If BOB was to know!—a Restaurateur's, dear;
Where your properest ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine BOB (for he's really grown super-fine)
Condescended for once to make one of the party;
Of course, tho' but three, we had dinner for nine,
And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty.
Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief,
I have always found eating a wondrous relief;
And BOB, who's in love, said he felt the same, quite—
"My sighs," said he, "ceased with the first glass I drank you;
"The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light,
"And—now that all's o'er—why, I'm—pretty well, thank you!"
To my great annoyance, we sat rather late;
For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate
About singing and cookery—BOBBY, of course,
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;
And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst,
"The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it—
"What with old LAÏ'S and VÉRY, I'm curst
"If my head or my stomach will ever recover it!"
'Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,
And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis,
When, sudden it struck me—last hope of my soul—
That some angel might take the dear man to TORTONI'S![3]
We entered—and, scarcely had BOB, with an air,
For a grappe à la jardinière called to the waiters,
When, oh DOLL! I saw him—my hero was there
(For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters),
A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,[4]
And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him!
Oh! DOLLY, these heroes—what creatures they are;
In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter!
As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car,
As when safe at TORTONI'S, o'er iced currant water!
He joined us—imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy—
Joined by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!
BOB wished to treat him with Punch à la glace,
But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my grâce,
And my ja-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirled)
Were to him, "on de top of all Ponch in de vorld."—
How pretty!—tho' oft (as of course it must be)
Both his French and his English are Greek, DOLL, to me.
But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did;
And happier still, when 'twas fixt, ere we parted,
That, if the next day should be pastoral weather.
We all would set off, in French buggies, together,
To see Montmorency—that place which, you know,
Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.
His card then he gave us—the name, rather creased—
But 'twas CALICOT—something—a Colonel, at least!
After which—sure there never was hero so civil—he
Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli,
Where his last words, as, at parting, he threw
A soft look o'er his shoulders, were—"How do you do!"
But, lord!—there's Papa for the post—I'm so vext—
Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.
That dear Sunday night—I was charmingly drest,
And—so providential!—was looking my best;
Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce—and my frills,
You've no notion how rich—(tho' Pa has by the bills)
And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,
Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear.
Then the flowers in my bonnet—but, la! it's in vain—
So, good-by, my sweet DOLL—I shall soon write again.
B. F.
Nota bene—our love to all neighbors about— Your Papa in particular—how is his gout?
P.S.—I've just opened my letter to say,
In your next you must tell me, (now do, DOLLY, pray,
For I hate to ask BOB, he's so ready to quiz,)
What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.
[1] The cars, on return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.
[2] For this scrap of knowledge "Pa" was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's "Ruins:"
"It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise."