The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who d'ye think we've got here?—quite reformed from the giddy,
Fantastic young thing, that once made such a noise—
Why, the famous Miss Fudge—that delectable Biddy,
Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs—
Such a thing as no rainbow hath colours to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

296

Poor “Pa” hath popp'd off—gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserv'd for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much-palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,—
Age thirty, or thereabouts—stature six feet,
And warranted godly—to make all complete.
Nota bene—a Churchman would suit, if he's high,
But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, Dick? doesn't this tempt your ambition?
The whole wealth of Fudge, that renown'd man of pith,
All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,—
Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith.
Think, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch!
While, instead of the thousands of souls you now watch,
To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do;
And her purse will, meanwhile, be the saving of you.

297

You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf,
Wanting substance ev'n more than your spiritual self,
Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf,
When, God knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yet
So much lack'd an old spinster to rid him from debt,
Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her
With tender love-suit—at the suit of his tailor.

But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend,
Which thus to your reverend breast I commend:
Miss Fudge hath a niece—such a creature!—with eyes
Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skies
At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight
To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

While her figure—oh, bring all the gracefullest things
That are borne through the light air by feet or by wings,

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Not a single new grace to that form could they teach,
Which combines in itself the perfection of each;
While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall,
The mute music of symmetry modulates all.

Ne'er, in short, was there creature more form'd to bewilder
A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial
(And only of such) am, God help me! a builder;
Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal,
And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye,
Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.

But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth—even she,
This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;
Talks learning—looks wise (rather painful to see),
Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;
And raves—the sweet, charming, absurd little dear!
About Amulets, Bijous, and Keepsakes, next year,

299

In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends
Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends;
A fit which, though lasting but one short edition,
Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.

However, let's hope for the best—and, meanwhile,
Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile;
While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant
(Uphill work, I confess,) to her Saint of an Aunt.
Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,
Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie,
What luck thus to find a kind witch at your back,
An old goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye!
Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin,
What are all the Three Graces to her Three per Cents.?
While her acres!—oh Dick, it don't matter one pin
How she touches the' affections, so you touch the rents;
And Love never looks half so pleas'd as when, bless him, he
Sings to an old lady's purse “Open, Sesame.”

300

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report,
Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.
'Tis rumour'd our Manager means to bespeak
The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week;
And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set
Throw, for th' amusement of Christians, a summerset.
'Tis fear'd their chief “Merriman,” C---ke, cannot come,
Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home ;
And the loss of so practis'd a wag in divinity
Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;—
His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately
Having pleas'd Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly.

'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,
As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;

301

And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em
Ever yet reckon'd a point of wit one of 'em.
But ev'n though depriv'd of this comical elf,
We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself,
Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime,
As C---ke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the Sublime ;
And of him we're quite certain, so, pray, come in time.

That floor which a facetious garreteer called “le premier en descendant du ciel.”

See the Dublin Evening Post, of the 9th of this month (July), for an account of a scene which lately took place at a meeting of the Synod of Ulster, in which the performance of the above-mentioned part by the personage in question appears to have been worthy of all his former reputation in that line.

“All are punsters if they have wit to be so; and therefore when an Irishman has to commence with a Bull, you will naturally pronounce it a bull. (A laugh.) Allow me to bring before you the famous Bull that is called Unigenitus, referring to the only-begotten Son of God.” —Report of the Rev. Doctor's Speech June 20. in the Record Newspaper.

In the language of the play-bills, “Ground and Lofty Tumbling.”

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LETTER II. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy,
With godly concernments—and worldly ones, too;
Things carnal and spiritual mix'd, my dear Lizzy,
In this little brain till, bewilder'd and dizzy,
'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do.
First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town,
Which our favourite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down.
Sleeves still worn (which I think is wise), à la folle,
Charming hats, pou de soie—though the shape rather droll.
But you can't think how nicely the caps of tulle lace,
With the mentonnières, look on this poor sinful face;
And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right,
To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to-night.

303

The silks are quite heav'nly:—I'm glad, too, to say,
Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day;
Hath had sweet experience—yea, ev'n doth begin
To turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin—
And all since her last stock of goods was laid in.
What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf,
Should thus “walk in newness” as well as one's self!
So much for the blessings, the comforts of Spirit
I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!—
Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect,
Though ordain'd (God knows why) to be one of the' Elect.
But now for the picture's reverse.—You remember
That footman and cook-maid I hired last December;
He, a Baptist Particular—she, of some sect
Not particular, I fancy, in any respect;
But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word,
And “to wait,” as she said, “on Miss Fudge and the Lord.”
Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist
At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest;

304

And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in
Sweet savours of doctrine, there never was kitchen.
He preach'd in the parlour, he preach'd in the hall,
He preach'd to the chambermaids, scullions, and all.
All heard with delight his reprovings of sin,
But above all, the cook-maid;—oh, ne'er would she tire—
Though, in learning to save sinful souls from the fire
She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.
(God forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!—
A sad trick I've learn'd in Bob's heathen society.)
But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale;
Come, Ast'risks, and help me the sad truth to veil—
Conscious stars, that at ev'n your own secret turn pale!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
In short, dear, this preaching and psalm-singing pair,
Chosen “vessels of mercy,” as I thought they were,
Have together this last week eloped; making bold
To whip off as much goods as both vessels could hold—
Not forgetting some scores of sweet Tracts from my shelves,
Two Family Bibles as large as themselves,

305

And besides, from the drawer—I neglecting to lock it—
My neat “Morning Manna, done up for the pocket.”
Was there e'er known a case so distressing, dear Liz?
It has made me quite ill:—and the worst of it is,
When rogues are all pious, 'tis hard to detect
Which rogues are the reprobate, which the elect.
This man “had a call,” he said—impudent mockery!
What call had he to my linen and crockery?

“Morning Manna, or British Verse-book, neatly done up for the pocket,” and chiefly intended to assist the members of the British Verse Association, whose design is, we are told, “to induce the inhabitants of Great Britain and Ireland to commit one and the same verse of Scripture to memory every morning. Already, it is known, several thousand persons in Scotland, besides tens of thousands in America and Africa, are every morning learning the same verse.”

I'm now, and have been for this week past, in chase
Of some godly young couple this pair to replace.
The inclos'd two announcements have just met my eyes,
In that ven'rable Monthly where Saints advertise
For such temporal comforts as this world supplies ;

306

And the fruits of the Spirit are properly made
An essential in every craft, calling, and trade.
Where the' attorney requires for his 'prentice some youth
Who has “learn'd to fear God and to walk in the truth;”
Where the sempstress, in search of employment, declares,
That pay is no object, so she can have prayers;
And the' Establish'd Wine Company proudly gives out
That the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout,

The Evangelical Magazine.—A few specimens taken at random from the wrapper of this highly esteemed periodical; will fully justify the character which Miss Fudge has here given of it. “Wanted, in a pious pawnbroker's family, an active lad as an apprentice.” “Wanted, as housemaid, a young female who has been brought to a saving knowledge of the truth.” “Wanted immediately, a man of decided piety, to assist in the baking business.” “A gentleman who understands the Wine Trade is desirous of entering into partnership, &c. &c. He is not desirous of being connected with any one whose system of business is not of the strictest integrity as in the sight of God, and seeks connection only with a truly pious man, either Churchman or Dissenter.”

