LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH.

“Comment! c’est lui? que je le regards encore! C’est que Vraiment il est bien changé; n’est-ce pas, mon papa?” —Les Premier Amours.

You’ll come to our Ball;—since we parted, I’ve thought of you more than I’ll say; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it’s over, ’Twere idle, or worse, to recall; I know you’re a terrible rover; But Clarence, you’ll come to our Ball! It’s only a year, since, at College, You put on your cap and your gown; But, Clarence, you’re grown out of knowledge, And changed from the spur to the crown: The voice that was best when it faltered Is fuller and firmer in tone, And the smile that should never have altered— Dear Clarence—it is not your own: Your cravat was badly selected; Your coat don’t become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected? You must have it curled for our Ball. I’ve often been out upon Haldon To look for a covey with pup; I’ve often been over to Shaldon, To see how your boat is laid up: In spite of the terrors of Aunty, I’ve ridden the filly you broke; And I’ve studied your sweet little Dante In the shade of your favourite oak: When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, I sat in your love of a shawl; And I’ll wear what you brought me from Florence, Perhaps, if you’ll come to our Ball. You’ll find us all changed since you vanished; We’ve set up a National School; And waltzing is utterly banished, And Ellen has married a fool; The Major is going to travel, Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, Papa is laid up with the gout; And Jane has gone on with her easels, And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; And Fanny is sick with the measles,— And I’ll tell you the rest at the Ball. You’ll meet all your Beauties; the Lily And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly At Dawlish, by taking your arm; Miss Manners, who always abused you For talking so much about Hock, And her sister, who often amused you By raving of rebels and Rock; And something which surely would answer, An heiress quite fresh from Bengal; So though you were seldom a dancer, You’ll dance, just for once, at our Ball. But out on the World! from the flowers It shuts out the sunshine of truth: It blights the green leaves in the bowers, It makes an old age of our youth; And the flow of our feeling, once in it, Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, Grows harder by sudden degrees: Time treads o’er the graves of affection; Sweet honey is turned into gall; Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our Ball! You once could be pleased with our ballads,— To-day you have critical ears; You once could be charmed with our salads— Alas! you’ve been dining with Peers; You trifled and flirted with many,— You’ve forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any,— Perhaps you’ve forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight or enthrall, None loves you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our Ball. They tell me you’ve many who flatter, Because of your wit and your song: They tell me—and what does it matter?— You like to be praised by the throng: They tell me you’re shadowed with laurel: They tell me you’re loved by a Blue: They tell me you’re sadly immoral— Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me, you are still what I found you, Before you grew clever and tall; And you’ll think of the spell that once bound you; And you’ll come—won’t you come?—to our Ball!

——“Sweet, when actors first appear, The loud collision of applauding gloves.” —Moultrie.

Your labours, my talented brother, Are happily over at last: They tell me—that, somehow or other, The Bill is rejected,—or passed; And now you’ll be coming, I’m certain, As fast as your posters can crawl, To help us to draw up our curtain, As usual, at Fustian Hall. Arrangements are nearly completed; But still we’ve a Lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated We’d keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces; Lord John is a trifle too tall; And yours are the safest embraces To faint in, at Fustian Hall. Come, Clarence;—its really enchanting To listen and look at the rout: We’re all of us puffing and panting, And raving, and running about; Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle; There Andrew and Anthony bawl; Flutes murmur—chains rattle—robes rustle In chorus, at Fustian Hall. By-the-by, there are two or three matters We want you to bring us from town: The Inca’s white plumes from the hatter’s, A nose and a hump for the clown; We want a few harps for our banquet, We want a few masks for our ball; And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet His white wig, for Fustian Hall! Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre; Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl; And we’re quite at a stand-still with Weber For want of a lizard and owl: And then, for our funeral procession, Pray get us a love of a pall,— Or how shall we make an impression On feelings, at Fustian Hall? And, Clarence, you’ll really delight us, If you’ll do your endeavour to bring, From the Club, a young person to write us Our prologue, and that sort of thing; Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely, Is gone for a Judge to Bengal; I fear we shall miss him extremely This season, at Fustian Hall. Come, Clarence! your idol Albina Will make a sensation, I feel; We all think there never was seen a Performer so like the O’Neill: At rehearsals, her exquisite fury Has deeply affected us all; For one tear that trickles at Drury, There’ll be twenty at Fustian Hall! Dread objects are scattered before her On purpose to harrow her soul; She stares, till a deep spell comes o’er her, At a knife, or a cross, or a bowl. The sword never seems to alarm her That hangs on a peg to the wall; And she doats on thy rusty old armour, Lord Fustian, of Fustian Hall. She stabbed a bright mirror this morning,— (Poor Kitty was quite out of breath!)— And trampled, in anger and scorning, A bonnet and feathers to death. But hark!—I’ve a part in “The Stranger,”— There’s the Prompter’s detestable call! Come, Clarence—our Romeo and Ranger— We want you at Fustian Hall!