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