But here I must finish—for BOB, my dear DOLLY,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting off for Montmartre—"for THERE is,"
Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS!
Long, long have I wisn'd, as a votary true,
O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans;
And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cue
For the FLESH of the VERYS—I'll visit their BONES!"
He insists upon MY going with him—how teasing!
This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie
Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—Good-by.
B. F.
Four o'clock.
Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never;
To think of the wretch!—what a victim was I!
'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die!
My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick—
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!
Oh what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to paper—
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!
'Tis true as I live—I had coax'd brother BOB so
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so),
For some little gift on my birth-day—September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That BOB to a shop kindly order'd the coach
(Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove),
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,
Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love—
(The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price—
And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!)
Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop,
But—ye gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop—
There he stood, my dear DOLLY—no room for a doubt—
There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,
With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!
Oh—Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear—
'T was a SHOPMAN he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And when THAT too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worship'd—vile treacherous thing—
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam round—the wretch smil'd, I believe,
But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive—
I fell back on BOB—my whole heart seem'd to wither,
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said—"Curse the Kiddy,
A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,
But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!"
Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE!
What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever!
What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!
It will spread through the country—and never, oh never
Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!
Farewell—I shall do something desperate, I fear—
And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge
To her poor—broken-hearted—young friend,
BIDDY FUDGE
Nota Bene,—I'm sure you will hear with delight,
That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night
A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. Cox
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.
[Illustration: POPE.]
THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A lettered gossip and a household wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse.
Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies,
A checkered wreck of notable and wise,
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;
Unfinished here an epigram is laid,
And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.
There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.
A moral essay now is all her care,
A satire next, and then a bill of fare.
A scene she now projects, and now a dish;
Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish.
Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,
That soberly casts up a bill for coals;
Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.
NETLEY ABBEY.
[Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.]
R. HARRIS RARHAM
I saw thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave
Was sinking slow,
And a golden glow
To thy roofless towers he gave;
And the ivy sheen
With its mantle of green
That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovehly bright
In that glorious light,
And I felt 't was holy ground.