Well, itisn'tthe King, after all, my dear creature!Butdon'tyou go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in't—For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,Hemightbe 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 withsuchairs, 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 shouldnotbe the King;"As I think for my BIDDY, sogentilleandjolie."Whose charms may their price in anhonestway fetch,"That a Brandenburgh"—(whatisa 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, howcanyou 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 oldAs that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been toldThat 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 aheroI'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-HUITMake his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,Who get up a small concert of shrillVive 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 statueThere staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!The ponds, too, we viewed—stood awhile on the brinkTo contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes—"Live bullion," says merciless BOB, "which, I think,"Would, ifcoined, with a littlemintsauce, be delicious!"
Butwhat, 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 chairWhere a thinglikea man was—no lover sat there!In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly castAt 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?
If BOB was to know!—aRestaurateur's, dear;Where yourproperestladies go dine every day,And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.Fine BOB (for he's really grownsuper-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;"Thelambmade me tranquil, thepuffsmade me light,"And—now that all's o'er—why, I'm—pretty well, thank you!"
Tomygreat annoyance, we sat rather late;For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debateAbout 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"Ifmyhead 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 agrappe à la jardinièrecalled 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 theboudoirthe 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 Punchà la glace,But the sweet fellow swore that mybeaute, mygrâce,And myja-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 bepastoralweather.We all would set off, in French buggies,together,To seeMontmorency—that place which, you know,Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.His card then he gave us—thename, rather creased—But 'twas CALICOT—something—a Colonel, at least!
After which—sure there never was hero so civil—heSaw us safe home to our door inRue Rivoli,Where hislastwords, as, at parting, he threwA soft look o'er his shoulders, were—"How do you do!"But, lord!—there's Papa for the post—I'm so vext—Montmorencymust now, love, be kept for my next.That dear Sunday night—I was charmingly drest,And—soprovidential!—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.
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, (nowdo, DOLLY, pray,For I hate to ask BOB, he's so ready to quiz,)What sort of a thing, dear, aBrandenburghis.
[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."
[3] A fashionablecafé glacieron the Italian Boulevards.
[4] "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian group."
Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as greatAs ever hero died to vindicate—A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,And own no power but of the Nation's choice!Such was the grand, the glorious cause that nowHung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow;Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured,In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,A hallowing light, which never, since the dayOf his young victories, had illumed its way!
Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates,Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye.As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,[1]Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain,Myriads of swords to bind it fast again—Myriads of fierce invading swords, to trackThro' your best blood his path of vengeance back;When Europe's Kings, that never yet combinedBut (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined,Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind,Gathered around, with hosts from every shore,Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more,And, in that coming strife, appalled to seeThe world yet left one chance for liberty!—No, 'twas notthenthe time to weave a netOf bondage round your Chief; to curb and fretYour veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,When every hope was in his speed and might—To waste the hour of action in dispute,And coolly plan how freedom'sboughsshould shoot,When your Invader's axe was at theroot!No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws,Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knowsHow well I love thee and how deeply hateAlltyrants, upstart and Legitimate—Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,I would have followed, with quick heart and hand,NAPOLEON, NERO—ay, no matter whom—To snatch my country from that damning doom,That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits—A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates!
True, he was false—despotic—all you please—Had trampled down man's holiest liberties—Had, by a genius, formed for nobler thingsThan lie within the grasp ofvulgarKings,But raised the hopes of men—as eaglets flyWith tortoises aloft into the sky—To dash them down again more shatteringly!All this I own—but still
* * * * *
[1] See Aellan,lib. v.cap. 29.,—who tells us that these geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always cross Mount Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles.