Happy London, one feels, as one reads o'er the pages,
Where Saints are so much more abundant than sages;
Where Parsons may soon be all laid on the shelf,
As each Cit can cite chapter and verse for himself,

307

And the serious frequenters of market and dock
All lay in religion as part of their stock.
Who can tell to what lengths we may go on improving,
When thus thro' all London the Spirit keeps moving,
And heaven's so in vogue, that each shop advertisement
Is now not so much for the earth as the skies meant?

According to the late Mr. Irving, there is even a peculiar form of theology got up expressly for the money-market. “I know how far wide,” he says, “of the mark my views of Christ's work in the flesh will be viewed by those who are working with the stock-jobbing theology of the religious world.” “Let these preachers,” he adds, “(for I will not call them theologians), cry up, broker-like, their article.” Morning Watch.—No. iii. 442, 443.

From the statement of another writer, in the same publication, it would appear that the stock-brokers have even set up a new Divinity of their own. “This shows,” says the writer in question, “that the doctrine of the union between Christ and his members is quite as essential as that of substitution, by taking which latter alone the Stock-Exchange Divinity has been produced.” —No. x. p. 375.

Among the ancients, we know the money-market was provided with more than one presiding Deity—“Deæ Pecuniæ (says an ancient author) commendabantur ut pecuniosi essent.”

P.S.

Have mislaid the two paragraphs—can't stop to look,
But both describe charming—both Footman and Cook.

308

She, “decidedly pious”—with pathos deplores
The' increase of French cook'ry, and sin on our shores;
And adds—(while for further accounts she refers
To a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,)
That “though some make their Sabbaths mere matter-of-fun days,
She asks but for tea and the Gospel, on Sundays.”
The footman, too, full of the true saving knowledge;—
Has late been to Cambridge—to Trinity College;
Serv'd last a young gentleman, studying divinity,
But left—not approving the morals of Trinity.

P.S.

I inclose, too, according to promise, some scraps
Of my Journal—that Day-book I keep of my heart;
Where, at some little items, (partaking, perhaps,
More of earth than of heaven,) thy prud'ry may start,
And suspect something tender, sly girl as thou art.
For the present, I'm mute—but, whate'er may befall,
Recollect, dear, (in Hebrews, xiii. 4.) St. Paul
Hath himself declar'd, “marriage is honourable in all.”

309

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

Monday.

Tried a new châlé gown on—pretty.
No one to see me in it—pity!
Flew in a passion with Friz, my maid;—
The Lord forgive me!—she look'd dismay'd;
But got her to sing the 100th Psalm,
While she curl'd my hair, which made me calm.
Nothing so soothes a Christian heart
As sacred music—heavenly art!

Tuesday.

At two, a visit from Mr. Magan—
A remarkably handsome, nice young man;
And, all Hibernian though he be,
As civilis'd, strange to say, as we!

I own this young man's spiritual state
Hath much engross'd my thoughts of late;
And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone,
To have some talk with him thereupon.

310

At present, I nought can do or say,
But that troublesome child is in the way:
Nor is there, I think, a doubt that he
Would also her absence much prefer,
As oft, while listening intent to me,
He's forc'd, from politeness, to look at her.

Heigho!—what a blessing should Mr. Magan
Turn out, after all, a “renewed” young man;
And to me should fall the task, on earth,
To assist at the dear youth's second birth.
Blest thought! and, ah, more blest the tie,
Were it heaven's high will, that he and I—
But I blush to write the nuptial word—
Should wed, as St. Paul says, “in the Lord;”
Not this world's wedlock—gross, gallant,
But pure—as when Amram married his aunt.

Our ages differ—but who would count
One's natural sinful life's amount,
Or look in the Register's vulgar page
For a regular twice-born Christian's age,
Who, blessed privilege! only then
Begins to live when he's born again.

311

And, counting in this way—let me see—
I myself but five years old shall be,
And dear Magan, when the' event takes place,
An actual new-born child of grace—
Should Heav'n in mercy so dispose—
A six-foot baby, in swaddling clothes.

Wednesday.

Finding myself, by some good fate,
With Mr. Magan left tête-à-tête,
Had just begun—having stirr'd the fire,
And drawn my chair near his—to inquire
What his notions were of Original Sin,
When that naughty Fanny again bounc'd in;
And all the sweet things I had got to say
Of the Flesh and the Devil were whisk'd away!

Much grieved to observe that Mr. Magan
Is actually pleased and amused with Fan!
What charms any sensible man can see
In a child so foolishly young as she—
But just eighteen, come next May-day,
With eyes, like herself, full of nought but play—
Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.

312

LETTER III. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.

STANZAS (INCLOSED) TO MY SHADOW;

OR, WHY?—WHAT?—HOW?

Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky
Thus wed their charms, in bridal light array'd,
Why in this bright hour, walk'st thou ever nigh,
Blackening my footsteps with thy length of shade—
Dark comrade, Why?

Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,
Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot,
Sadd'ning them as thou goest—say, what means
So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot—
Grim goblin, What?

Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,
Thou bendest, too—then risest when I rise;—

313

Say, mute mysterious Thing! how is't that thou
Thus com'st between me and those blessed skies—
Dim shadow, How?

(ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.)

Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge
Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,
Oh Why? What? How?—a Voice, that one might judge
To be some Irish echo's, faint replied,
Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!

You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;
And, with it, that odious “additional stanza,”
Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,
And which, you'll at once see, is Mr. Magan's;—a
Most cruel and dark-design'd extravaganza,
And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are
To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.

Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-ey'd strain,
Just so did they taunt him;—but vain, critics, vain

314

All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain!
To blot out the splendour of Fancy's young stream,
Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledg'd beam!!!
Thou perceiv'st, dear, that, ev'n while these lines I indite,
Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,
And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!

That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards
Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards—
That she should make light of my works I can't blame;
But that nice, handsome, odious Magan—what a shame!
Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him,
I'm really afraid—after all, I—must hate him.
He is so provoking—nought's safe from his tongue;
He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.
Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou
Once shone as contributor, Lord how he'd quiz you!
He laughs at all Monthlies—I've actually seen
A sneer on his brow at the Court Magazine!—

315

While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he peruses,
And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.
But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,
One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;
And though tried by the fire, my young genius shall burn as
Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!
(I suspect the word “crucified” must be made “crucible,”
Before this fine image of mine is producible.)

And now, dear—to tell you a secret which, pray
Only trust to such friends as with safety you may—
You know, and, indeed the whole county suspects
(Though the Editor often my best things rejects),
That the verses sign'd of so,

, which you now and then see
In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me.
But 'tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes
The vile country Press in one's prosody makes.
For you know, dear—I may, without vanity, hint—
Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print;

316

And you can't think what havoc these demons sometimes
Choose to make of one's sense, and what's worse, of one's rhymes.
But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring,
Which I meant to have made a most beautiful thing,
Where I talk'd of the “dewdrops from freshly-blown roses,”
The nasty things made it “from freshly-blown noses!”
And once when, to please my cross Aunt, I had tried
To commem'rate some saint of her clique, who'd just died,
Having said he “had tak'n up in heav'n his position,”
They made it, he'd “tak'n up to heav'n his physician!”

