by Thomas Moore
“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,2is 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.
B. F.
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, (now do, DOLLY, pray,
&nbs
p; For I hate to ask BOB, he’s so ready to quiz,)
What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.
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 fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boulevards.
4 “You eat your ice at Tortoni’s,” says Mr. Scott, “under a Grecian group.”
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 arbitrament, that poured,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A hallowing light, 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 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 track
Thro’ 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,
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
* * * * *
1 See Aellan, lib. v. ca., — 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.
LETTER XII.
FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY —— .
At last, DOLLY, — thanks to potent emetic,
Which BOBBY and Pa, 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 languisht 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 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 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 furnisht more golden and glowing.
Tho’ 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!
While 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,
And — in short, need I tell you wherever one goes
With the creature one loves, ’tis 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,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 the present Lord CAMDEN 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 walkt
Thro’ that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talkt;
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 sauded it over with silver and azure,
“And — oh, what will genius and fancy not do! —
“Tied the leaves up together with nonpareille 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 —
(Tho’ 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’ÉPINAY
“(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, 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 I ought to have told my best friend long ago,
That, by Pa’s strict command, I no longer employ2
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, tho’ much the smartest,
LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.3
Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt — 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 bitch, 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 tho’ the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you ’tis not half so 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, —
The nothings that then, love, are — everything to us —
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what BOB calls the “Two-penny-post of the Eyes” —
Ah, DOLL! tho’ I know you’ve a heart, ’tis in vain,
