Muscatine weekly journal. [volume] (Muscatine, Iowa) 185?-1890, 1859-06-10

to produce a profound sensation IN the
minds Of cruel lady-loves.
My ADoRED, &c, ANGELIC, ETC,
IDoLIzED Il so ON. r.. -|.
Queen of my soul! 1t is no use of
talking! Pm a goner! J. compare
lively, positively and superlatively gone
Rammed through the gizzard by the
double barrelled shaft of cupid You,
seraphic image is stamped upon the
lines of my soul with the never-to-be-
washed out, and never to- be- indigoed
irdelibility of spiritual and amatory
tixedness.
Gone BY the great Korassus Of
Phlegethon! Neither salt, rum, mol
the liturgy can save me. I've strug-
gled against my fate hard and long
but as vainly as the tadpole against
the doomed curtailment of his end
and his entree into the realm Of frog.
dom and French deglutition.
Je suis fni, and yield handsomely
as the COW said to tho milk-maid,
The milk of my human kindness runs
over, the spigot turned by your fail
hands. l am, when near you, but as
ice cream to fame-wax to the stove
pipe. l melt under your influence like
unsalted butter. I feel that without
you there is no useinbein. You are
the pole-star Of my emotions, the load
stone Of nv aAinities,
Why DID meet you, oh, Lizzie
Wherefore? Did fate wish to mock
me? Is it buta dream, q late-supper,
pate de- fois-gras nightmare What
arts and alchemy have you employed,
thus to enchain my soul z? what YARDS,
and unguents and cataplasms? The
spell upon me is more than human
it is Observation-Disclosures I can
bear it but little longer. Unless it has
some legitimate vent, some safety
valve escapement, the expanding steam
Of my affections will be too much fol-
my physical boilers, and I shall esthet-
ically burst or prolapse, sink to an un-
timely grave, and have writ upon my
sarcophagus:
RIC JACET
ENNIS:
DIED OF A CHRONIC ATTACK OF
LIZZIE.
You will be the author Of my fna'
Sentimental Journey" to that 'thing.
umbob from whence no what's-his-
name returns Think Of it well, ano
in pity give me some little hope of q
return, evince modicum of the Chris
tan charity for which your sex is pre-
verbal, and give me at least the wild
owls mite Of love. Just a wee bit
now do. Don't be the cruel Elizabeth
of olden time. That austere virgin
who beheaded her lovers. Don't come
the Essex over me, pray don't.
When last we met, how little did
think that I should tumble to-day
boots and breeches, from the comfor-
table fat Of indifference, into the hot
sizzling, Internal fire Of worship.
Well, so mote it be, Selah, amen
Remember the pain I endure, the in
tense and torturing anguish l suffer.
Skinned eels are nothing to it, Mei,
pang is momentary, and only skin deep,
mine is eternal as the stars, and as
profound as spiritual philosophy
They suffer pain to make others happy,
make no one happy in my sufferings
and there's nothing gained. Hence,
pity me, and send me love. Poor, fee
Bile, weak, human words cannot express
my emotions. Lexicons are inadequate
logic and rhetoric mere milk and
water so this letter bears no more
resemblance to my feelings than do
crinolines to the rings Of Saturn.
I worship thy form, chiselled by the
finest architect Of all, a mould of
ecstacy. Thine eyes-but lesser plan
ets-two windows of a noble house,
with the. soul peeking through them.
Thy lips-ye gods give in there
they are too much for my poor heart
and thine alabaster, rose-tipped hands
darn my buttons, but don't they
make me think Of mullins :? And as
for thy little preciousness footsies-toot-
sizes, only wish l could lie down and
let you dance jig on my breast to the
tune of my aching heart.
Ever thine, Poor DENNIS.
A QUESTION FOR ALL TO ANSWER.