This is very disheartening;—but brighter days shine,
I rejoice, love, to say, both for me and the Nine;
For, what do you think?—so delightful! next year,
Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare—

317

I'm to write in the Keepsake—yes, Kitty, my dear,
To write in the Keepsake, as sure as you're there!!
T'other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance
With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,
Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught,
Was the author of something—one couldn't tell what;
But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt
It was something that Colburn had lately brought out.

We convers'd of belles-lettres through all the quadrille,—
Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;
Talk'd of Intellect's march—whether right 'twas or wrong—
And then settled the point in a bold en avant.
In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just hinted
That I too had Poems which—long'd to be printed,
He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,
I was actually born in the Keepsake to write.

318

“In the Annals of England let some,” he said, “shine,
“But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!
“Even now future Keepsakes seem brightly to rise,
“Through the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,—
“All letter'd and press'd, and of large-paper size!”
How unlike that Magan, who my genius would smother,
And how we, true geniuses, find out each other!

This, and much more he said, with that fine frenzied glance
One so rarely now sees, as we slid through the dance;
Till between us 'twas finally fix'd that, next year,
In this exquisite task I my pen should engage;
And, at parting, he stoop'd down and lisp'd in my ear
These mystical words, which I could but just hear,
“Terms for rhyme—if it's prime—ten and sixpence per page.”
Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right,
What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains;

319

If for nothing to write is itself a delight,
Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!

Having dropp'd the dear fellow a court'sy profound,
Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;
And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've found
That he's quite a new species of lit'rary man;
One, whose task is—to what will not fashion accustom us?—
To edite live authors, as if they were posthumous.
For instance—the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!—
If any young he or she author feels modest
In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher
Lends promptly a hand to the int'resting blusher;
Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,
Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,
And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.
My Aunt says—though scarce on such points one can credit her—
He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor.

320

'Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented;
And, quick as the change of all things and all names is,
Who knows but, as authors, like girls, are presented,
We, girls, may be edited soon at St. James's?

I must now close my letter—there's Aunt, in full screech,
Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.
God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say,
To go and sit still to be preach'd at, to-day.
And, besides—'twill be all against dancing, no doubt,
Which my poor Aunt abhors, with such hatred devout,
That, so far from presenting young nymphs with a head,
For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,
She'd wish their own heads in the platter, instead.
There, again—coming, Ma'am!—I'll write more, if I can,
Before the post goes,

Your affectionate Fan.

321

Four o'clock.

Such a sermon!—though not about dancing, my dear;
'Twas only on the' end of the world being near.
Eighteen Hundred and Forty's the year that some state
As the time for that accident—some Forty Eight :
And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter,
As then I shall be an old maid, and 'two'n't matter.
Once more, love, good-bye—I've to make a new cap;
But am now so dead tired with this horrid mishap
Of the end of the world, that I must take a nap.

With regard to the exact time of this event, there appears to be a difference only of about two or three years among the respective calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit, et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846 or 1847. “A cette époque,” he says, “les fidèles peuvent espérer de voir s'effectuer la purification du Sanctuaire.”

322

LETTER IV. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ. TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
With hot effusions—hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord ,
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserv'd for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this.
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
Blow all your little penny trumpets.

323

He comes, the reverend man, to tell
To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
Might make ev'n grim Dissenter's heart ache:—
Of ten whole Bishops snatch'd away
For ever from the light of day;
(With God knows, too, how many more,
For whom that doom is yet in store)—
Of Rectors cruelly compell'd
From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home,
Because the tithes, by Pat withheld,
Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come;
Nor will the flocks consent to pay
Their parsons thus to stay away;—
Though, with such parsons, one may doubt
If 'tisn't money well laid out;—
Of all, in short, and each degree
Of that once happy Hierarchy,
Which us'd to roll in wealth so pleasantly;
But now, alas, is doom'd to see
Its surplus brought to nonplus presently!

Such are the themes this man of pathos,
Priest of prose and Lord of bathos,

324

Will preach and preach t'ye, till you're dull again;
Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim,
Shout to the stars his tuneful name,
Which Murtagh was, ere known to fame,
But now is Mortimer O'Mulligan!

All true, Dick, true as you're alive—
I've seen him, some hours since, arrive.
Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant—
And Tuesday, in the market-place,
Intends, to every saint and sinner in't,
To state what he calls Ireland's Case;
Meaning thereby the case of his shop,—
Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop,
And all those other grades seraphic,
That make men's souls their special traffic,
Though caring not a pin which way
The' erratic souls go, so they pay.—
Just as some roguish country nurse,
Who takes a foundling babe to suckle,
First pops the payment in her purse,
Then leaves poor dear to—suck its knuckle:
Ev'n so these reverend rigmaroles
Pocket the money—starve the souls.

325

Murtagh, however, in his glory,
Will tell, next week, a different story;
Will make out all these men of barter,
As each a saint, a downright martyr,
Brought to the stake—i. e. a beef one,
Of all their martyrdoms the chief one;
Though try them ev'n at this, they'll bear it,
If tender and wash'd down with claret.

Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions,
Your saintly, next to great and high 'uns—
(A Viscount, be he what he may,
Would cut a Saint out, any day,)
Has just announc'd a godly rout,
Where Murtagh's to be first brought out,
And shown in his tame, week-day state:—
“Pray'rs, half-past seven, tea at eight.”
Ev'n so the circular missive orders—
Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders.

Haste, Dick—you're lost, if you lose time;—
Spinsters at forty-five grow giddy,
And Murtagh, with his tropes sublime,
Will surely carry off old Biddy,

326

Unless some spark at once propose,
And distance him by downright prose.
That sick, rich squire, whose wealth and lands
All pass, they say, to Biddy's hands,
(The patron, Dick, of three fat rectories!)
Is dying of angina pectoris;—
So that, unless you're stirring soon,
Murtagh, that priest of puff and pelf,
May come in for a honey-moon,
And be the man of it, himself!

As for me, Dick—'tis whim, 'tis folly,
But this young niece absorbs me wholly.
'Tis true, the girl's a vile verse-maker—
Would rhyme all nature, if you'd let her;—
But ev'n her oddities, plague take her,
But make me love her all the better.
Too true it is, she's bitten sadly
With this new rage for rhyming badly,
Which late hath seiz'd all ranks and classes,
Down to that new Estate, “the masses;”
Till one pursuit all tastes combines—
One common rail-road o'er Parnassus,

327

Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves,
Call'd couplets, all creation moves,
And the whole world runs mad in lines.
Add to all this—what's ev'n still worse,
As rhyme itself, though still a curse,
Sounds better to a chinking purse—
Scarce sixpence hath my charmer got,
While I can muster just a groat;
So that, computing self and Venus,
Tenpence would clear the' amount between us.

However, things may yet prove better:—
Meantime, what awful length of letter!
And how, while heaping thus with gibes
The Pegasus of modern scribes,
My own small hobby of farrago
Hath beat the pace at which ev'n they go!