At last, DOLLY,—thanks to potent emetic,Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic,Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss,Of an eelmateloteand abisque d'écrevisses—I've a morning at home to myself, and sit downTo describe you our heavenly trip out of town.How agog you must be for this letter, my dear!Lady JANE, in the novel, less languisht to hear,If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE'SWas actually dying with love or—blue devils.But Love, DOLLY, Love is the themeIpursue;With Blue Devils, thank heaven, I have nothing to do—Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spiesAny imps of that color incertainblue eyes,Which he stares at tillI, DOLL, athisdo 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 dressFor the happy occasion—the sunshineexpress—Had we ordered it, dear, of the best poet going,It scarce could be furnisht more golden and glowing.Tho' late when we started, the scent of the airWas 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 tabbinet!While the birds seemed to warble as blest on the boughs,As ifeacha 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 goesWith the creature one loves, 'tiscouleur de rose;And ah! I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, seeA day such as that at divine Montmorency!
There was butonedrawback—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 knowThat Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so.For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S—Servedwithhim of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies.So martial his features! dear DOLL, you can traceUlm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his faceAs you do on that pillar of glory and brass,[1]Which the poor DUC DE BERRI 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—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on—Fancied thepresentLord CAMDEN thecleverone!
But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.And oh! had you heard, as together we walktThro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talkt;And how perfectly well he appeared, DOLL, to knowAll the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU?—"'Twas there," said he—not that hiswordsI can state—'Twas 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 sauded it over with silver and azure,"And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do!—"Tied the leaves up together withnonpareilleblue!"What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotionsFrom sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here!Alas, that a man of such exquisite notionsShould send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!"'Twas here too perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said—As down the small garden he pensively led—(Tho' once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkleWith rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)"'Twas here he received from the fair D'ÉPINAY"(Who called him so sweetlyher Bear, every day,)"That dear flannel petticoat, pulled off to form"A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!"
Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we pondered,As, full of romance, thro' that valley we wandered.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 was then hastening in pomp to its set.
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down,When he askt me, with eagerness,—who made my gown?The question confused me—for, DOLL, you must know,And Ioughtto have told my best friend long ago,That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ[2]That enchantingcouturière, Madame LE ROI;But am forced now to have VICTORINE, who—deuce take her!—It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker—I meanof his party—and, tho' much the smartest,LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.[3]Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt—so well knowingThe Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;I stammered out something—nay, even half namedThelegitimatesempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed,"Yes; yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen"It was made by that Bourbonite bitch, VICTORINE!"What a word for a hero!—but heroeswillerr,And I thought, dear, I'd tell you thingsjustas they were.Besides tho' the word on good manners intrench,I assure you 'tis nothalfso shocking in French.
But this cloud, tho' embarrassing, soon past away,And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day,The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,—Thenothingsthat then, love, are—everythingto us—That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,And what BOB calls the "Two-penny-post of the Eyes"—Ah, DOLL! tho' Iknowyou've a heart, 'tis in vain,To a heart so unpractised these things to explain.They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,By her who has wandered, at evening's decline,Thro' a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!
But here I must finish—for BOB, my dear DOLLY,Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,Is seized with a fancy for churchyard reflections;And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections,Is just setting off for Montmartre—"forthereis,"Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VÉRYS![4]"Long, long have I wisht 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 thefleshof the VÉRYS—I'll visit theirbones!"He insists uponmygoing with him—how teasing!This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lieUnsealed in my drawer, that, if anything pleasingOccurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-by.
Four o'clock.
Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruined for ever—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 coaxt brother BOB so,(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,)For some little gift on my birthday—SeptemberThe thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—That BOB to a shop kindly ordered the coach,(Ah! little I thought who the shopman would prove,)To bespeak me a few of thosemouchoirs 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 entered 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 rolled out,And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!Oh!—Papa, all along, knew the secret,' is clear—'Twasa shopmanhe meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear!The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,And, whenthattoo delightful illusion was past,As a hero had worshipt—vile, treacherous thing—To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!My head swam around—the wretch smiled, I believe,But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive—I fell back on BOB—my whole heart seemed 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 stanch Revolutionist always I've thought him,"But now I find out he's aCounterone, BIDDY!"
