LETTER FROM

MISS AMELIA JANE MORTIMER, LONDON,

TO SIR HENRY CLIFFORD, PARIS.

DEAR Harry you owe me letter—
Nay, I really believe it is two;
But I make you still farther my debtor-
I send you this brief billet-doux.
The shock was so great when we parted,
I can't overcome my regret:
At first I was quite broken-hearted,
And have never recovered it yet!

I have scarcely been out to a party,
But have sent an excuse, or been ill;
I have played but three times at ecarte,
And danced but a single quadrille ;
And then I was sad, for my heart ne'er
One moment ceased thinking of thee-
I'd a handsome young man for a partner,
And a handsomer still vis-a-vis.

But I had such a pain in my forehead,
And felt so ennuied and so tired,
I must have looked perfectly horrid-
Yet they say I was really admired!
You'll smile-but mamma heard a lancer,
As he whispered his friend, and said he,
"The best and most beautiful dancer

Is the lady in white"-meaning me!

I've been once to Lord Dorival's soirees,
Whose daughter in music excels—
Do they still wear the silk they call moirees?
They will know if you ask at Pardel's-
She begged me to join in a duett,

But the melody died on my tongue;
And I thought I should never get through it,
It was one we so often have sung.

In

your last you desire me to mention

The news of the court and the town;

But there's nothing now worth your attention,
Or deserving of my noting down.

They say things are bad in the city,
And pa thinks they'll only get worse;
And they say new bonnets are pretty,
But I think them quite the reverse.

Lady Black has brought out her three daughters, Good figures but timid and shy;

Mrs. White's gone to Bath for the waters,

And the doctors declare she will die.

It's all off 'twixt Miss Brown and Sir Stephen,

He found they could never agree;

Her temper's so very uneven,

I always said how it would be.

The Miss Whites are grown very fine creatures, Though they look rather large in a room; Miss Gray is gone off in her features,

Miss Green has gone off—with her groom! Lord Littleford's dead, and that noodle His son has succeeded his sire; And her Ladyship's lost the fine poodle, That you and I used to admire.

Little Joe is advancing in knowledge,
He begs me to send his regard,
And Charles goes on Monday to college,

But mamma thinks he studies too hard.
We are loosing our man-cook, he marries,
My French femme de chambre, Baptiste;
Pa wishes you'd send one from Paris,
But he must be a first rate artiste.

I don't like my last new piano,
Its tones are so terribly sharp;
I think I must give it to Anna,

And get pa to buy me a harp.
Little Gerald is growing quite mannish,
He was smoking just now a cigar!
And I'm lugging hard at the Spanish,
And Lucy has learned the guitar.

I suppose you can talk like an artist,
Of statues, busts, paintings, virtu;
But pray, love, don't turn Bonapartist,
Pa will never consent if you do!

"You were born," he will say, "Sir, a Briton,' But forgive me so foolish a fear;

If I thought you could blame what I've written, I would soon wash it out with a tear!

I pray, sir, how like you the ladies,

Since you've quitted the land of your birth? I have heard the dark donnas of Cadiz

Are the loveliest women on earth. The Italians are lively and witty,

But I ne'er could their manners endure; Nor do I think French women pretty,

Though they have a most charming tournure!

I was told you were flirting at Calais,
And next were intriguing at Rome;
But I smiled at their impotent malice,

Yet I must say I wished you at home!
Though I kept what I fancied in petto,
And felt you would ever be true,
Yet I dreamed of the murderer's stiletto
Each night—and its victim was you!

I'm arrived at the end of my paper,
So, dearest, you'll not think it rude,

If I ring for my seal and a taper,
And think it high time to conclude.

Adieu then-dejected and lonely,

Till I see you I still shall remain,

Addio mio caro-yours only—

P. S.-You may buy me a dress like Selina's,
Her complexion 's so much like my own;
And don't fail to call at Farina's

For a case of his Eau de Cologne.

And whate'er your next letter announces,
Let it also intelligence bring,

If the French have left off the deep flounces,
And what will be worn for the Spring!