“Our anxious desire is to be found on the side of the Lord.” —Record Newspaper.

328

LETTER V. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE JUDY, AT MULLINAFAD.

Dear Judy, I sind you this bit of a letther,
By mail-coach conveyance—for want of a betther—
To tell you what luck in this world I have had
Since I left the sweet cabin, at Mullinafad.
Och, Judy, that night!—when the pig which we meant
To dry-nurse in the parlour, to pay off the rent,
Julianna, the craythur—that name was the death of her —
Gave us the shlip and we saw the last breath of her!
And there were the childher, six innocent sowls,
For their nate little play-fellow tuning up howls;

329

While yourself, my dear Judy (though grievin's a folly),
Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy—
Cryin', half for the craythur, and half for the money,
“Arrah, why did ye die till we'd sowl'd you, my honey?”

But God's will be done!—and then, faith, sure enough,
As the pig was desaiced, 'twas high time to be off.
So we gother'd up all the poor duds we could catch,
Lock'd the owld cabin-door, put the kay in the thatch,
Then tuk laave of each other's sweet lips in the dark,
And set off, like the Chrishtians turn'd out of the Ark;
The six childher with you, my dear Judy, ochone!
And poor I wid myself, left condolin' alone.

How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er lands,
And what cruel hard walkin' I've had on my hands,
Is, at this present writin', too tadious to speak,
So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week:—

330

Only starv'd I was, surely, as thin as a lath,
Till I came to an up-and-down place they call Bath,
Where, as luck was, I manag'd to make a meal's meat,
By dhraggin owld ladies all day through the street—
Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the pound starlins,)
Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins.
Div'l a boy in all Bath, though I say it, could carry
The grannies up hill half so handy as Larry;
And the higher they liv'd, like owld crows, in the air,
The more I was wanted to lug them up there.

But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say,
And mine has both handles put on the wrong way.
For, pondherin', one morn, on a drame I'd just had
Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad,
Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther,
That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in the gutther,
Muff, feathers and all!—the descint was most awful,
And—what was still worse, faith—I knew 'twas unlawful:

331

For, though, with mere women, no very great evil,
T' upset an owld Countess in Bath is the divil!
So, liftin' the chair, with herself safe upon it,
(For nothin' about her was kilt, but her bonnet,)
Without even mentionin' “By your lave, ma'am,”
I tuk to my heels and—here, Judy, I am!

What's the name of this town I can't say very well,
But your heart sure will jump when you hear what befell
Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day,
(And a Sunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,)
When his brogues to this city of luck found their way.
Bein' hungry, God help me, and happenin' to stop,
Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's shop,
I saw, in the window, a large printed paper,
And read there a name, och! that made my heart caper—
Though printed it was in some quare A B C,
That might bother a schoolmasther, let alone me.
By gor, you'd have laughed, Judy, could you've but listen'd,
As, doubtin', I cried, “why it is!—no, it isn't:”

332

But it was, after all—for, by spellin' quite slow,
First I made out “Rev. Mortimer”—then a great “O;”
And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin' my skull again,
Out it came, nate as imported, “O'Mulligan!”

Up I jump'd, like a sky-lark, my jew'l, at that name,—
Div'l a doubt on my mind, but it must be the same.
“Masther Murthagh, himself,” says I, “all the world over!
My own fosther-brother—by jinks, I'm in clover.
Though there, in the play-bill, he figures so grand,
One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand,
And he'll not let me shtarve in the inemy's land!”

Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt
But I manag'd, in no time, to find the lad out;
And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and me,
Such a pair of owld cumrogues—was charmin' to see.
Nor is Murthagh less plas'd with the' evint than I am,
As he just then was wanting a Valley-de-sham;

333

And, for dressin' a gintleman, one way or t'other,
Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other.

But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the case;
And, in throth, it's the only drawback on my place.
'Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be cross'd, as you know,
With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago;
That's to say, he turn'd Protestant—why, I can't larn;
But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn.
All I know is, we both were good Cath'lics, at nurse,
And myself am so still—nayther betther nor worse.
Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffey,
And lads more contint never yet left the Liffey,
When Murthagh—or Morthimer, as he's now chrishen'd,
His name being convarted, at laist, if he isn't—
Lookin' sly at me (faith, 'twas divartin' to see)
“Of coorse, you're a Protestant, Larry,” says he.
Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as shly,
“Is't a Protestant?—oh yes, I am, sir,” says I;—
And there the chat ended, and div'l a more word
Controvarsial between us has since then occurr'd.

334

What Murthagh could mane, and, in troth, Judy dear,
What I myself meant, doesn't seem mighty clear;
But the thruth is, though still for the Owld Light a stickler,
I was just then too shtarv'd to be over partic'lar:—
And, God knows, between us, a comic'ler pair
Of twin Protestants couldn't be seen any where.

Next Tuesday (as towld in the play-bills I mintion'd,
Address'd to the loyal and godly intintion'd,)
His riverence, my master, comes forward to preach,—
Myself doesn't know whether sarmon or speech,
But it's all one to him, he's a dead hand at each;
Like us, Paddys, in gin'ral, whose skill in orations
Quite bothers the blarney of all other nations.

But, whisht!—there's his Rivirence, shoutin' out “Larry,”
And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry;
So, here, Judy, ends my short bit of a letther,
Which, faix, I'd have made a much bigger and betther,

335

But div'l a one Post-office hole in this town
Fit to swallow a dacent siz'd billy-dux down.
So good luck to the childer!—tell Molly, I love her;
Kiss Oonagh's sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all over—
Not forgettin' the mark of the red-currant whiskey
She got at the fair when yourself was so frisky.
The heav'ns be your bed!—I will write, when I can again,
Yours to the world's end,

Larry O'Branigan.

The Irish peasantry are very fond of giving fine names to their pigs. I have heard of one instance in which a couple of young pigs were named, at their birth, Abelard and Eloisa.

336

LETTER VI. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ---.

How I grieve you're not with us!—pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robb'd of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;—
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded)—
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a dear—and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

337

Poor dear Irish Church!—he to-day sketch'd a view
Of her hist'ry and prospects, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse.
As to reasoning—you know, dear, that's now of no use,
People still will their facts and dry figures produce,
As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were
A thing to be managed “according to Cocker!”
In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector
At paying some thousands a year to a Rector,
In places where Protestants never yet were,)
“Who knows but young Protestants may be born there?
And granting such accident, think, what a shame,
If they didn't find Rector and Clerk when they came!
It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay,
These little Church embryos must go astray;
And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost,
Precious souls are meanwhile to the' Establishment lost!

