book I

keep of my heart; Where, at some little items, (partaking, perhaps, More of earth than of heaven,) thy prudery 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 declared, "marriage is honorable in all."

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

_Monday_.

Tried a new chälé gown on--pretty. No one to see me in it--pity! Flew in a passion with Fritz, my maid;-- The Lord forgive me!--she lookt dismayed; But got her to sing the 100th Psalm, While she curled 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 tho' he be, As civilized, strange to say, as we! I own this young man's spiritual state Hath much engrossed my thoughts of late; And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone, To have some talk with him thereupon. At present I naught 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 forced, 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? 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 Heaven in mercy so dispose-- A six-foot baby, in _swaddling_ clothes.

_Wednesday_.

Finding myself, by some good fate, With Mr. Magan left _téte-à-téte_, Had just begun--having stirred the fire, And drawn my chair near his--to inquire, What his notions were of Original Sin, When that naughty Fanny again bounced in; And all the sweet things I had got to say Of the Flesh and the Devil were whiskt 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 Mayday, With eyes, like herself, full of naught but play-- Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.

[1] "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_."

[2] 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, brother like, their article,"--_Morning Watch_."-- No. iii, 442. 443.

LETTER III.

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

STANZAS ENCLOSED.

TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?--WHAT?--HOW?

Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky Thus wed their charms, in bridal light arrayed, Why in this bright hour, walkst 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, Saddening 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;-- Say, mute, mysterious Thing! how is't that thou Thus comest 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-designed 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-eyed strain, Just so did they taunt him;--but vain, critics, vain All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain! To blot out the splendor of Fancy's young stream, Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!! Thou perceivest, dear, that, even 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--naught'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_!-- 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 tho' 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 country suspects (Tho' the Editor often my best things rejects), That the verses signed so,[symbol: hand], 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-- Tho' an angel should write, still 'tis _devils_ must print; 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 talkt 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 commemorate some saint of her _cligue_, who'd just died, Having said he "had taken up in heaven his position," They made it, he'd "taken up to heaven 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-- 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 conversed of _belles-lettres_ thro' all the quadrille,-- Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still; Talkt 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--longed to be printed, He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight, I was actually _born_ in "_The Keepsake_" to write. "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, "Thro' the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,-- "All lettered and prest, and of large-paper size!" How un_like_ 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 thro' the dance; Till between us 'twas finally fixt that, next year, In this exquisite task I my pen should engage; And, at parting, he stoopt down and lispt 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; If for nothing to write is itself a delight, Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!

Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy 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 literary man; One, whose task is--to what will not fashion accustom us?-- To _edit_ 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 interesting 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--tho' scarce on such points one can credit her-- He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor. '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 preached 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.

_Four o'clock_.

Such a sermon!--tho' _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[1] And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter, As then I shall be an old maid, and 'twon't matter. Once more, love, good-by--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.

[1] 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.

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,[1] Twin prosers, _Watchman_ and _Record_! Journals reserved 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. He comes, the reverend man, to tell To all who still the Church's part take, Tales of parsonic woe, that well Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:-- Of ten whole bishops snatched 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 compelled 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;-- Tho' 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 used to roll in wealth so pleasantly; But now, alas! is doomed to see Its surplus brought to nonplus presently!

Such are the themes this man of pathos, Priest of prose and lord of bathos, 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, Tho' 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: Even so these reverend rigmaroles Pocket the money--starve the souls. 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; Tho' try them even at this, they'll bear it, If tender and washt 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 announced a godly rout, Where Murtagh's to be first brought out, And shown in his tame, _week-day_ state:-- "Prayers, half-past seven, tea at eight." Even 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, 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 even her oddities, plague take her, But made me love her all the better. _Too_ true it is, she's bitten sadly With this new rage for rhyming badly, Which late hath seized all ranks and classes, Down to that new Estate, "the masses "; Till one pursuit all tastes combines-- One common railroad o'er Parnassus, Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves, Called couplets, all creation moves, And the whole world runs mad _in lines_. Add to all this--what's even still worse, As rhyme itself, tho' 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 even _they_ go!

[1] "Our anxious desire is to be found on the side of the Lord."--_Record Newspaper_.

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 parlor, to pay off the rent, Julianna, the craythur--that name was the death of her--[1] 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 turning up howls; While yourself, my dear Judy (tho' 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 sowled 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 gothered up all the poor duds we could catch, Lock 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 turned 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:-- Only starved 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 managed to make a meal's meat, By dhraggin' owld ladies all day thro' the street-- Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the pound starlins,) Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins. Divil a boy in all Bath, tho' _I_ say it, could carry The grannies up hill half so handy as Larry; And the higher they lived, 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: For, tho', with mere _women_, no very great evil, 'Tupset 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 ABC, That might bother a schoolmaster, let alone _me_. By gor, you'd have laughed Judy, could you've but listened, As, doubtin', I cried, "why is it!--no, it _isn't_:" 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 jumpt like a sky-lark, my jewel, at that name,-- Divil a doubt on my mind, but it _must_ be the same "Master Murthagh, himself," says I, "all the world over! My own fosther-brother--by jinks, I'm in clover. Tho' _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 managed, 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 plased with the evint than _I_ am, As he just then was wanting a Valley-de-sham; 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 crost, as you know, With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago; That's to say, he turned Protestant--_why_, I can'tlarn; But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not _my_ consarn. All I know is, we both were good Catholics, at nurse, And myself am so still--nayther better not worse. Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffy, And lads more contint never yet left, the Liffey, When Murthagh--or Morthimer, as he's _now_ chrishened, 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 divil a more word Controvarsial between us has since then occurred.

