Part 260 (1/2)

[6] ”I remember,” says Bernier, ”that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding.”-- Another author tells us that ”Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of heaven.” An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a _Prince_ a joulter head is invaluable.”--_Oriental Field Sports_.

[7] Major Cartwright.

[8] The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Roma.n.u.s Hispo.

[9] Short boots so called.

[10] The _open countenance_, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was _not_ Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of ”Lord Morley” in the Pantomime,--so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name.

LETTER X.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ----.

Well, it _isn't_ the King, after all, my dear creature!

But _don't_ you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in't-- For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He _might_ be a King, DOLL, tho', hang him, he isn't.

At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own, If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,-- (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with _such_ airs, and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!) But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing, ”I am just as well pleased it should _not_ be the King; ”As I think for my BIDDY, so _gentille_ and _jolie_.

”Whose charms may their price in an _honest_ way fetch, ”That a Brandenburgh”--(what _is_ a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)-- ”Would be, after all, no such very great catch.

”If the REGENT indeed”--added he, looking sly-- (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopt him with ”La, Pa, how _can_ you say so, ”When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!”

Which is fact, my dear DOLLY--we, girls of eighteen, And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen: And would like us much better as old-as, as old As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then!

What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, Who, tho' not a King, is a _hero_ I'll swear,-- You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air!

Let me see--'twas on Sat.u.r.day--yes, DOLLY, yes-- From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage, ”Beginning gay, desperate, das.h.i.+ng, down-hilly, ”And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!”[1]

Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro'; And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, I set out with Papa, to see Louis DIX-HUIT Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill _Vive le Rois_- And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!

The gardens seemed full--so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipt into town-bred decorum, And daphnes and vases and many a statue There staring, with not even a st.i.tch on them, at you!

The ponds, too, we viewed--stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- ”_Live bullion_,” says merciless BOB, ”which, I think, ”Would, if _coined_, with a little _mint_ sauce, be delicious!”

But _what_, DOLLY, what, is the gay orange-grove, Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?

In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing _like_ a man was--no lover sat there!

In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustachios and wigs that went past, To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,-- A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given, For the angel to hold by that ”lugs them to heaven!”

Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!

Disappointed, I found myself sighing out ”well-a-day,”-- Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody, Something about the ”green spot of delight”

(Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day): Ah DOLLY, _my_ ”spot” was that Sat.u.r.day night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday!

We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say?

If BOB was to know!--a _Restaurateur's_, dear; Where your _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, tho' but three, we had dinner for nine, And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty.

Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief; And BOB, who's in love, said he felt the same, _quite_-- ”My sighs,” said he, ”ceased with the first gla.s.s 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, ”G.o.d only knows which is worst, ”The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it-- ”What with old LA'S and VeRY, I'm curst ”If _my_ head or my stomach will ever recover it!”

'Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards 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 TORTONI'S![3]