That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's !* We entered-and, scarcely had Bob, with an air,

For a grappe à la jardiniere 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,+
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,

66

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 beauté, my grace,
And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirled)
Were, to him, on de top of all Ponch in de vorld."-
How pretty!-though 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 fixed, 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-(though 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 neighbours about-
Your Papa in particular--how is his gout?

A fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boulevards.

B. F.

"You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian group." Not an unusual mistake with foreigners.

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.

LETTER XI.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO

YES-'twas a cause, as noble and as great
As 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 now
Hung trembling on Napoleon's single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrement, that poured,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A glory then, which never, since the day
Of 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 fled before your Chieftain's eye,
As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,
Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again—
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track

Through your best blood his path of vengeance back,
When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined
But (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 see
The world yet left one chance for liberty!-
No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net
Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret
Your 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's boughs should shoot,
When your Invader's axe was at the root!

No, sacred Liberty! that God, who throws

Thy light around, like his own sunshine, knows
How well I love thee, and how deeply hate

All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate

Yet, in that hour, were France my native land,

I would have followed, with quick heart and hand,

*See Elian, Lib. 5, 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 eaglesδιαπετονται σιωπώντες.

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 things
Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings,
But raised the hopes of men-as eaglets fly
With tortoises aloft into the sky-

To dash them down again more shatteringly!
*All this I own-but still

LETTER XII.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY

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'écrevisses-
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 languished 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 have nothing to do
Except, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies
Any imps of that colour in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till 7, 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 ordered it, dear, of the best poet going,
It scarce could be furnished 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 tabbinet!
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,

* Somebody (Fontenelle, I believe) has said, that if he had his hand full of truths, he would open but one finger at a time; and I find it necessary to use the same sort of reserve with respect to Mr. Phelim Connor's very plain-spoken letters. The remainder of this Epistle is so full of unsafe matter-of-fact, that it must, for the present at least, be withheld from the public.

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 C-
-gh;
And-such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on-
Fancied the present Lord C-md-n the clever one!

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 walked
Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talked ;
And how perfectly well he appeared, Doll, to know
All the life and adventures of Jean Jacques Rousseau !-
""Twas there," said he-not that his words I 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 sanded it over with silver and azure,
And-oh, what will genius and fancy not do?—
Tied the leaves up together with nompareille 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!

"'Twas here, too, perhaps," Colonel Calicot said-
As down the small garden he pensively led-

The column in the Place Vendome.

t 'Employant pour cela le plus beau papier doré, séchant l'écriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent, et cousant mes cahiers avec de la nompareille bleue."-Les Confessions, Part 2, liv. 9.

This word, "exquisite," is evidently a favourite of Miss Fudge's; and I understand she was not a little anguy when her brother Bob committed a pun on the last two syllables of it in the following couplet :

"I'd fain praise your Poem-but tell me, how is it
When I cry out Exquisite," Echo cries "quiz it?"

(Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle
With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)*
"'Twas here he received from the fair D'Epinay,
(Who called him so sweetly her 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, through 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 asked me, 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 couturière, Madame le Roi,

But am forced, 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 Bonapartist. ||

Think, Doll, how confounded I looked-so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions-my cheeks were quite glowing;
I stammered out something-nay, even half named
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed,
"Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
It was made by that Bourbonite b――h, Victorine!"
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 entrench,
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon passed 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 every thing to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,

And what Bob calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"

* The flower which Rousseau brought into such fashion among the Parisians, by exclaiming one day, "Ah, voilà de la pervenche !"

"Mon ours, voilà votre asyle-et vous, mon ours, ne viendrez-vous pas aussi?"&c. &c.

"Un jour, qu'il geloit très fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoyoit, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquoit avoir porté, et dont elle vouloit que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, plus qu'amical, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se fût dépouillée pour me vétir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois en pleurant le billet et le jupon."

§ Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for "Le Roi."

Le Roi, who was the Couturière of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion. and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, Victorine.