[7] Major Cartwright.
[8] The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Hispo.
[9] Short boots so called.
[10] The open countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.
[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was not Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of "Lord Morley" in the Pantomime,—so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name.
LETTER X.
FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——.
Well, it isn't the King, after all, my dear creature!
But don't you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in't—
For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,
He might be a King, DOLL, tho', hang him, he isn't.
At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own,
If for no other cause but 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 Pa says, on deeply considering the thing,
"I am just as well pleased it should not be the King;
"As I think for my BIDDY, so gentille and jolie.
"Whose charms may their price in an honest way fetch,
"That a Brandenburgh"—(what is a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)—
"Would be, after all, no such very great catch.
"If the REGENT indeed"—added he, looking sly—
(You remember that comical squint of his eye)
But I stopt him with "La, Pa, how can you say so,
"When the REGENT 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-as, 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 killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then!
What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover,
Who, tho' not a King, is a hero I'll swear,—
You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over,
Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air!
Let me see—'twas 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!"[1]
Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro';
And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,
With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,
I 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 seemed full—so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em,
'Mong orange-trees, clipt 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 viewed—stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes—
"Live bullion," says merciless BOB, "which, I think,
"Would, if coined, 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, mustachios and wigs that went past,
To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,—
A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,
As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given,
For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"
Alas, there went by me full many a quiz,
And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!
Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"—
Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody,
Something about the "green spot of delight"
(Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day):
Ah DOLLY, my "spot" was that Saturday night,
And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday!
We dined at a tavern—La, what do I say?