Only think, my dear creature, if this should be knownTo that saucy, satirical thing, Miss MALONE!What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever!What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men!It will spread thro' the country—and never, oh! neverCan 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 grudgeTo her poor—broken-hearted—young friend, BIDDY FUDGE.
Nota bene—I am 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.
[1] The column in the Place Vendôme.
[2] Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for "Le Roi."
[3] LE ROI, who was theCouturièreof the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE.
[4] It is thebrotherof the present excellentRestaurateurwho lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Monmartre.
The name of the country town, in England—a well-known fashionable watering-place—in which the events that gave rise to the following correspondence occurred, is, for obvious reasons, suppressed. The interest attached, however, to the facts and personages of the story, renders it independent of all time and place; and when it is recollected that the whole train of romantic circumstances so fully unfolded in these Letters has passed during the short period which has now elapsed since the great Meetings in Exeter Hall, due credit will, it is hoped, be allowed to the Editor for the rapidity with which he has brought the details before the Public; while, at the same time any errors that may have been the result of such haste will, he trusts, with equal consideration, be pardoned.
Who d' ye think we've got here?—quite reformed from the giddy.Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise—Why, the famous Miss Fudge—that delectable Biddy,Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs—Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint;Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.
Poor "Pa" hath popt off—gone, as charity judges,To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectationsFrom some much revered and much palsied relations,Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,—Age, thirty, or thereabouts—stature six feet,And warranted godly—to make all complete.Nota bene—a Churchman would suit, if he'shigh,But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.
What say you, Dick? doesnt this tempt your ambition?The whole wealth of Fudge, that renowned man of pith.All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,—Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith.Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch!While, instead of the thousands of souls younowwatch,To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do;And her purse will meanwhile be the saving ofyou.
You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf,Wanting substance even more than your spiritual self,Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf,When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yetSo much lackt an old spinster to rid him from debt,Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail herWith tender love-suit—at the suit of his tailor.
But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend,Which thus to your reverend breast I commend:Miss Fudge hath a niece—such a creature!—with eyesLike those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skiesAt astronomers-royal, and laugh with delightTo see elderly gentlemen spying all night.
While her figure—oh! bring all the gracefullest thingsThat are borne thro' the light air by feet or by wings,Not a single new grace to that form could they teach,Which combines in itself the perfection of each;While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall,The mute music of symmetry modulates all.
Ne'er in short was there creature more formed to bewilderA gay youth like me, who of castles aërial(Andonlyof such) am, God help me! a builder;Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal,And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye,Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.
But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth—even she,This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;Talks learning—looks wise (rather painful to see),Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;And raves—the sweet, charming, absurd little dear,AboutAmulets, Bijous, andKeepsakes, next year.In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portendsOf that Annualbluefit, so distressing to friends;A fit which, tho' lasting but one short edition,Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.
However, let's hope for the best—and, meanwhile,Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile;While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant(Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt.Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie.
What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back,An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye!Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin,What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents?While her aeres!—oh Dick, it dont matter one pinHow she touches the affections, soyoutouch the rents;And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, heSings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame."
By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report,Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.'Tis rumored our Manager means to bespeakThe Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week;And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer setThrow, for the amusement of Christians, a summerset.'Tis feared their chief "Merriman," C—ke, cannot come,Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home;And the loss of so practised a wag in divinityWill grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;—His pun on the name Unigenitus, latelyHaving pleased Robert Taylor, theReverend, greatly.'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'emEver yet reckoned a point of wit one of 'em.But even tho' deprived of this comical elf,We've a host ofbuffoniin Murtagh himself.Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime,And Coke takes theGroundTumbling,hetheSublime;[1]And of him we're quite certain, so pray come in time.
[1] In the language of the play-bills, "Ground andLoftyTumbling."
Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy,With godly concernments—and worldly ones, too;Things carnal and spiritual mixt, my dear Lizzy,In this little brain till, bewildered and dizzy,'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do.
