To Colonel Bellville.
LORD! these prudes–no, don't let
me injure her–these people of high
sentiment, are so tremblingly alive all o'er–
there is poor Harry in terrible disgrace
with Lady Julia for only kissing her hand,
and amidst so bewitching a scene too, that I
am really surprized at his moderation;–all
breathed the soul of pleasure;–rosy bowers
and mossy pillows, cooing doves and whispering
Zephyrs–I think my Lord has a
strange confidence in his daughter's insensibility,
to trust her in these seducing groves,
and with so divine a fellow in company!
–But, as I was saying, she takes the affair
quite seriously, and makes it an offence of
the blackest die–Well, I thank my stars,
I am not one of these sensitive plants; he
might have kissed my hand twenty times,
without my being more alarmed than if a
fly had settled there; nay, a thousand to
one whether I had even been conscious of
it at all.
I have laughed her out of her resentment,
for it is really absurd; the poor fellow
was absolutely miserable about it, and
begged my intercession, as if it had been a
matter of the highest importance. When
I saw her begin to be ashamed of the thing,
Really, my dear, says I, I am glad you are
convinced how ridiculous your anger was,
for ill-natured people might have put strange
constructions.–I know but one way of
accounting rationally–if I was Harry, I
should be extremely flattered–one would
almost suppose–This answered;–I carried
my point, and transferred the pretty
thing's anger to me; it blushed with indignation,
drew up, and, if mamma had not
happened to enter the room at that instant,
an agreeable scene of altercation would probably
have ensued: she took that opportunity
of retiring to her apartment, and we
saw no more of her till dinner, when she
was gracious to Harry, and exceedingly
stately to me.
O mon Dieu! I had almost forgot: we
are to have a little concert this evening; and
see, my dear Lord appears to summon me.
Adio! Caro!
A. Wilmot.
