(Inquisitively.) Where can he be going to?
(Ruminatively.) It’s very odd!—it’s serious!—
(Self-satisfactively.) I’m rather knowing too!—
(Insinuatively.) But isn’t it mysterious?
(Comfortably.) ’Twas better than the other—
(Informingly.) The one that went before;—
(Consolingly.) But then there’ll be another—
(Delightedly.) And that’s one comfort more!
(Alarmedly.) I’m half afraid he’s gone!
(Kindlily.) Must part with the old fellow!
(Hastily.) Excuse me—I must run—(Exit.)
(Returns.) Forgot my umbrella.
(Determinedly.) I’ll watch the new one though,
(Circumspectly.) And see what he’ll be at—(Exit.)
(Returns.) Beg pardon—didn’t bow—(Bows and exit.)
(Returns.) Bid pardon—left my hat.
(Lingeringly.) It’s always the wish of Paul,
(Seriously.) To be quite correct and right—
(Respectfully.) Ladies and gentlemen—all—
(Retreatingly.) I wish you very good night!
(Recollectively.) And—ladies and gentlemen—all!
(Interjectively.) You laugh so much, I declare—
(Vexedly.) I’m not Mr. Liston!—I’m Paul!—
(Lastly.) I wish you a happy New Year!—(Exit finally.)
If you print this in the Every-Day Book it will send Liston into fits—it will kill him—won’t it? But you know that’s all right—if he takes me off I’ve a right to take him off—haven’t I? I say, that’s another joke—isn’t it? Bless you, I co’d do as good as that for ever. But I want to see you, and ask you how you go on? and I’ve lots of intelligence for you—such things as never were known in this world—all true, and on the very best authority, you may take my word for it. Several of my relations have sent you budgets. Though they know you won’t publish their names unless they like it, they don’t choose to sign ’em to their letters for private reasons,—why don’t you print ’em? They cann’t give up their authors you know, (that’s impossible,) but what does that signify? And then you give ’em so much trouble to call and make inquiries—not that they care about that, but it looks so. However, I’m in a great hurry and so you’ll excuse me.—Mind though I shall pop in every day till I catch you. I hope you’ll print the song—it’s all my own writing, it will do for Liston, depend on it. What a joke—isn’t it a good one?
Pryory Place,
Yours eternally,
January 6, 1826.