338

In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;—
They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss,
And ask “if, while all, choosing each his own road,
Journey on, as we can, tow'rds the Heav'nly Abode,
It is right that seven eights of the trav'llers should pay
For one eighth that goes quite a different way?”—
Just as if, foolish people, this wasn't, in reality,
A proof of the Church's extreme liberality,
That, though hating Pop'ry in other respects,
She to Catholic money in no way objects;
And so lib'ral her very best Saints, in this sense,
That they ev'n go to heav'n at the Cath'lic's expense.
But, though clear to our minds all these arguments be,
People cannot or will not their cogency see;
And, I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church
Stand on reasoning alone, she'd be left in the lurch.
It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere,
That I heard this nice Rev'rend O' something we've here,
Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading,
A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding,

339

In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought,
All that Irving himself, in his glory, e'er taught.
Looking through the whole history, present and past,
Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last;
Considering how strange its original birth—
Such a thing having never before been on earth—
How oppos'd to the instinct, the law, and the force
Of nature and reason has been its whole course;
Through centuries encount'ring repugnance, resistance,
Scorn, hate, execration—yet still in existence!
Considering all this, the conclusion he draws
Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws—
That Reason, dumb-founder'd, gives up the dispute,
And before the portentous anom'ly stands mute;—
That, in short, 'tis a Miracle!—and, once begun,
And transmitted through ages, from father to son,
For the honour of miracles, ought to go on.
Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound,
Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound.

340

For, observe, the more low all her merits they place,
The more they make out the miraculous case,
And the more all good Christians must deem it profane
To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign.
As for scriptural proofs, he quite plac'd beyond doubt
That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out,
As clear and well-prov'd, he would venture to swear,
As any thing else has been ever found there:—
While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals
With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals,
And the ease with which vial on vial he strings,
Shows him quite a first-rate at all these sort of things.
So much for theology:—as for the' affairs
Of this temporal world—the light, drawing-room cares
And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek,
From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek,
And to be, as the' Apostle was, “weak with the weak,”

341

Thou wilt find quite enough (till I'm somewhat less busy)
In the' extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

Thursday.

Last night, having nought more holy to do,
Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew,
About the “Do-nothing-on-Sunday-Club,”
Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:—
As the use of more vowels and consonants
Than a Christian, on Sunday, really wants,
Is a grievance that ought to be done away,
And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.

Sunday.

Sir Andrew's answer!—but, shocking to say,
Being franked unthinkingly yesterday,
To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,
It arriv'd on this blessed Sunday morn!!—
How shocking!—the postman's self cried “shame on't,”
Seeing the' immaculate Andrew's name on't!!

342

What will the Club do?—meet, no doubt.
'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,
And the friends of the Sabbath must speak out.

Tuesday.

Saw to-day, at the raffle—and saw it with pain—
That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.
Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces—
She, who long has stood by me through all sorts of flounces,
And showed, by upholding the toilet's sweet rites,
That we, girls, may be Christians, without being frights.
This, I own, much alarms me; for though one's religious,
And strict and—all that, there's no need to be hideous;
And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way
Of one's going to heav'n, 'tisn't easy to say.

Then, there's Gimp, the poor thing—if her custom we drop,
Pray, what's to become of her soul and her shop?

343

If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given,
She'll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven;
And this nice little “fire-brand, pluck'd from the burning,”
May fall in again at the very next turning.

Wednesday.

Mem.—To write to the India-Mission Society;
And send £20—heavy tax upon piety!

Of all Indian lux'ries we now-a-days boast,
Making “Company's Christians ” perhaps costs the most.
And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown,
Having lived in our faith mostly die in their own ,
Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say,
When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.
Think, how horrid, my dear!—so that all's thrown away;

344

And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice
They consum'd, while believers, we saints pay the price.

Still 'tis cheering to find that we do save a few—
The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo;
Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum,
While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum.
In this last-mention'd place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em,
For, once they turn Christians, no barber will shave 'em.

To atone for this rather small Heathen amount,
Some Papists, turn'd Christians , are tack'd to the' account.

345

And though, to catch Papists, one needn't go so far,
Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are;
And now, when so great of such converts the lack is,
One Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.

Friday.

Last night had a dream so odd and funny,
I cannot resist recording it here.—
Methought that the Genius of Matrimony
Before me stood, with a joyous leer,
Leading a husband in each hand,
And both for me, which look'd rather queer;—
One I could perfectly understand,
But why there were two wasn't quite so clear.
'Twas meant, however, I soon could see,
To afford me a choice—a most excellent plan;
And—who should this brace of candidates be,
But Messrs. O'Mulligan and Magan:—

346

A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then,
To dream, at once, of two Irishmen!—
That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders
(For all this pass'd in the realms of the Blest,)
And quite a creature to dazzle beholders;
While even O'Mulligan, feather'd and drest
As an elderly cherub, was looking his best.
Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt
As to which of the two I singled out.
But—awful to tell—when, all in dread
Of losing so bright a vision's charms,
I grasp'd at Magan, his image fled,
Like a mist, away, and I found but the head
Of O'Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms!
The Angel had flown to some nest divine,
And the elderly Cherub alone was mine!
Heigho!—it is certain that foolish Magan
Either can't or wo'n't see that he might be the man;
And, perhaps, dear—who knows?—if nought better befall
But—O'Mulligan may be the man, after all.

347

N.B.

Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout,
For the special discussion of matters devout;—
Like those soirées, at Pow'rscourt , so justly re-renown'd,
For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round;

348

Those theology-routs which the pious Lord R---d---n,
That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in;
Where, blessed down-pouring! from tea until nine,
The subjects lay all in the Prophecy line;—
Then, supper—and then, if for topics hard driven,
From thence until bed-time to Satan was given;
While R---d---n, deep read in each topic and tome,
On all subjects (especially the last) was at home.

The title given by the natives to such of their countrymen as become converts.

Of such relapses we find innumerable instances in the accounts of the Missionaries.

The god Krishna, one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. “One day (says the Bhagavata) Krishna's play-fellows complained to Tasuda that he had pilfered and ate their curds.”

“Roteen wants shaving; but the barber here will not do it. He is run away lest he should be compelled. He says he will not shave Yesoo Kreest's people.” —Bapt. Mission Society, vol. ii. p. 493.

In the Reports of the Missionaries, the Roman Catholics are almost always classed along with the Heathen. “I have extended my labours, (says James Venning, in a Report for 1831,) to the Heathen, Mahomedans, and Roman Catholics.” “The Heathen and Roman Catholics in this neighbourhood (says another missionary for the year 1832) are not indifferent, but withstand, rather than yield to, the force of truth.”

An account of these Powerscourt Conversaziones (under the direct presidency of Lord Roden), as well as a list of the subjects discussed at the different meetings, may be found in the Christian Herald for the month of December, 1832. The following is a specimen of the nature of the questions submitted to the company:—“Monday Evening, Six o'clock, September 24. 1832.—‘An examination into the quotations given in the New Testament from the Old, with their connection and explanation, viz.’ &c. &c.—Wednesday.—‘Should we expect a personal Antichrist? and to whom will he be revealed?’ &c. &c.—Friday.—‘What light does Scripture throw on present events, and their moral character? What is next to be looked for or expected?’” &c.

The rapid progress made at these tea-parties in settling points of Scripture, may be judged from a paragraph in the account given of one of their evenings, by the Christian Herald:—

“On Daniel a good deal of light was thrown, and there was some, I think not so much, perhaps, upon the Revelations; though particular parts of it were discussed with considerable accession of knowledge. There was some very interesting inquiry as to the quotation of the Old Testament in the New; particularly on the point, whether there was any ‘accomodation,’ or whether they were quoted according to the mind of the Spirit in the Old; this gave occasion to some very interesting developement of Scripture. The progress of the Antichristian powers was very fully discussed.”

