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 ROI 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 bh, 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,
Le just setting off for Montmartre" for there is,"
Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS!
Long, long have I wisa'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
Unseal'd 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-September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-
That Boв 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 price-
And 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-
'Twas 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 smil'd, I believe,
But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive-
I fell back on Bов-my whole heart seem'd to wither,
And pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
ASTOR. LENOX
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS
I only remember that Boв, as I caught hin,
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 metapl.ors 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 strew ed 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.
|