes”—
Ah Doll, though I know you ’ve a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpracticed these things to explain.
They can only be felt in their fullness divine
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
But here I must finish-for Bob, my dear Dolly,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre-_"for there is,"
Said he, looking solemn, “ the tomb of the Verys!
Long, long have I wish'd, as a votary true,
O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cue
For the flesh of the Verys—I 'll visit their bones /"'
He insists upon my going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie Unseald in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you-Good-by.
Oh, Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruin'd forever-
I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, never;
To think of the wretch !-what a victim was I !
'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die !
My brain 's in a fever-my pulses beat quick-
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!
Oh what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel--I scarce can commit it to paper-
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper !!
'Tis true as I live--I had coax'd brother Bob so
(You 'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so),
For some little gift on my birth-day-Septeniber
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-
That Bob to a shop kindly order'd the coach
(Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove), To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,
Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love (The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the priceAnd one 's name in the corner embroidered so nice !) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But-ye gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop There he stood, my dear Dolly—no room for a doubt,
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand ! Oh-Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear'T was a a shopman he meant by a “ Brandenburg,” dear! The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worship’d-vile treacherous thing-
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam round-the wretch smild, I believe,
But his smiling, alas/ could no longer deceive-
I fell back on BoB-my whole heart seem'd to wither,
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that BoB, as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said—“Curse the Kiddy, A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
But now I find out he's a Counter one, Biddy!"
Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy satirical thing, Miss Malone!
What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever!
What laughs and what quizzing she 'll have with the men! It will spread through the country-and never, oh never
Can Biddy be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell -I shall do something desperate, I fear-
And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my Doll will not grudge
To her poor-broken-hearted-young friend,
Nota Bene.—I'm sure you will hear with delight,
That we're going, all three, to see Brunet to-night.
A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. Cox
(Do you know him ?) has got us the Governor's box,
THE LITERARY LADY.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A lettered gossip and a household wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse.
Round her strewed room a frippery chaos lies,
A checkered wreck of notable and wise,
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;
Unfinished here an epigram is laid,
And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.
There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.