“About eight o'clock the Lord began to pour down his spirit copiously upon us—for they had all by this time assembled in my room for the purpose of prayer. This downpouring continued till about ten o'clock.”—Letter from Mary Campbell to the Rev. John Campbell, of Row, (dated Fernicary, April 4. 1830,) giving an account of her “miraculous cure.”

349

LETTER VII. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY ---.

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemm'd by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
To wake to light each diamond eye,
And let loose every florid sigh!
Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they've lain—
The Embryos of a future Main!—
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
The language of their Parent Sea

350

(Polyphlysbæan nam'd, in Greek),
Though soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
They'll thunder loud and long as He!

If you guess what this word means, 'tis more than I can:— I but give't as I got it from Mr. Magan. F.F.

Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,
Young fires—
I had got, dear, thus far in my Ode,
Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom,
But, having invok'd such a lot of fine things,
Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings,
Didn't know what to do with 'em, when I had got 'em.
The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute,
Of past MSS. any new ones to try.
This very night's coach brings my destiny in it—
Decides the great question, to live or to die!
And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no,
All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!

351

You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out
The whole secret, at once—I have publish'd a Book!!!
Yes, an actual Book:—if the marvel you doubt,
You have only in last Monday's Courier to look,
And you'll find “This day publish'd by Simpkins and Co.
A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled ‘Woe Woe!’
By Miss Fanny F---, known more commonly so

.”
This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark,
But may guess at my writing by knowing my mark.
How I manag'd, at last, this great deed to achieve,
Is itself a “Romaunt” which you'd scarce, dear, believe;
Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl,
Looking out for the Magnet , explain it, dear girl.
Suffice it to say, that one half the expense
Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence—
(Though “God knows,” as aunt says, my humble ambition
Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition,)—

352

One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,
I've manag'd, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting
My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,
Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!

A day-coach of that name.

And who, my dear Kitty, would not do the same?
What's eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame?
Yards of riband soon end—but the measures of rhyme,
Dipp'd in hues of the rainbow, stretch out through all time.
Gloves languish and fade away, pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics through ages trip on.
The remaining expense, trouble, risk—and, alas!
My poor copyright too—into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Dev'l of the “County Gazette”
(The only Mecænas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now set up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my “Heathen Mythology” says)

353

Live on nought but ambrosia, his lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky dev'l, on a young lady's metre!
As for puffing—that first of all lit'rary boons,
And essential alike both to bards and balloons
As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found
Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;—
In this respect, nought could more prosp'rous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)
Knows the whole world of critics—the hypers and all.
I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,
Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;
As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,
That the Dev'l on Two Sticks was a dev'l at Acrostics.
But hark! there's the Magnet just dash'd in from Town—
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.

354

That awful Court Journal, Gazette, Athenæum,
All full of my book—I shall sink when I see 'em.
And then the great point—whether Simpkins and Co.
Are actually pleas'd with their bargain or no!—

Five o'clock.

All's delightful—such praises!—I really fear
That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear,
I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps—
All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.

FROM THE “MORNING POST.”

'Tis known that a certain distinguish'd physician
Prescribes, for dyspepsia, a course of light reading;
And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition
(Ere critics have injur'd their powers of nutrition),
Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.
Satires irritate—love-songs are found calorific;
But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific,
And, if taken at bed-time, a sure soporific.

355

Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know,
Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co.,
Where all such ingredients—the flowery, the sweet,
And the gently narcotic—are mix'd per receipt,
With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation
To say that—'bove all, for the young generation—
'Tis an elegant, soothing, and safe preparation.

Nota bene—for readers, whose object's to sleep,
And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep
Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.

ANECDOTE—FROM THE “COURT JOURNAL.”

T'other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,
An amusing event was much whisper'd about.
It was said that Lord—, at the Council, that day,
Had, more than once, jump'd from his seat, like a rocket,
And flown to a corner, where—heedless, they say,
How the country's resources were squander'd away—
He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.

356

Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,
Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;
But it turn'd out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,
Which his Lordship devour'd with such zeal expeditious—
Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,
Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,
He had distanc'd the whole reading world by a day!

357

LETTER VIII. FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.

Tuesday evening.

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,
I could not come to ***meet you;
But this curst gout wo'n't let me stir—
Ev'n now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis.
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities—
But gout wo'n't leave one even these.

From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.
I'm a plain man, who speak the truth,
And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that, from my youth,
I've wish'd your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt, indeed, from all
I've heard of your high patriot fame—

358

From every word your lips let fall—
That you most truly wish the same.
It plagues one's life out—thirty years
Have I had dinning in my ears,
“Ireland wants this, and that, and t'other,”
And, to this hour, one nothing hears
But the same vile, eternal bother.
While, of those countless things she wanted,
Thank God, but little has been granted,
And ev'n that little, if we're men
And Britons, we'll have back again!

I really think that Catholic question
Was what brought on my indigestion;
And still each year, as Popery's curse
Has gather'd round us, I've got worse;
Till ev'n my pint of port a day
Can't keep the Pope and bile away.
And whereas, till the Catholic bill,
I never wanted draught or pill,
The settling of that cursed question
Has quite unsettled my digestion.

Look what has happen'd since—the Elect
Of all the bores of every sect,

359

The chosen triers of men's patience,
From all the Three Denominations,
Let loose upon us;—even Quakers
Turn'd into speechers and law-makers,
Who'll move no question, stiff-rump'd elves,
Till first the Spirit moves themselves;
And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus,
Conquering our Ays and Nos sonorous,
Will soon to death's own slumber snore us.
Then, too, those Jews!—I really sicken
To think of such abomination;
Fellows, who wo'n't eat ham with chicken,
To legislate for this great nation!—
Depend upon't, when once they've sway,
With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them,
Th' Excise laws will be done away,
And Circumcise ones pass'd instead o' them!

In short, dear sir, look where one will,
Things all go on so devilish ill,
That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear
Our reverend Rector may be right,
Who tells me the Millennium's near;
Nay, swears he knows the very year,

360

And regulates his leases by't;—
Meaning their terms should end, no doubt,
Before the world's own lease is out.
He thinks, too, that the whole thing's ended
So much more soon than was intended,
Purely to scourge those men of sin
Who brought th' accurst Reform Bill in.

However, let's not yet despair;
Though Toryism's eclips'd, at present,
And—like myself, in this old chair—
Sits in a state by no means pleasant;
Feet crippled—hands, in luckless hour,
Disabled of their grasping power;
And all that rampant glee, which revell'd
In this world's sweets, be-dull'd, bedevil'd—
Yet, though condemn'd to frisk no more,
And both in Chair of Penance set,

361

There's something tells me, all's not o'er
With Toryism or Bobby yet;
That though, between us, I allow
We've not a leg to stand on now;
Though curst Reform and colchicum
Have made us both look deuced glum,
Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout,
Again we'll shine triumphant out!

