""Twas 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) * ""Twas 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

!" S

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,

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 ?”

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

+"Mon ours, voilà votre asyle- -et vous, mon ours, ne viendrez-vous pas aussi?"- etc. etc.

§"Un jour, qu'il gelait très-fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoyait, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquait avoir porté, et dont elle voulait que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, plus qu'amical, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se fût dépouillé pour me vêtir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois, en pleurant, le billet et le jupon."

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 ask'd 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 employ *
That enchanting couturière, Madame LE ROI,

But am forced, 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 condemn'd 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 sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,

* Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for "Le Roi."

+ LE ROI, who was the Couturière of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, Vic

“Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen

“It was made by that B**rb*n*te b——h, 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, though the word on good manners intrench,
I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'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 every thing to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Boв calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes”—
Ah DOLL! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpractised 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 Boв, 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 VÉRYS! * "Long, long have I wish'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 VÉRYS-I'll visit their bones!" He insists upon my going with him-how teazing! This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie

Unseal'd in my drawer, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you-Good bye.
B. F.

Four o'Clock.

Oh DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd for ever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never!
To think of the wretch-what a victim was I!
'Tis too much to endure-I shall die, I shall die-
My brain's in a fever-my pulses beat quick-
I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick!

* It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetière Montmartre. The inscription on the column at the head of the tomb concludes with the following words-" Toute sa vie fut consacrée aux arts utiles."

Oh what do you think? after all my romancing,
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing,
This Colonel-I scarce can commit it to paper-
This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper !!
'Tis true as I live-I had coax'd brother BOB SO
(You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so)
For some little gift on my birth-day-September
The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember—
That Boв to a shop kindly order'd the coach

(Ah, little I thought who the shopman would prove To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,

Which, in happier hours, I have sigh'd for, my love,— (The most beautiful things-two Napoleons the priceAnd one's name in the corner embroider'd so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But-ye Gods, what a phantom!-I thought I should drop

There he stood, my dear DOLLY—no room for a doubt

There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him

stand,

With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out,
And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand!
Oh-Papa, all along, knew the secret, 'tis clear-
'Twas a shopman he meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear!