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;

* 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.

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, VICTO

RINE!"

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

The nothings that then, love, are every thing to us—
That quick correspondence of glances and sighs,
And what Вов 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!

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 VÉRYS!* "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.

Four o'clock.

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

* 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."

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 quickI 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 paperThis 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 rememberThat Boв 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

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

And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!
I only remember that Boв, 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!"