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 wond'rous relief; And Boв, who's in love, said he felt the same quite— My sighs," said he, “ceased with the first glass I

“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 LAïs 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! *

We enter❜d—and, scarcely had Boв, with an air,

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 extacyJoin'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,

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

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 'twas 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 '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 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;

*Not an unusual mistake with foreigners.

Such a sweet muslin

frills,

gown,

with a flounce-and my

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 bye, my sweet DOLL-I shall soon write again.

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

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

In

B. F.

your next you must tell me (now do, DOLLY, pray, For I hate to ask Boв, 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 N*p*L**N's single brow;
Such the sublime abitrement, that pour'd,
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 spurn'd 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 conjoin'd,
Shed war and pestilence) to scourge mankind,

* See Ælian, 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 eagles-diαTETOV

ται σιωπώντες.