LETTER FROM MISS AMELIA JANE MORTIMER, LONDON, TỌ SIR HENRY CLIFFORD, PARIS. DEAR Harry you owe me letter Nay, I really believe it is two; I send you this brief billet-doux. I can't overcome my regret: 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; One moment ceased thinking of thee And a handsomer still vis-a-vis, But I had such a pain in my forehead, And felt so ennuied and so tired, Yet they say I was really admired ! 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- They will know if you ask at Pardel's But the melody died on my tongue; It was one we so often have sung. In your last you desire me to mention The news of the court and the town; Or deserving of my noting down. 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; 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; That you and I used to admire. Little Joe is advancing in knowledge, He begs me to send his regard, But mamma thinks he studies too hard. 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; And get pa to buy me a harp. He was smoking just now a cigar! 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 Yours ever, AMELIA JANE. P. S.—You may buy me a dress like Selina's, Her complexion 's so much like my own; For a case of his Eau de Cologne. Let it also intelligence bring, And what will be worn for the Spring ! |