victim. — "Oh! Oh! Frightful! Oh! you'll kill me! do have mercy now."
Miss coote. — "You bad woman, will you be a thief again? will you bring your little ones up to be honest in future? what do you think of a good birching, does it make your posteriors feel warm?" cutting blow after blow, with great force and deliberation; the poor woman is in most excruciating pain, and sobs and moans in her distress.
victim, hysterically. — "Oh! Oh! I know I deserve it. Oh! I will never do it again. Oh! Ah — r—re, how terrible, I feel like being burnt with hot irons!" The blood flows freely from the often bruised weals, and the operator varies her blows so as to inflict the greatest possible torture on the poor woman by cutting her round the loins, making long weals over the lower part of her belly, and stinging the front dreadfully, then across the tender thighs, making the tips of the birch go well in between her legs, causing intense agony.
The fig leaves are all cut off and scattered, making the stems which have been interlaced look like an exploded firework as they still hang about her lacerated loins and buttocks; Miss Coote works herself up into a perfect fury of excitement, and cuts away regardless of the victim's apparent exhaustion, upbraiding her continually and making her promise to take her children to church regularly every Sunday in future, and pay particular attention to the seventh commandment, "Thou shalt not steal."
Mrs. White is almost too far gone to hear half of this objurgation, but slightly moans, "Oh! my God, I shall faint. Let me die in mercy. Thou shalt not. steal. My God how I am punished," and fairly swoons under the rod, to the great pleasure of Jane and Mademoiselle, who have exquisitely enjoyed the scene.
The victim is released, when the marks on her wrists and ankles almost cut into the flesh by the tightly tied cords fully attest what she must have suffered from her fearfully stretched position, whilst her bottom and thighs and loins are a perfect pickle of weals and bleeding cuts; the drops of blood quite clotted the beautiful hair on her mount and round the red lips of her "Venus' wrinkle."
Jane and Mary and Polly sponge and relieve the poor woman's soreness, as well as they can, and revive her by plenty of cold water and fresh air, &c., and send her home refreshed by a little more champagne.
Next day, as I was walking the garden with my dear Mademoiselle, we asked White how his wife felt after her whipping, and being a blunt illiterate man he gave us young ladies rather an indelicate answer as follows —
"I'm darned, Miss, I never had such a night before; I was abed and asleep before she got home with the children, but she was so hot she left them to shift for themselves, and mounted me as you often see the cow do to the bull when she wants him to do his duty; she didn't care how tired I was with my day's work, she was off and on all night. I can't understand her being so on heat, for we always leave that to quiet days like Sundays, but she said it was delightful. Darn me, though, if I liked it quite so much. We shall be having twins, or three or four at once after such a tarnation game as that."
I will send another letter soon, but one thing you must excuse in my rough composition; that is my so often speaking of myself in the third person, which makes it easier to tell my tale.
Yours affectionately,
rosa belinda coote.
(To be continued.)
THE BUDDING ROSE.
(These lines were written to amuse a girl of fifteen. They delighted her mother.)
Wonderful are Cupid's arts!
He, the god of soft persuasion,
At his pleasure stirs our hearts,
To flames of eager passion.
Long I've loved thee, darling Sarah,
Gradually more ripe and blooming;
Daily, hourly, plumper, fairer,
In the swelling charms of woman.
Sarah, when I saw you first,
In the church, at sister's side;
Oh my heart, with ardour burst!
Could I call thee once my bride!
But your father is my foe,
Hating me, so long his friend;
Could he once my passion know,
In thy misery it might end.
But a bonnet and a fan
Are slight tokens of my passion;
Such a girl for such a man
Is a fatal strong temptation.
Happy bonnet! that can cover,
Such a darling, maiden-head;
Happy fan! — a vigorous lover
Should be in your hand instead!
Yesterday you were a child,
Now a blooming blushing virgin;
Female passions warm and wild
Are to actual pleasure urging.
Mr. B — was very cruel,
"Virtue was at last rewarded,"
He obtained the mossy jewel,
Pamela so long had guarded.
Fancy them in bed (and lying,
She beneath, and he above;
Kissing, cuddling, fainting, dying,