Ah, DOLLY, my "spot" was that Saturday

night,

And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday

We din'd at a tavern-La, what do I say?
If BoB was to know!-a Restaurateur's,

dear;

Where you 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 eat hearty.

Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief, I have always found eating a wond'rous relief; And BoB, who's in love, said he felt the same quite-

My sighs," said he, "ceas'd with the first. glass I drank you;

The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light,

"And--now that all's 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 Laïs and VERY, I'm curst "If my head or my stomach will ever recover it!"

'Twas dark, when we got to the Bouleveards 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 TORTONIS ?*

We enter'd-and, scarcely had BOB, with an air,

For a grappe à la jardinière 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 groupe of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,t

And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before

him!

Oh DOLLY, these heroes-what creatures they are!

* A fashionable café glacier on the Italian Boule vards.

+ "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian groupe."

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 ic'd cur-

rant water!

He join'd 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 à la

glace

But the sweet fellow swore that my beauté, 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 'twas 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

creas'd

But 'twas 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 vext

Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my

next.

That dear Sunday night!-I was charmingly drest,

And

|—so providential !—was looking my best : Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounceand 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.

B. F.

* Not an unusual mistake with foreigners.

Nota bene-our love to all neighbours 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, DoL-
LY, pray,

For I hate to ask Вов, he's so ready to quiz)
What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.

LETTER XI.

FROM PHELIM CONNER TO

YES-'twas a cause, as noble and as great
As ever hero died to vindicate-

A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,
And own no power but of the Nation's choice!
Such was the grand, the glorious cause that

now

Hung trembling on N*p*L**N's single brow;
Such the sublime arbitrement, that poured,
In patriot eyes, a light around his sword,
A glory then, which never, since the day
Of his young victories, had illum'd its way!

Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates, Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates;

When he, who fled before your Chieftain's eye, As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,*

*See Lib. Elian, 5. cap. 29-who tells us that these geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, al