The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

At last, Dolly,—thanks to a potent emetic,
Which Bobby and Pa, with grimace sympathetic,
Have swallow'd 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 heav'n, I have nothing to do—
Except, indeed, dear Colonel Calicot spies
Any imps of that colour 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!”

196

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 Gattie'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 tabbinet!
While the birds seem'd to warble as blest on the boughs,
As if each a plum'd Calicot 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, liv'd 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;

197

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 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 Jack Castles with Lord C---gh;
And—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on—
Fancied the present Lord C*md*n the clever one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade;
'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made.
And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd
Thro' 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!—

198

“'Twas there,” said he—not that his words I can state—
'Twas a gibb'rish 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-edg'd , 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 nompareille blue!”
What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions
From sand and blue ribbons are conjur'd up here!
Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions
Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

199

“'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 lov'd periwinkle)
“'Twas here he receiv'd 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,

200

Cambric, and silk, and—I ne'er shall forget,
For the sun was then hast'ning 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 confus'd 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 forc'd now 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 Bonapartist.
Think, Doll, how confounded I look'd—so well knowing
The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing;

201

I stammer'd out something—nay, even half nam'd
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
“Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
“It was made by that Bourbonite 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 Bob calls the “Twopenny-post of the Eyes”—
Ah, Doll! though I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain
To a heart so unpractis'd these things to explain.
They can only be felt, in their fulness divine,
By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline,
Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

202

But here I must finish—for Bob, my dear Dolly,
Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy,
Is seiz'd 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 Vèrys!
“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 teasing!
This letter, however, dear Dolly, shall lie
Unseal'd in my draw'r, that, if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-bye.

B. F.

The column in the Place Vendôme.

“Employant pour cela le plus beau papier doré, séchant l'écriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent, et cousant mes cahiers avec de la nompareille bleue.”—Les Confessions, part ii. liv. 9.

This word, “exquisite,” is evidently a favourite of Miss Fudge's; and I understand she was not a little angry when 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?”—&c. &c.

“Un jour, qu'il geloit très fort, en ouvrant un paquet qu'elle m'envoyoit, je trouvai un petit jupon de flanelle d'Angleterre, qu'elle me marquoit avoir porté, et dont elle vouloit que je me fisse faire un gilet. Ce soin, plus qu'amical, me parut si tendre, comme si elle se fût dépouillée pour me vétir, que, dans mon émotion, je baisai vingt fois en pleurant le billet et le jupon.”

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, Victorine.

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.”

Four o'clock.

Oh, Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruin'd for ever—
I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, never!

203

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 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 price—
And 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—

204

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 uprais'd in his hand!
Oh—Papa, all along, knew the secret, 'tis clear—
'Twas a shopman he meant by a “Brandenburgh,” dear!
The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King,
And, when that too delightful illusion was past,
As a hero had worshipp'd—vile, treacherous thing—
To turn out but a low linen-draper at last!
My head swam around—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!”

205

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss Malone!
What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever!
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 desp'rate, I fear—
And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my Doll will not grudge
To her poor—broken-hearted—young friend,

Biddy Fudge.

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