I stammer'd out something-nay, even half named
The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaim'd,
"Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen
It was made by that B**rb*n**t bh, 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 unpracticed these things to explain.
They can only be felt in their fullness 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 seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections;
And full of all yesterday's rich recollections,
Is just setting for Montmartre-" for there is,"
Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the Verys!
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 Verys-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 drawer, that if any thing pleasing
Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you-Good-by.

Four o'clock.

Oh, Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruined forever-
I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, never;
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

B. F.

(Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove), To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche,

Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love(The most beautiful things-two Napoleons the priceAnd one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But-ye gods, what a phantom!-I thought I should

drop

1

There he stood, my dear Dolly-no room for a doubtThere, 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 upraised in his hand! Oh-Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear'Twas a shopman he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear!

The man whom I fondly had fancied a King,

And when that too delightful illusion was past, As a hero had worship'd-vile treacherous thing— To turn out but a low linen-draper at last! My head swam round-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!"

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss Malone!.

What a story 'twill be at Shandangan forever!

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 desperate, 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'm 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.
THOMAS MOORE.

THE MOSQUITO HUNT.

NOT a sound was heard but a terrible hum,

As round the chamber we hurried,

In search of the mosquito whose trumpet and drum Our delectable slumber had worried.

We sought it darkly at dead of night,
Our coverlet carefully turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And our candle dimly burning.

No useless garment confined our breast,
But in simple night-dress and slippers,
We wandered about like spirits distressed,
Or the sails of piratical skippers.

Short and few were the words we let fall,

Lest the sound should disturb the mosquito, But we steadfastly gazed on the white-washed wall, And thought how we had been bit oh!

But half an hour seemed to elapse

Ere we met with the wretch that had bit us,
And raising our boot gave some terrible slaps,
And made the mosquito quietus.

Quickly and gladly we turned from the dead,
And left him all smashed and gory;

We blew out the candle and popp'd into bed,
Determined to tell you the story.

Anonymous.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN,"

IN THE ATHENEUM GALLERY.

IT may be so-perhaps thou hast.
A warm and loving heart;

I will not blame thee for thy face,
Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,
Unsightly though it be,—

In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
It may be much to thee.

Those eyes, among thine elder friends
Perhaps they pass for blue;-

No matter, if a man can see,

What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth-that fissure in thy face
By something like a chin,—

May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.