In vain did I wildly explore every chair

About singing and cookery-BOBBY, of course,

Where a thing like a man was-no lover sat there! Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;3
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast
And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst,
"The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us

At 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,' is to Mussulmen giv'n,
For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heav'n!"
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,"

well over it

"What with old LAïs and VERY, I'm cursed

"If my head 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!

Thought of the words of T-M M-RE's Irish We enter'd-and, scarcely had Boв, with an air,

Fine BoB (for he's really grown super-fine)

Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;
Of course, though 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 Boв, who's in love, said he felt the same,
quite-

For a grappe à la jardinière call'd 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,

As when safe at TORTONI's, o'er iced currant

water!

He join'd us-imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy-
Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see!
BoB wish'd 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 twirl'd)

"My sighs," said he, “ceased with the first glass Were, to him, "on de top of all Ponch in de

3 Cookery has been dignified by the researches of a Bacon, (see his Natural History, Receipts, &c.,) and takes its station as one of the Fine Arts in the following passage of Mr. Dugald Stewart :-" Agreeably to this view of the sub

1 For this scrap of knowledge "Pa" was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's ruins; a book which usually forms part of a Jacobin's library, and with which Mr. Fudge must have been well acquainted at the time when he wrote his "Down with Kings," &c. The note in Volney is as fol-ject, sweet may be said to be intrinsically pleasing, and bitter lows: 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.”

2 The young lady, whose memory is not very correct, must allude, I think, to the following lines:

Oh that fairy form is ne'er forgot,

Which First Love traced;

Still it ling'ring haunts the greenest spot

On Memory's waste!

to be relatively pleasing; while both are, in many cases, equally essential to those effects, which, in the art of cookery, correspond to that composite beauty, which it is the object of the painter and of the poet to create."-Philosophical Essays.

4 A fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boulevards. 5 "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "urder a Grecian group."

To see Montmorency—that place which, you know,
Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES
ROUSSEAU.

Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now
Hung trembling on NAPOLEON's single, brow;
Such the sublime arbitrament, that pour'd,

His card then he gave us the name, rather In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,

creased

But 'twas CALICOT― something-a Colonel at least!

A hallowing light, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illumed its way!

After which-sure there never was hero so civil- Oh, 'twas not then the time for tame debates,

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!"1

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,2
Denounced against the land, that spurn'd his chain,
Myriads of swords to bind it fast again—
Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track

But, Lord,—there's Papa for the post-I'm so vex'd-Through your best blood his path of vengeance back;
Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.
That dear Sunday night!-I was char aingly dress'd,
And-so providential !-was looking my best;
Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce-and my
frills,

When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined
But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoin'd,
Shed war and pestilence) to scourge mankind,
Gather'd around, with hosts from every shore,
Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more,

The world yet left one chance for liberty!

You've no notion how rich-(though Pa has by the And, in that coming strife, appall'd to see
bills)
And you'd smile had you seen, where we sat rather No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net

near,

Of bondage around your Chief; to curb and fret
Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight,

Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear.
Then the flow'rs in my bonnet-but, la, it's in When every hope was in his speed and might—

vain

So, good-by, my sweet DOLL-I shall soon write
again.
B. F.

Nota bene-our love to all neighbors about-
Your Papa in particular-how is his gout?

P.S.-I've just open'd my letter to say,

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,

In your next you must tell me, (now do, DoLLY, I would have follow'd, with quick heart and hand,

1

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 swallow'd 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 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 heav'n, I have 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 ex-
claim,

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 walk'd If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, Sir, for Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he shame!"

talk'd;

And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know

Well, the morning was lovely-the trees in full All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES 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 glow-
ing.

Though late when we started, the scent of the air Was like GATTIE's rose-water, and, bright, here and 'there,

ROUSSEAU!

On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet,
Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet!"
While the birds seem'd to warble as bless'd 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;

1 The column in the Place Vendôme.

"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 ii. liv. 9.

This word, "exquisite," is evidently a favorite of Miss

"

'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 emo

tions

From sand and blue ribands are conjured up here! Alas, that a man of such exquisite3 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—

Fudge's; and I understand she was not a little angry 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 ?'

1

(Though once I could see his sublime forehead But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we pon- Ah, DOLL! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
der'd,
To a heart so unpractised these things to explain.
As, full of romance, through that valley we wan- They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,

der'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 was then hast'ning in pomp to its set,
And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone
down,

By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like

mine!

But here I must finish-for Boв, my deal ZOLLY, Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, Is seized with a fancy for churchyard reflections; When he ask'd me, with eagerness,-who made And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections, my gown?

Is just setting off for Montmartre-" for there is," The question confused me-for, DOLL, you must Said he, looking solemn, "The tomb of the VERYS!

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 now 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 condemn'd as a rank Bonapartist.
Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd-so well
knowing

The Colonel's opinion-my cheeks were quite
glowing;

I stammer'd out something-nay, even half named
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
"It was made by that Bourbonite b-

66

TORINE!"

-h, Vic

What a word for a hero!-but heroes will err,

And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,

they were.

This Colonel-I scarce can commit it to paper

Besides, though the word on good manners in- This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!!

trench,

I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.

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

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

3 "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 vêtir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois en pleurant le billet et le jupon."

Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again! Farewell-I shall do something desp'rate, I fear

And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,