P. S.—I 've just open'd 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 BRANDENBURG is.
THIRD LETTER.
At last, DOLLY—thanks to a potent emetic
Which BOBBY and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallowed this morning to balance the bliss
Of an eel matelote, and a bisque d'ecrevisses—
I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down
To describe you our heavenly trip out of town.
How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!
Lady JANE in the novel less languish'd to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at LORD NEVILLE'S
Was actually dying with love or—blue devils.
But love, DOLLY, love is the theme I pursue;
With, blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do—
Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies
Any imps of that color in CERTAIN blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I, DOLL, at HIS do the same;
Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim,
If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, sir, for shame!"
Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress
For the happy occasion—the sunshine EXPRESS—
Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing.
Though late when we started, the scent of the air
Was like GATTIE'S rose-water, and bright here and there
On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet!
And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs,
As if EACH a plumed CALICOT had for her spouse,
And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows,
And—in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose;
And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see
A day such as that at divine Montmorency!
There was but ONE drawback—-at first when we started,
The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted;
How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob!
He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB:
And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know
That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so,
For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S—
Served with him, of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies;
So martial his features, dear DOLL, you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass
Which the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pass,
It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do—
About English affairs an odd blunder or two.
For example—misled by the names. I dare say—
He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord CASTLEREAGH,
And—such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on—
Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one!
But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;
'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd;
And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know
All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!—
"'T was there," said he—not that his WORDS I can state—
'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;—
But "there," said he (pointing where, small and remote,
The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,
Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure,
Then sanded it over with silver and azure,
And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do?-
Tied the leaves up together with nomparsille blue!"
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!
Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions,
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!
"'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said—
As down the small garden he pensively led—
(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)—
"'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY,
(Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day),
That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form
A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"
Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd,
The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is)
Led us to talk about other commodities,
Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun way then hastening in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,
When he ask'd ne, with eagerness—who made my gown?
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 b—h, VIOTORINE!"
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 EVERYTHING 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!