A gushing billet-doux – Rockhampton Bulletin, 25 January, 1872, p 3:
THE Buffalo Commercial Advertiser reports a romantic breach of promise case. It says: From the evidence it appears that the parties both live in or near Onondaga, that Harris has been a frequent visitor for about two years and a half at the house of the plaintiff, a widow woman nearly thirty years of age, with three children. It seems to have been the opinion of the friends of the plaintiff (and no doubt she thought so herself) that Harris would marry her; but he, from some unaccountable cause, a few months ago suddenly discovered that he loved another young lady better, and verified this belief a short time since by marrying that other lady. Hence this action brought by the plaintiff to recover damages, to apply as a salve to her wounded affections. The following tender epistle, sent by the loving swain, will interest our readers, and we recommend it as a model love letter:
“My Dear Miss M., — Every time I think of you my heart flops up and down like a churn-dasher. Sensations of unutterable joy caper over it like young goats on a stable roof, and thrill through it like Spanish needles through a pair of tow-linen trousers. As a gosling swimmeth in a mud puddle, so swim I in a sea of glory. Visions of ecstatic rapture thicker than the hairs of a blacking brush, and brighter than the eyes of a humming bird’s pinions, visit me in my slumbers, and, borne on their invisible wings, your image stands before me, and I reach out to grasp it, like a pointer snapping at a blue-bottle fly. When I first beheld your angelic perfections I was bewildered, and my brain whirled around like a bumble bee under a glass tumbler. My eyes stood open like cellar doors in a country town, and I lifted my ears to catch the silvery accents of your voice. My tongue refused to wag, and in silent adoration I drank in the sweet infection of love as a thirsty man swalloweth a tumbler of hot whiskey punch. Since the light of your face fell upon my life I sometimes feel as if I could lift myself up by my boot-straps to the top of the church steeple, and pull the bell rope for singing school. Day and night you are in my thoughts. When Aurora, blushing like a bride, rises from her saffron-coloured couch, when the jay pipes his tuneful lay in the apple tree by the spring house, when the chanticleer’s shrill clarion heralds the coming morn, when the awakening pig arises from his bed and grunteth and goeth for his morning refreshments, when the drowsy beetle wheels to droning flight at sultry noontide, and when the lowing herds come home at milking time, I think of thee. Like a piece of gum elastic, my heart seems stretched clear across my bosom. Your hair is like the mane of a sorrel horse powdered with gold, and the brass pins skewered through your waterfall fill me with unbounded awe. Your forehead is smoother than the elbow of an old coat. Your eyes are glorious to behold. In their liquid depths I see legions of little Cupids bathing, like a cohort of ants in an old army cracker. When their fire hit me upon my manly breast it penetrated my whole anatomy, as a load of bird shot through a rotten apple. Your nose is from a chunk of Parian marble, and your mouth is punkered with sweetness. Nectar lingers on your lips like honey on a bear’s paw, and myriads of unfledged kisses are here ready to fly out and light somewhere like bluebirds out of their parents’ nest. Your laugh rings in my ears like the wind harp’s strain or the bleat of the stray lamb on the bank hillside. The dimples on your cheeks are like bowers in beds of roses, or hollows in cakes of home-made sugar. I am dying to fly to thy presence and pour out the burning eloquence of my love as thrifty housewives pour out hot coffee. Away from you I am as melancholy as a sick rat. Sometimes I can hear the June bugs of despondency buzzing in my ears, and feel the cold lizards of despair crawling down my back. Uncouth fears, like a thousand minnows, nibble at my spirits, and my soul is pierced with doubts like an old cheese is bored with skippers. My love for you is stronger than the smell of Coffey’s patent butter or the kick of a young cow, and morn unselfish than a kitten’s first caterwaul. As a song bird hankers for the light of day — the cautious mouse for the fresh bacon in the trap—as a mean pump hankers for new milk—so I long for thee. You are fairer than a speckled pullet, sweeter than a Yankee doughnut fried in sorghum molasses, brighter than a top-knot plumage on the head of a muscovy duck. You are sweetened toddy altogether. If those few remarks will enable you to see the inside of my soul, and me to win your affection, I shall be as happy as a woodpecker on a cherry tree, or a stage horse in a green pasture. If you cannot reciprocate my thrilling passion, I will pine away like a poisoned bed-bug, and fall away from a flourishing vine of life, an untimely branch ; and in coming years, when the shadows grow from the hills, and the philosophical frog sings his cheerful evening hymns, you, happy in another’s love, can come and drop a tear and catch a cold upon the last resting-place of yours affectionately, ‘H.’ “
Verdict for plaintiff, and 500 dol. damages.
NOTE: Onondaga is an area in New York State. As well, billet-doux is a French term meaning sweet note.
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