The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 40

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite All the exquisite places we're at, day and night; And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where--I doubt If I well can describe--there are cars that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, And rattle you down, Doll--you hardly know where.

These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through This delightfully dangerous journey, hold TWO.

Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether You'll venture down with him--you smile--'tis a match; In an instant you're seated, and down both together Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch; Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd, The impatience of some for the perilous flight, The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright, That there came up--imagine, dear Doll, if you can-- A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man, With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft), The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft As Hyienas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between Abelard and old Bincher!

Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, "Ah! my dear--if Ma'maelle vil be so very good-- Just for von little course"--though I scarce understood What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

Off we set--and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together-- Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again.

And oh! as I gazed on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about, Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each cracker And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre.

Now, hear me--this stranger--it may be mere folly-- But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly?

Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, Who's here now incog.--he, who made such a fuss, you Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff, When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off!

Pa says he's come here to look after his money (Not taking things now as he used under Boney), Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore, Looking sharp to the silver received at the door.

Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris.

Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief Should--unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push-- Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu--only think, Dolly, think If this SHOULD be the King--I have scarce slept a wink With imagining how it will sound in the papers, And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors, Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.

Nota Bene.--Papa's almost certain 'tis he-- For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see, In the way he went poising, and managed to tower So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

SECOND LETTER.

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, though, hang him, he isn't.

At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own, If for no other cause than 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 says Pa, after deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should NOT be the King; As I think for my BIDDY, so gentilie jolie, Whose charms may their price in an HONEST way fetch, That a Brandenburg--(what IS a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)-- Would be, after all, no such very great catch, If the R--G--T, indeed--" added he, looking sly-- (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopp'd him--"La, Pa, how CAN you say so, When the R--G--T 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--ay, 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 kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then!

What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, Who, though not a king, is a HERO I'll swear-- You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!

Let me see--'t was on Sat.u.r.day--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, clas.h.i.+ng down-hilly; And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"

Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through, And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, 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 clear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!

The gardens seem'd full--so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum, And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue There staring, with not even a st.i.tch on them, at you!

The ponds, too, we view'd--stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- "LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think, Would, if COIN'D, 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, mustaches, and wigs that went past, To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl, But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given, For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!"

Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his!

Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"

Thought of the words of T-H M-RE'S Irish melody, Something about the "green spot of delight,"

(Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day) Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Sat.u.r.day night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd 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, 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 Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same QUITE-- "My sighs," said he "ceased with the first gla.s.s I drank you, The LAMB made me tranquil, the PUFFS made me light, And now that's all 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, "G.o.d only knows which is worst, The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it-- What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst If MY head or my stomach will ever recover it!"

'T was 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!

We enter'd--and scarcely had Bob, with an air, For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters, When, oh! Dolly, 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 joined 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 a la glace, But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my GRACE, And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd) 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 't was fix'd, 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 't was 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 vex'd-- Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next.

That dear Sunday night!--I was charmingly dress'd, 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,

R.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, 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 BRANDENBURG is.

THIRD LETTER.

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'ecrevisses-- 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 heaven, I've 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 suns.h.i.+ne EXPRESS-- Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going, It scarce could be furnish'd 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 gra.s.s an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet!

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 blus.h.i.+ng 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; 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 bra.s.s Which the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pa.s.s, 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--such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on-- Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; 'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.

And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd; And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!-- "'T was there," said he--not that his WORDS I can state-- 'T was 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 nomparsille 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!

"'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said-- As down the small garden he pensively led-- (Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)-- "'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY, (Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day), That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd, As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'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 way then hastening in pomp to its set, And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, When he ask'd ne, 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 couturiere, Madame LE ROI, But am forc'd, 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 B*n*pa*t*st.

Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd--so well knowing The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing; I stammer'd out something--nay, even half named The LEGITIMATE semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed, "Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seen It was made by that B*rb*n**t b--h, VIOTORINE!"

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 intrench, I a.s.sure you, 'tis not HALF so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarra.s.sing, soon pa.s.s'd 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 "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"-- Ah DOLL, though I KNOW you've a heart, 'tis in vain To a heart so unpracticed these things to explain, They can only be felt in their fullness divine 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 BOB, my dear DOLLY, Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections; And full of all yesterday's rich recollections, Is just setting off for Montmartre--"for THERE is,"

Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS!

Long, long have I wisn'd, 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 the FLESH of the VERYS--I'll visit their BONES!"