Well, it _isn't_ the King, after all, my dear creature!
But _don't_ you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in't--
For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,
He _might_ be 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 with _such_ airs, 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 should _not_ be the King;
"As I think for my BIDDY, so _gentille_ and _jolie_.
"Whose charms may their price in an _honest_ way fetch,
"That a Brandenburgh"--(what _is_ a 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, how _can_ you 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 old
As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told
That 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 a _hero_ I'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-HUIT
Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,
Who get up a small concert of shrill _Vive 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 statue
There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you!
The ponds, too, we viewed--stood awhile on the brink
To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes--
"_Live bullion_," says merciless BOB, "which, I think,
"Would, if _coined_, with a little _mint_ sauce, be delicious!"
But _what_, 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 chair
Where a thing _like_ a man was--no lover sat there!
In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast
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,[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!--a _Restaurateur's_, dear;
Where your _properest_ ladies go dine every day,
And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer.
Fine BOB (for he's really grown _super_-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;
"The _lamb_ made me tranquil, the _puffs_ made me light,
"And--now that all's o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!"
To _my_ great annoyance, we sat rather late;
For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate
About 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
"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![3]
We entered--and, scarcely had BOB, with an air,
For a _grappe à la jardinière_ 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,[4]
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 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 _beaute_, my _grâce_,
And my _ja-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 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--(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.