First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town,Which our favorite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down.Sleevesstillworn (whichIthink is wise),à lafolle,Charming hats,pou de soie—tho' the shape rather droll.But you cant think how nicely the caps oftullelace,With thementonnièreslook on this poor sinful face;And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right,To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to-night.
The silks are quite heavenly:—I'm glad too to sayGimp herself grows more godly and good every day;Hath had sweet experience—yea, even doth beginTo turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin—And all since her last stock of goods was laid in.What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf,Should thus "walk in newness," as well as one's self!So much for the blessings, the comforts of SpiritI've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!—Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect,Tho' ordained (God knows why) to be one of the Elect.But now for the picture's reverse.—You rememberThat footman and cook-maid I hired last December;Hea Baptist Particular—she, of some sectNot particular, I fancy, in any respect;But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word,And "to wait," as she said, "on Miss Fudge and the Lord."
Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular BaptistAt preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich inSweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen.He preached in the parlor, he preached in the hall,He preached to the chambermaids, scullions and all.All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,But above all, the cook-maid:—oh, ne'er would she tire—Tho', in learning to save sinful souls from the fire,She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!—A sad trick I've learned in Bob's heathen society.)But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale;Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veil—Conscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale!* * * * ** * * * *In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair,Chosen "vessels of mercy," asIthought they were,Have together this last week eloped; making boldTo whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold—Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves,Two Family Bibles as large as themselves,And besides, from the drawer—I neglecting to lock it—My neat "Morning Manna, done up for the pocket."[1]Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz?It has made me quite ill:-and the worst of it is,When rogues areallpious, 'tis hard to detectWhichrogues are the reprobate,whichthe elect.This man "had acall," he said—impudent mockery!What call had he tomylinen and crockery?
I'm now and have been for this week past in chaseOf some godly young couple this pair to replace.The enclosed two announcements have just met my eyesIn that venerable Monthly where Saints advertiseFor such temporal comforts as this world supplies;And the fruits of the Spirit are properly madeAn essential in every craft, calling and trade.Where the attorney requires for his 'prentice some youthWho has "learned to fear God and to walk in the truth;"Where the sempstress, in search of employment, declaresThat pay is no object, so she can have prayers;And the Establisht Wine Company proudly gives outThat the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout.
Happy London, one feels, as one reads o'er the pages,Where Saints are so much more abundant than sages;Where Parsons may soon be all laid on the shelf,As each Cit can cite chapter and verse for himself,And theseriousfrequenters of market and dockAll lay in religion as part of their stock.[2]Who can tell to what lengths we may go on improving,When thus thro' all London the Spirit keeps moving,And heaven's so in vogue that each shop adver_tise_mentIs now not so much for the earth as the skies meant?
Have mislaid the two paragraphs—cant stop to look,But both describe charming—both Footman and Cook.She, "decidedly pious"—with pathos deploresThe increase of French cookery and sin on our shores;And adds—(while for further accounts she refersTo a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,)That "tho'somemake their Sabbaths mere matter-of-fun days,She asks but for tea and the Gospel, on Sundays."The footman, too, full of the true saving knowledge;—Has late been to Cambridge—to Trinity College;Served last a young gentleman, studying divinity,But left—not approving the morals of Trinity.
I enclose, too, according to promise, some scrapsOf my Journal—that Day-book I keep of my heart;Where, at some little items, (partaking, perhaps,More of earth than of heaven,) thy prudery may start,And suspect something tender, sly girl as thou art.For the present, I'm mute—but, whate'er may befall,Recollect, dear, (in Hebrews, xiii. 4,) St. PaulHath himself declared, "marriage is honorable in all."
Monday.
Tried a new chälé gown on—pretty.No one to see me in it—pity!Flew in a passion with Fritz, my maid;—The Lord forgive me!—she lookt dismayed;But got her to sing the 100th Psalm,While she curled my hair, which made me calm.Nothing so soothes a Christian heartAs sacred music—heavenly art!
