Letters

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY — — IN IRELAND .

What a time since I wrote! — I'm a sad naughty girl —
Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl,
Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note 'em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine! — there's no language expresses,
Except just the two words " superbe, " " magnifique, "
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call'd — I forget — a la — something which sounded
Like alicampane — but, in truth, I'm confounded
And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's:
What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote ,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise . —
But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Française ,
With my bonnet — so beautiful! — high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights —
This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting,
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera — mercy, my ears!
Brother Bobby's remark t' other night was a true one;
" This must be the music, " said he, " of the spears ,
For I'm curst if each note of it does n't run through one! "

Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out),
'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about;
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.
What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm!
What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it!
If, when of age, every man in the realm
Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it!
No — never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear;
So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts,
Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing — ah parlez moi , Dolly, de ├ºa —
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa
Such beauty — such grace — oh ye sylphs of romance!
Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
Fanny Bias in Flora — dear creature! — you'd swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels
Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven?
Then, the music — so softly its cadences die,
So divinely — oh, Dolly! between you and I,
It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh
To make love to me then — you've a soul, and can judge
What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in),
They call it the Play-house — I think — of Saint Martin:
Quite charming — and very religious — what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly:
And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it; —
Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path;
As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath
In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite Eve-angelic !

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 Hyaenas in love may be fancied to look, or
A something between Abelard and old Blucher!
Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head
(Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said,
" Ah! my dear — if Ma'mselle 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 'twas 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 'twould 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 is n'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 M ALONE —
(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, D OLLY ?) —
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 — '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! "
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 L OUIS 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 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 stitch 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 — M 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 Saturday 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 glass 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, " God 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! 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 joined us — imagine, dear creature my ecstacy —
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.

Nota bena — 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, D OLLY — 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 J ANE in the novel less languish'd to hear
If that elegant cornet she met at Lord N EVILLE'S
Was actually dying with love or — blue devils.
But love, D OLLY , love is the theme I pursue;
With, blue devils, thank heaven, I 've nothing to do —
Except, indeed, dear Colonel C ALICOT spies
Any imps of that color in certain blue eyes,
Which he stares at till I , D OLL , 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 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 G ATTIE'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 tabinet!
And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plumed C ALICOT 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 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 B ONEY'S —
Served with him, of course — nay, I'm sure they were cronies;
So martial his features, dear D OIL , you can trace
Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face
As you do on that pillar of glory and brass
Which the poor Duc de B** RI 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 J ACK C ASTLES with Lord C ASTLEREAGH ;
And — such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on —
Fancied the present Lord C AMDEN 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, D OLL , to know
All the life and adventures of J EAN J ACQUES R OUSSEAU ! —
" '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 J ULIE 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 nompar eille 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 C ALICOT 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'E PINAY ,
(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, D OLI , were the sweet recollections we ponder'd,
As, full of romauce, 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 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, D OLL , 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 L E R OI ,
But am fore'd, dear, to have V ICTORINE , who — deuce take her —
It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker —
I mean of his party — and, though much the smartest,
L E R OI is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st.

Think, D OLL , 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, V ICTORINE ! "
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 nothing that then, love, are every thing to us —
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Bob calls the " Twopenny-Post of the Eyes " —
Ah D OLL , 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 D OLLY ,
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 V ERYS !
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 V ERYS — I 'll visit their bones ! "
He insists upon my going with him — how teasing!
This letter, however, dear D OLLY , shall lie
Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I 'm out, I may tell you — Good-by.
Four o'clock
Oh, D OLLY , dear D OLLY , I'm ruin'd forever —
I ne'er shall be happy again, D OLLY , 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!
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 Bob to a shop kindly order'd the coach
(Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove),
To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche ,
Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love —
(The most beautiful things — two Napoleons the price —
And one 's name in the corner embroidered 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 D OLLY — 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 —
'T was a a shopman he meant by a " Brandenburg, " dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worship'd — vile treacherous thing —
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam round — the wretch smil'd, I believe,
But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive —
I fell back on Bob — my whole heart seem'd to wither,
And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that Bob , as I caught him,
With cruel facetiousness said — " Curse the Kiddy,
A staunch Revolutionist always I 've thought him,
But now I find out he 's a Counter one, Biddy ! "

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy satirical thing, Miss M ALONE !
What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever!
What laughs and what quizzing she 'll have with the men!
It will spread through the country — and never, oh never
Can Biddy be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell — I shall do something desperate, I fear —
And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my D OLL will not grudge
To her poor — broken-hearted — young friend,
Biddy F UDGE .

Nota Bene — I'm sure you will hear with delight,
That we 're going, all three, to see B RUNET to-night
A laugh will revive me — and kind Mr. Cox
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.
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