To Colonel Bellville.
Thursday.
Positively, Bellville, I can answer
for nothing: these sylvan scenes are
so very bewitching, the vernal grove, and
balmy Zephyr, are so favourable to a
lover's prayer, that if Fondville was any
thing but a pretty man about town, my
situation would be extremely critical.
This wicked Harry too has certainly
some evil design; he forms nothing but enchanting
rural parties, either à quarrée,
or with others of the young and gay: not
a maiden aunt has appeared at Belmont
since his reign commenced. He suffers no
ideas to enter our imaginations but those
of youth, beauty, love, and the seducing
pleasures of the golden age. We dance
on the green, dine at the hermitage, and
wander in the woods by moonlight, listening
to the song of the nightingale, or the
sweeter notes of that little syren Lady Julia,
whose impassioned sounds would soften
the marble heart of a virgin of eighty-five.
I really tremble for my fair friend; young,
artless, full of sensibility, exposed hourly
to the charms of the prettiest fellow upon
earth, with a manner so soft, so tender, so
much in her own romantic way–
A rap at my door–Fondville is sent
for away–company at his house–sets out
immediately–I must bid the dear creature
adieu–
I am returned: pity me, Bellville!
"The streams, the groves, the rocks remain;
But damon still I seek in vain."
Yes, the dear man is gone; Harry is
retired to write letters, and Lady Julia and
I are going to take a walk, Tete à Tete
in the wood. Jesu Maria! a female Tete à
Tete!–I shall never go through the operation
–if we were en confidence indeed,
it might be bearable: but the little innocent
fool has not even a secret.
Adio!
Yours, A. Wilmot.
