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!!
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?
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;
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.
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:—
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.
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;
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.
