"What, Hal—jealous?" exclaimed her father, laughing—"do you fear the flight of our gazelle, here?"
"No danger of my eloping! No, indeed! at least with any one except—Colonel Lunettes!" replied the charming little witch, as her nimble fingers fastened my wrappings.
"Bravo!" cried her father; "that would be glorious! Seventeen and"——
"Eighty-two," interrupted your old uncle; "May and December! But, happily for me, fair Fanny, my heart can never grow old while I have the happiness of knowing you."
I hope none of you will ever, even when writing in a foreign language, fall into the mistake made by a young Pole, with whom I once had a slight acquaintance. He was paying his addresses to a young lady, and, while most assiduously making his court to the fair object of his passion, was temporarily separated from her, by her leaving home on a pleasure excursion. At the first stopping-place of her party, the lady found a letter awaiting her, written in the neatest manner, and in excellent English—which her lover spoke in a very imperfect manner. It appeared to the recipient of this complimentary effusion, however, at the first glance, that its contents were not especially relevant to the occasion of a first billet-doux from her admirer. Reading it more deliberately, something familiar in the language struck her suddenly, and after pondering a moment, she turned over the leaves of a new book which was among the literary stores of our travelling-party, and soon came to the exact counterpart of passage after passage, as recorded in the letter of the gallant Pole!
The volume was, I think, "Hannah More's Memoirs," which had probably been recommended to the young student of our language by his teacher, or some friend, as containing good specimens of the epistolary style!
With the hope that you may all escape being the subjects of such merriment as was occasioned by the discovery of my fair friend, I remain, as ever,
Affectionately yours,
Harry Lunettes.