Yes—back again shall come, egad,
Our turn for sport, my reverend lad.
And then, O'Mulligan—oh then,
When mounted on our nags again,
You, on your high-flown Rosinante,
Bedizen'd out, like Show-Gallantee
(Glitter great from substance scanty);—
While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride
Your faithful Sancho, by your side;
Then—talk of tilts and tournaments!
Dam'me, we'll—

[OMITTED]

'Squire Fudge's clerk presents
To Reverend Sir his compliments;

362

Is griev'd to say an accident
Has just occurr'd which will prevent
The Squire—though now a little better—
From finishing this present letter.
Just when he'd got to “Dam'me, we'll—”
His Honour, full of martial zeal,
Grasp'd at his crutch, but not being able
To keep his balance or his hold,
Tumbled, both self and crutch, and roll'd
Like ball and bat, beneath the table.

All's safe—the table, chair, and crutch;—
Nothing, thank God, is broken much,
But the Squire's head, which, in the fall,
Got bump'd consid'rably—that's all.
At this no great alarm we feel,
As the Squire's head can bear a deal.

This appears to have been the opinion also of an eloquent writer in the Morning Watch. “One great object of Christ's second Advent, as the Man and as the King of the Jews, is to punish the Kings who do not acknowledge that their authority is derived from him, and who submit to receive it from that many-headed monster, the mob.” No. x. p. 373.

Wednesday morning.

Squire much the same—head rather light—
Rav'd about “Barbers' Wigs” all night.

Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs,
Suspects that he meant “barbarous Whigs.”

363

LETTER IX. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther,
You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about;
And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther,
Could I manage to lave the contints of it out;
For sure, if it makes even me onaisy,
Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive you crazy.

Oh, Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!
That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him,
Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood,
And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not ev'n the Flood
Was able to wash away clane from the earth)
As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth,

364

Can no more to a great O, before it, purtend,
Than mine can to wear a great Q at its end.

But that's now all over—last night I gev warnin',
And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this mornin'.
The thief of the world!—but it's no use balraggin' ;—
All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin'
Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days,
Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise,
And be forc'd to discind thro' the same dirty ways.
Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last show'd his phiz,
I'd have known what a quare sort of monsther he is;
For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough,
That himself and his other wild Irish show'd off;
And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man
Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman—

365

Sayin', “Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice,
“How shlim and how shleek this black animal's coat is;
“All by-raison, we're towld, that the nathur o' the baste
“Is to change its coat once in its lifetime, at laste;
“And such objiks, in our counthry, not bein' common ones,
“Are bought up, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons.
“In regard of its name—why, in throth, I'm consarn'd
“To differ on this point so much with the Larn'd,
“Who call it a ‘Morthimer,’ whereas the craythur
“Is plainly a ‘Murthagh,’ by name and by nathur.”

This is how I'd have towld them the rights of it all,
Had I been their showman at Exether Hall—
Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin
(Of th' owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin),

366

The fam'd Daddy C---ke--- who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em
As proof how such bastes may be tam'd, when you've thrown 'em
A good frindly sop of the rale Raigin Donem.

But, throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear,
For any thing, barrin' our own doings here,
And the cursin' and dammin' and thund'rin', like mad,
We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had.
He says we're all murtherers—div'l a bit less—
And that even our priests, when we go to confess,
Give us lessons in murth'ring and wish us success!

When ax'd how he daar'd, by tongue or by pen,
To belie, in this way, seven millions of men,
Faith, he said 'twas all towld him by Docthor Den!

367

“And who the div'l's he?” was the question that flew
From Chrishtian to Chrishtian—but not a sowl knew.
While on went Murthagh, in iligant style,
Blasphaming us Cath'lics all the while,
As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villians,
All the whole kit of th' aforesaid millions ,—
Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest,
And the innocent craythur that's at your breast,
All rogues together, in word and deed,
Owld Den our insthructor and Sin our creed!

When ax'd for his proofs again and again,
Div'l an answer he'd give but Docthor Den.
Couldn't he call into coort some livin' men?
“No, thank you”—he'd stick to Docthor Den—
An ould gintleman dead a century or two,
Who all about us, live Cath'lics, knew;

368

And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry,
Than Docthor Mac Hale or Docthor Murray!

But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon,
Though myself, from bad habits, is makin' it one.
Even you, had you witness'd his grand climactherics,
Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics—
Or, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his,
That Papists are only “Humanity's carcasses,
“Ris'n”—but, by dad, I'm afeard I can't give it ye—
“Ris'n from the sepulchre of—inactivity;
“And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity,
“Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity!!” —
Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light,
Would have laugh'd, out and out, at this iligant flight
Of that figure of speech call'd the Blatherumskite.

369

As for me, though a funny thought now and then came to me,
Rage got the betther at last—and small blame to me!
So, slapping my thigh, “by the Powers of Delf,”
Says I bowldly “I'll make a noration myself.”
And with that up I jumps—but, my darlint, the minit
I cock'd up my head, div'l a sinse remain'd in it.
Though, saited, I could have got beautiful on,
When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all gone:—
Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er we've a hand in,
At laste in our legs show a sthrong understandin'.

Howsumdever, detarmin'd the chaps should pursaive
What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave,
“In regard of all that,” says I—there I stopp'd short—
Not a word more would come, though I shtruggled hard for't.
So, shnapping my fingers at what's call'd the Chair,
And the owld Lord (or Lady, I b'lieve) that sat there—

370

“In regard of all that,” says I bowldly again—
“To owld Nick I pitch Mortimer—and Docthor Den;”—
Upon which the whole company cried out “Amen;”
And myself was in hopes 'twas to what I had said,
But, by gor, no such thing—they were not so well bred:
For, 'twas all to a pray'r Murthagh just had read out,
By way of fit finish to job so devout;
That is—afther well damning one half the community,
To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity!

This is all I can shtuff in this letther, though plinty
Of news, faith, I've got to fill more—if 'twas twinty.
But I'll add, on the outside, a line, should I need it,
(Writin' “Private” upon it, that no one may read it,)
To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrishten him)
Bears the big shame of his sarvant's dismisshin' him.

371

(Private outside.)

Just come from his riv'rence—the job is all done—
By the powers, I've discharg'd him as sure as a gun!
And now, Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do
With myself and my appetite—both good as new—
Without ev'n a single traneen in my pocket,
Let alone a good, dacent pound-starlin', to stock it—
Is a mysht'ry I lave to the One that's above,
Who takes care of us, dissolute sowls, when hard dhrove!

“I am of your Patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your antediluvian families—fellows that the Flood could not wash away.” —Congreve, Love for Love.

To balrag is to abuse—Mr. Lover makes it ballyrag, and he is high authority: but if I remember rightly, Curran in his national stories used to employ the word as above.—See Lover's most amusing and genuinely Irish work, the “Legends and Stories of Ireland.”

Larry evidently means the Regium Donum;—a sum contributed by the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in Ireland.

Correctly, Dens—Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature.

