For I'm sure my dear Jenny would wish me to state
All that interests deeply my feelings and fate.

The scene where my purchase first made its début
I reserve for the next--for the present adieu:
I meant to add more, but I hear Papa call,
So can only subscribe myself-Yours, Mary Ball.

P.S.

Pray, Jenny, don't quarrel with me, but the laws,
If I write on this flimsy and bibulous gauze ;

For were I to scribble on substance less taper,

They would charge double postage, though one sheet of paper; I think the Police has commanded it thin

For reading outside all the secrets within.

2nd P. S.

I've just time to add, (having open'd my letter,)
That I like my new bonnet still better and better.

No. II.

Miss Mary Ball to Miss Jane Jenkins.

I BOUGHT my new bonnet on purpose to wear
At th' Italian Boulevards, to which thousands repair
As the twilight approaches. Imagine three rows
Of chairs at each side of an avenue; those

Are quickly engaged in succession, till all
Are cover'd with parties, en habit de bal.

While lamps from the trees their effulgence are throwing,
Between them a dense population is flowing

Of all that is dashing and gay :-Cuirassiers,

Polish Lancers, and Guards, whisker'd up to the ears!
Large parties of English, with spruce-looking face;
Old Ultras-a fatuous, posthumous race;

Inundations of women, no longer in caps,

But extravagant bonnets worth six or eight Naps;
Cits, soldiers, and lovers, wives, husbands, and brats,
Cloaks, spencers, and shawls, turbans, helmets, and hats,
All jumbled together, to form, when they meet,
A grand cosmopolitan rout in the street.

Behind roll the carriages-good ones are rarish,
For most have an aspect extremely Rag-fairish ;-
Calêches, with horses that pine for the pleasure
Of sharing the dinner of Nebuchadnezzar-
Fiacre, gig, tilbury, cabriolet,

And demi-fortunes, with their wretched display
Of one woe-begone horse, which on our side the water
Are sacred to knights of the pestle and mortar.

Some jump out, and saunter-some gaze at the throng,
Or nod to their friends as they rattle along.

Here parties of bowing Parisians stand,

With badges at button-hole, hats in their hand,
Who stop the whole tide as they congee, and show no
Reserve or compunction, but chatter pro bono,

66

Madame, j'ai l'honneur-Je suis charmé, ravi."

"Je vous salue, Monsieur-Vous êtes toujours poli."

Que vous avez bonne mine!-Vous me flattez-Pardon !" "Il y a beaucoup de monde.-Mais très-peu du haut ton." "Je suis désesperé de vous quitter; bon soir."

66 Ah, Madame, vous me crevez le cœur-au revoir."

John Bull, with a shake, or a slap on the back,

Cries Harry, how goes it, my hearty ?" "What, Jack!
Weren't you spilt from your dennet in Bond Street? I say,
Do
you like the French wines-have you been to the play?"
"Yes, I went to see Talma; what horrible stuff!

The French are all blackguards: the women take snuff.
Have you dined at Beauvillier's and Very's? Egad,
What would Tattersal say to their horses? D-d bad!
Rue de Rivoli's fine :-but the credit is Boney's.
This mobbing's a nuisance. I vote for Tortoni's."

We follow'd such in, and they brought us a carte
Of the ices ('twould pose you to learn it by heart),
So I glanced down the column of "Glaces et Sorbets,"
And begg'd them to give me an ice "framboisée,"
While Pa, having ponder'd and changed a good deal,
Cried "Waiter!" and pointed to " à la Vanille."
In an instant I gazed on a conical mass,
Half pallid like Inkle, half dark like his lass:
And as Yarico never yet doated on Inkle
As I upon Ice, it was gone in a twinkle.
But Pa, with a face that denoted disaster,
Swore his tasted of putty, of paint, sticking-plaster;
And after repeated attempts and frustration,
Made it over to me with an ejaculation.

The walks were now cramm'd, and I wish'd to renew
Our stroll-but he gave me a snappish Pho! pho!
And said he was tired, though I fancy the loss
Of his ice, not fatigue, made him grumpy and cross;
And 'twas doubly provoking, for just at that minute
Lieutenant O'Fagan had "stipt from his dinnett,"
And joining our party, was quoting Lord Byron,
Admiring my bonnet, and calling me syren!

We went to the Gallery, Jenny, to see
The pictures-and thither our countrymen flee
To determine their bets. It's the fourth of a mile,
Which point causes daily disputes, and you'd smile
To hear them contesting how soon they could walk it,
Laying wagers, and straightway proceeding to stalk it.
Captain Strut of the Fourth was twelve minutes, and then
Lieutenant O'Fagan performed it in ten;

But Sir Philip O'Stridle accomplish'd the task

In nine, without effort. I ventured to ask

What he thought of the pictures,-"The pictures? that's prime! "Who'll be staring at signs when he's posting 'gainst time?

Here's an answer at once, if a foreigner starts

An Idea that we're not getting on in the Arts.

Our countrymen flock, though they seldom have got any Taste for Museums, or lectures, or botany,

To the Jardin des Plantes-not for rational feasts,
But to flutter the birds and to worry the beasts:
And these ('tis a fact that we all must agree to)
Cut out ours in the Tower, and extinguish Polito.
Yet though on the whole they so greatly surpass us,
They haven't that big-headed brute, the Bonassus.
That's a point where we beat them, but even on this one
They come very near in a beast call'd the Bison.

The old one-eyed Bear I shall never forget,

Who some time ago, being rather sharp-set,"
Pick'd the bones of a hypochondriacal Gaul,
Who by way of a suicide jump'd in his stall.

Whose taste was the worst-whose the frightfullest wish-
The man's for his death, or the bear's for his dish?

But a truce to the Gardens, and bear with the swivel-eye, For Pa has just enter'd to take me to Tivoli.

"Pauline! my new bonnet!" Well, nobody knows
How I joy that 'twas "doublé en couleur de rose."
Quick! give me my shawl-where 's my best bib and tucker?
Lud!-like my own ruff, I am all in a pucker!

Pa calls me-" I'm coming"-so Jenny, you see
I can only subscribe my initials,

M. B.

ON ASSES.

My Oberon, what visions have I seen-
Methought I was enamour'd of an Ass!

SHAKSPEARE.

Procul este profani! Avant ye witlings, who with gibes and jeers would turn my honest conceptions into mockery. I address not ye; no, nor the poor human butts on whom ye break your poorer jests, "though by your smiling ye seem to think so." I had no such stuff in my thoughts as bipeds, not even those who wear the head of ВOттOм; but as the times are critical, and equivocation might undo us, it may be well also to premise that though my references be altogether quadrupedal, they mount not to those golden Asses (not of Apuleius, I dare aver,) which are placed upon royal tables, and whose panniers laden with salt (assuredly not Attic) minister stimulants to the palates of kings and courtiers. No-my paper means what it professes: it is dedicated to donkeys, Jerusalem poneys, &c., but who have no patronymic right to be termed any thing but Asses.

Every association connected with this most interesting animal is classical, venerable, hallowed. At the feast of the goddess Vesta, who was preserved by the braying of an Ass from the attacks of the Lampsacan god, that animal was solemnly crowned; and in an old Calendar still extant the following note is written