Tuesday
At two a visit from Mr. Magan—A remarkably handsome, nice young man;And, all Hibernian tho' he be,As civilized, strange to say, as we!I own this young man's spiritual stateHath much engrossed my thoughts of late;And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone,To have some talk with him thereupon.At present I naught can do or say,But that troublesome child is in the way;Nor is there, I think, a doubt that heWould also her absence much prefer,As oft, while listening intent to me,He's forced, from politeness, to look at her.
Heigho!—what a blessing should Mr. MaganTurn out, after all, a "renewed" young man;And to me should fall the task, on earth,To assist at the dear youth's second birth.Blest thought! and ah! more blest the tie,Were it Heaven's high will, that he and I—But I blush to write the nuptial word—Should wed, as St. Paul says, "in the Lord";Notthisworld's wedlock—gross, gallant,But pure—as when Amram married his aunt.
Our ages differ—but who would countOne's natural sinful life's amount,Or look in the Register's vulgar pageFor a regular twice-born Christian's age,Who, blessed privilege! only thenBegins to live when he's born again?And, counting inthisway—let me see—I myself but five years old shall be.And dear Magan, when the event takes place,An actual new-born child of grace—Should Heaven in mercy so dispose—A six-foot baby, inswaddlingclothes.
Wednesday.
Finding myself, by some good fate,With Mr. Magan lefttéte-à-téte,Had just begun—having stirred the fire,And drawn my chair near his—to inquire,What his notions were of Original Sin,When that naughty Fanny again bounced in;And all the sweet things I had got to sayOf the Flesh and the Devil were whiskt away!
Much grieved to observe that Mr. MaganIs actually pleased and, amused with Fan!What charms any sensible man can seeIn a child so foolishly young as she—But just eighteen, come next Mayday,With eyes, like herself, full of naught but play—Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.
[1] "Morning Manna, or British Verse-book, neatly done up for the pocket," and chiefly intended to assist the members of the British Verse Association, whose design is, we are told, "to induce the inhabitants of Great Britain and Ireland to commit one and the same verse of Scripture to memory every morning. Already, it is known, several thousand persons in Scotland, besides tens of thousands in America and Africa,are every morning learning the same verse."
[2] According to the late Mr. Irving, there is even a peculiar form of theology got up expressly for the money-market, "I know how far wide," he says, "of the mark my views of Christ's work in the flesh will be viewed by those who are working with the stock-jobbing theology of the religious world." "Let these preachers." he adds, "(for I will not call them theologians), cry up, brother like, their article,"—Morning Watch."— No. iii, 442. 443.
Dark comrade of my path! while earth and skyThus wed their charms, in bridal light arrayed,Why in this bright hour, walkst thou ever nigh;Blackening my footsteps, with thy length of shade—Dark comrade, WHY?
Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot,Saddening them as thou goest—say, what meansSo dark an adjunct to so bright a lot—Grim goblin, WHAT?
Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,Thou bendest, too—then risest when I rise;—Say, mute, mysterious Thing! how is't that thouThus comest between me and those blessed skies—Dim shadow, HOW?
Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudgeThan gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,Oh Why? What? How?—a Voice, that one might judgeTo be some Irish echo's, faint replied,Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!
You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;And, with it, that odious "additional stanza,Which Auntwillinsist I must keep, as conclusion,And which, you'llat oncesee, is Mr. Magan's;—aMost cruel and dark-designed extravaganza,And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt areTo stifle the flights of my genius by banter.
Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-eyed strain,Just so did they taunt him;—but vain, critics, vainAll your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain!To blot out the splendor of Fancy's young stream,Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!!Thou perceivest, dear, that, even while these lines I indite,Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!