“The deeds of darkness which are reduced to horrid practice over the drunken debauch of the midnight assassin are debated, in principle, in the sober morning religious conferences of the priests.” —Speech of the Rev. Mr. M'Ghee.—

“The character of the Irish people generally is, that they are given to lying and to acts of theft.” —Speech of the Rev. Robert Daly.

“But she (Popery) is no longer the tenant of the sepulchre of inactivity. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted the carcass of her departed humanity; noxious and noisome, an object of abhorrence and dismay to all who are not leagued with her in iniquity.” —Report of the Rev. Gentleman's Speech, June 20. in the Record Newspaper.

We may well ask, after reading this and other such reverend ravings, “Quis dubitat quin omne sit hoc rationis egestas?”

372

LETTER X. FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ------.

These few brief lines, my reverend friend,
By a safe, private hand I send
(Fearing lest some low Catholic wag
Should pry into the Letter-bag),
To tell you, far as pen can dare
How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;—
Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack,
As Saints were, some few ages back,
But—scarce less trying in its way—
To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray;
To jokes, which Providence mysterious
Permits on men and things so serious,
Lowering the Church still more each minute,
And—injuring our preferment in it.

373

Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend,
To find, where'er our footsteps bend,
Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing;
And bear the eternal torturing play
Of that great engine of our day,
Unknown to the' Inquisition—quizzing!

Your men of thumb-screws and of racks
Aim'd at the body their attacks;
But modern torturers, more refin'd,
Work their machinery on the mind.
Had St. Sebastian had the luck
With me to be a godly rover,
Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck
With stings of ridicule all over;
And poor St. Lawrence, who was kill'd
By being on a gridir'n grill'd,
Had he but shar'd my errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridir'n hot,
A moral roasting would have got.
Nor should I (trying as all this is)
Much heed the suffering or the shame—
As, like an actor, used to hisses,
I long have known no other fame,

374

But that (as I may own to you,
Though to the world it would not do,)
No hope appears of fortune's beams
Shining on any of my schemes;
No chance of something more per ann.
As supplement to K---llym---n;
No prospect that, by fierce abuse
Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce
The rulers of this thinking nation
To rid us of Emancipation;
To forge anew the sever'd chain,
And bring back Penal Laws again.

Ah happy time! when wolves and priests
Alike were hunted, as wild beasts;
And five pounds was the price, per head,
For bagging either, live or dead ;—
Though oft, we're told, one outlaw'd brother
Sav'd cost, by eating up the other.

375

Finding thus all those schemes and hopes
I built upon my flowers and tropes
All scatter'd, one by one, away,
As flashy and unsound as they,
The question comes—what's to be done?
And there's but one course left me—one.
Heroes, when tir'd of war's alarms,
Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms.
The weary Day-God's last retreat is
The breast of silv'ry-footed Thetis;
And mine, as mighty Love's my judge,
Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge!

Start not, my friend,—the tender scheme,
Wild and romantic though it seem,
Beyond a parson's fondest dream,
Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes,
So pleasing to a parson's eyes—
That only gilding which the Muse
Cannot around her sons diffuse;—
Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,
From wealthy Miss or benefice,
To Mortimer indiff'rent is,
So he can only make it his.

376

There is but one slight damp I see
Upon this scheme's felicity,
And that is, the fair heroine's claim
That I shall take her family name.
To this (though it may look henpeck'd),
I can't quite decently object,
Having myself long chos'n to shine
Conspicuous in the alias line;
So that henceforth, by wife's decree,
(For Biddy from this point wo'n't budge)
Your old friend's new address must be
The Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge—
The “O” being kept, that all may see
We're both of ancient family.

Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you,
My public life's calm Euthanasia.

377

Thus bid I long farewell to all
The freaks of Exeter's old Hall—
Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding,
And rivalling its bears in breeding.
Farewell, the platform fill'd with preachers—
The pray'r giv'n out, as grace , by speechers,
Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:—
Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes,
And, scarce less dead, old Standard's columns:—
From each and all I now retire,
My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire,
To bring up little filial Fudges,
To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges—
Parsons I'd add too, if, alas!
There yet were hope the Church could pass
The gulf now oped for hers and her,
Or long survive what Exeter—
Both Hall and Bishop, of that name—
Have done to sink her reverend fame.

378

Adieu, dear friend—you'll oft hear from me,
Now I'm no more a travelling drudge;
Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge
How well the surname will become me)

Yours truly,
Mortimer O'Fudge.

“Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish priest—being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the head of a wolf.” Memoirs of Captain Rock, book i. chap. 10.

In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified the meaning of the word “alias” by the instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Malloch. “What other proofs he gave (says Johnson) of disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend.” —Life of Mallet.

“I think I am acting in unison with the feelings of a Meeting assembled for this solemn object, when I call on the Rev. Doctor Holloway to open it by prayer.” —Speech of Lord Kenyon.

379

LETTER XI. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ---.

------, Ireland.

Dear Dick—just arriv'd at my own humble gîte,
I inclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,
Just arriv'd, per express, of our late noble feat.

[Extract from the “County Gazette.”]

This place is getting gay and full again.
[OMITTED]
Last week was married, “in the Lord,”
The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan,
Preacher, in Irish, of the Word,
(He, who the Lord's force lately led on—
Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,)

380

To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chos'n, as “heir of grace,”
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted—
Niece of the above, (whose “Sylvan Lyre,”
In our Gazette, last week, we printed,)
Elop'd with Pat. Magan, Esquire.
The fugitives were track'd, some time,
After they'd left the Aunt's abode,
By scraps of paper, scrawl'd with rhyme,
Found strew'd along the Western road;—
Some of them, ci-devant curl-papers,
Others, half burnt in lighting tapers.
This clue, however, to their flight,
After some miles was seen no more;
And, from inquiries made last night,
We find they've reach'd the Irish shore.

The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county of Armagh!—a most remarkable coincidence— and well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.

Every word of it true, Dick—th' escape from
Aunt's thrall—
Western road—lyric fragments—curl-papers and all.

381

My sole stipulation, ere link'd at the shrine
(As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine),
Was that, when we were one, she must give up the Nine;
Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.
With a vow never more against prose to transgress.
This she did, like a heroine;—smack went to bits
The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits—
Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes, canzonets—
Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,
Some turn'd into papillotes, worthy to rise
And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!
While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay),
Begg'd, as “lover of po'thry,” to read on the way.
Having thus of life's poetry dar'd to dispose,
How we now, Dick, shall manage to get through its prose,
With such slender materials for style, Heaven knows!
But—I'm call'd off abruptly—another Express!
What the deuce can it mean?—I'm alarm'd, I confess.

382

P.S.

Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs!
I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days.
There—read the good news—and while glad, for my sake,
That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,
Admire also the moral—that he, the sly elf,
Who has fudg'd all the world, should be now fudg'd himself!

EXTRACT FROM LETTER INCLOSED.

With pain the mournful news I write,
Miss Fudge's uncle died last night;
And much to mine and friends' surprise,
By will doth all his wealth devise—
Lands, dwellings—rectories likewise—
To his “belov'd grand-niece,” Miss Fanny,
Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many
Long years hath waited—not a penny!
Have notified the same to latter,
And wait instructions in the matter.

For self and partners, &c. &c.