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, "God only knows which is worst, The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it-- What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst If MY head or my stomach will ever recover it!" 'T was 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! We enter'd--and scarcely had Bob, with an air, For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters, When, oh! Dolly, I saw him--my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him, And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! Oh Dolly, these heroes--what creatures they are! In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter; As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water! He joined us--imagine, dear creature my ecstasy-- Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see! Bob wish'd to treat him with punch a la glace, But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my GRACE, And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd) Were, to HIM, "on de top of all ponch in de vorld."-- How pretty!--though oft (as, of course, it must be) Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me. But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did: And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted, That, if the next day should be PASTORAL weather, We all would set off in French buggies, together, To see Montmorency--that place which, you know, Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau. His card then he gave us--the NAME, rather creased-- But 't was Calicot--something--a colonel, at least! After which--sure there never was hero so civil--he Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli, Where his LAST words, as at parting, he threw A soft look o'er his shoulders, were--"how do you do?" But, Lord--there's Papa for the post---I'm so vex'd-- Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next. That dear Sunday night!--I was charmingly dress'd, And--SO providential--was looking my best; Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce--and my frills, You've no notion how rich--(though Pa has by the bills)-- And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear. Then the flowers in my bonnet--but, la, it's in vain-- So, good by, my sweet Doll--I shall soon write again, R.F. Nota bene--our love to all neighbors about-- Your papa in particular--how is his gout? P. S.--I 've just open'd my letter to say, In your next you must tell me (now DO, Dolly, pray For I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz) What sort of a thing, dear, a BRANDENBURG is. THIRD LETTER.