That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regardsMessrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards—Thatsheshould make light of my works I cant blame;But that nice, handsome, odious Magan—what a shame!Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him,I'm really afraid—after all, I—musthate him,He issoprovoking—naught's safe from his tongue;He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.Were you Sappho herself, and inKeepsakeorBijouOnce shone as contributor, Lord! how he'd quiz you!He laughs atallMonthlies—I've actually seenA sneer on his brow atThe Court Magazine!—While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he peruses,And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,Onespirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;And tho' tried by the fire, my young genius shall burn asUninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!(I suspect the word "crucified" must be made "crucible,"Before this fine image of mine is producible.)And now, dear—to tell you a secret which, prayOnly trust to such friends as with safety you may—You know and indeed the whole country suspects(Tho' the Editor often my best things rejects),That the verses signed so,[symbol: hand], which you now and then seeIn our CountyGazette(videlast) are by me.But 'tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakesThe vile country Press in one's prosody makes.For you know, dear—I may, without vanity, hint—Tho' an angel should write, still 'tisdevilsmust print;And you cant think what havoc these demons sometimesChoose to make of one's sense, and what's worse, of one's rhymes.But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring,Which Imeantto have made a most beautiful thing,Where I talkt of the "dewdrops from freshly-blown roses,"The nasty things made it "from freshly-blown noses!"And once when to please my cross Aunt, I had triedTo commemorate some saint of hercligue, who'd just died,Having said he "had taken up in heaven his position,"They made it, he'd "taken up to heaven his physician!"
This is very disheartening;—but brighter days shine,I rejoice, love, to say both for me and the Nine;For what do you think?—so delightful! next year,Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare—I'm to write in "The Keepsake"—yes, Kitty, my dear.To write in "The Keepsake," as sure as you're there!!T' other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chanceWith a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught.Was the author ofsomething—one couldnt tell what;But his satisfied manner left no room to doubtIt was something that Colburn had lately brought out.
We conversed ofbelles-lettresthro' all the quadrille,—Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;Talkt of Intellect's march—whether right 'twas or wrong—And then settled the point in a bolden avant.In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just hintedThatItoo had Poems which—longed to be printed,He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,I was actuallybornin "The Keepsake" to write."In the Annals of England let some," he said, "shine,"But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!"Even now future 'Keepsakes' seem brightly to rise,"Thro' the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,—"All lettered and prest, and of large-paper size!"How un_like_ that Magan, who my genius would smother,And how we true geniuses find out each other!
This and much more he said with that fine frenzied glanceOne so rarely now sees, as we slid thro' the dance;Till between us 'twas finally fixt that, next year,In this exquisite task I my pen should engage;And, at parting, he stoopt down and lispt in my earThese mystical words, which I could butjusthear,"Terms for rhyme—if it'sprime—ten and sixpence per page."Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right,What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains;If for nothing to write is itself a delight,Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!
Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy profound,Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've foundThat he's quite a new species of literary man;One, whose task is—to what will not fashion accustom us?—Toeditlive authors, as if they were posthumous.For instance—the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!—If any young he or she author feels modestIn venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usherLends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher;Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.My Aunt says—tho' scarce on such points one can credit her—He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor.'Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented;And quick as the change of all things and all names is,Who knows but as authors like girls arepresented,We girls may beeditedsoon at St. James's?
I must now close my letter—there's Aunt, in full screech,Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say,To go and sit still to be preached at to-day.And besides—'twill be all against dancing, no doubt,Which my poor Aunt abhors with such hatred devout,That so far from presenting young nymphs with a head,For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,She'd wish their own heads in the platter instead.There again—coming, Ma'am!—I'll write more, if I can,Before the post goes,Your affectionate Fan.
Four o'clock.
Such a sermon!—tho'notabout dancing, my dear;'Twas only on the end of the world being near.Eighteen Hundred and Forty's the year that some stateAs the time for that accident—some Forty Eight[1]And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter,As then I shall be an old maid, and 'twon't matter.Once more, love, good-by—I've to make a new cap;But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishapOf the end of the world that Imusttake a nap.
[1] With regard to the exact time of this event, there appears to be a difference only of about two or three years among the respective calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit. et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846 or 1847.