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 EVERYTHING 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 off for Montmartre--"for THERE is," Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS! Long, long have I wisn'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. B. F. Four o'clock. Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd 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 (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 price-- And 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-- There he stood, my dear DOLLY--no room for a doubt-- There, 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-- 'T was 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,