Wretched food, and by no means enlivening drink,
(Whatever hydraulic George Cruikshank may think
To the contrary,) then, lest they’d not aggravated her
By this treatment, enough, the brutes next dissipated her
Last agreeable illusion, a letter was given her,
Signed and sealed by some friendly (?) anonymous scrivener,
Short, not sweet, for the missive consisted of one
Line, “The Lord Lettelhausen’s no longer a son,”—
From which pleasant allusion,
She reached the conclusion,