What Murthagh could mane, and, in troth, Judy dear, What _I myself_ meant, doesn'tseem mighty clear; But the truth is, tho' still for the Owld Light a stickler, I was just then too shtarved 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 mintioned, Addrest to the loyal and godly intintioned,) His Riverence, my master, comes forward to preach,-- Myself doesn'tknow 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 Riverence, 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. But divil a one Post-office hole in this town Fit to swallow a dacent sized 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 heavens be your bed!--I will write, when I can again, Yours to the world's end,

LARRY O'BRANIGAN.

[1] 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.

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 robbed 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.

Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view Of her history and prospect, 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!

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, towards the Heavenly Abode, It is right that _seven_ eighths of the travellers 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 tho' hating Popery in _other_ respects, She to Catholic _money_ in no way objects; And so liberal her very best Saints, in this sense, That they even go to heaven at the Catholic's expense.

But tho' 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 Reverend O'_something_ we've here, Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading, A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding, In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought, All that Irving himself in his glory e'er taught.

Looking thro' 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 opposed to the instinct, the law and the force Of nature and reason has been its whole course; Thro' centuries encountering 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-foundered, gives up the dispute, And before the portentous anomaly stands mute; That in short 'tis a Miracle! and, _once_ begun, And transmitted thro' ages, from father to son, For the honor of miracles, _ought to go on_.

Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound, Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound. 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 placed beyond doubt That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out, As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear, As anything 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," 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 naught 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 arrived 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 thro' 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 tho' 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 heaven, '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, pluckt 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 luxuries 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_,[1] Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say, When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2] Think, how horrid, my dear!--so that all's thrown away; And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice They consumed, 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-mentioned place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em, For once they turn Christians no barber will shave 'em.[3]

To atone for this rather small Heathen amount, Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account. And tho' 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 lookt rather queer;-- _One_ I could perfectly understand, But why there were _two_ wasn’t quite so clear. T'was 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 past in the realms of the Blest.) And quite a creature to dazzle beholders; While even O'Mulligan, feathered 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 graspt 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'tor won’t see that he _might_ be the man; And, perhaps, dear--who knows?--if naught 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 Powerscourt, so justly renowned, For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round; Those theology-routs which the pious Lord Roden, That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in; Where, blessed down-pouring[5]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 Roden, deep read in each topic and tome, On all subjects (especially the last) was _at home_.

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

[2] The god Krishna, one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. "One day [says the Bhagavata] Krishna's playfellows complained to Tasuda that he had pilfered and ate their curds."

[3] "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. 498.

[4] In the Reports of the Missionaries, the Roman Catholics are almost always classed along with the Heathen.

[5] "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 down-pouring continued till about ten o'clock."-- Letter from Mary Campbell to the Rev. John Campbell, of Row, dated Feruicary, April 4, 1830, giving an account of her "miraculous cure."

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, ungemmed 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 (Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek), Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek, Round startled isle and wondering peak, They'll thunder loud and long as HE!

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 invoked 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.!

You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out The whole secret, at once--I have publisht 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 publisht by Simpkins and Co. A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled 'Woe Woe!' By Miss Fanny F----, known more commonly so [symbol: hand]." 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 managed, 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,[1] explain it, dear girl. Suffice it to say, that one half the expense Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence-- (Tho' "God knows," as aunt says my humble ambition Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)-- One half the whole cost of the paper and printing, I've managed, 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!

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, Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro' 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 thro' ages trip on.

The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas! My poor copyright too--into other hands pass; And my friend, the Head Devil of the "_County Gazette_" (The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet), He who set up in type my first juvenile lays, Is now see up by them for the rest of his days; And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says) Live on naught but ambrosia, _his_ lot how much sweeter To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!

As for _puffing_--that first of all literary 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, naught could more prosperous befall; As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)

Knows the whole would 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 Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.

But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town-- How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down. That awful _Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum_, All full of my book--I shall sink when I see 'em. And then the great point--whether Simpkins and Co. Are actually pleased 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 distinguisht physician Prescribes, for _dyspepsia_, a course of light reading; And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition (Ere critics have injured 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 bedtime, a sure soporific. 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 mixt _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 whispered about. It was said that Lord ---, at the Council, that day, Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket, And flown to a corner, where--heedless, they say, How the country's resources were squandered away-- He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket. Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk, Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius; But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work, Which his Lordship devoured with such zeal expeditious-- Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay, Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say, He had distanced the whole reading world by a day!

[1] A day-coach of that name.

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 * * * to meet you; But this curst gout won’t let me stir-- Even 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 won’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 wisht your country at the devil: Nor can I doubt indeed from all I've heard of your high patriot fame-- 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 even 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 gathered round us, I've got worse; Till even 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 _un_settled my digestion.

Look what has happened since--the Elect Of all the bores of every sect, The chosen triers of men's patience, From all the Three Denominations. Let loose upon us;--even Quakers Turned into speechers and lawmakers, Who'll move no question, stiff-rumpt elves, Till first the Spirit moves themselves; And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus, Conquering our Ayes and Noes sonorous, Will soon to death's own slumber snore us. Then, too, those Jews!--I really sicken To think of such abomination; Fellows, who won’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, The Excise laws will be done away, And _Circumcise_ ones past 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, 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 the accurst Reform Bill in.

However, let's not yet despair; Tho' Toryism's eclipst, 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 revelled In this world's sweets, be-dulled, be-deviled--

Yet, tho' condemned to frisk no more, And both in Chair of Penance set, There's something tells me, all's not o'er With Toryism or Bobby yet; That tho', between us, I allow We've not a leg to stand on now; Tho' 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, Bedizened 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--

* * * * *

'Squire Fudge's clerk presents To Reverend Sir his compliments; Is grieved to say an accident Has just occurred which will prevent The Squire--tho' now a little better-- From finishing this present letter. Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll"-- His Honor, full of martial zeal, Graspt at his crutch, but not being able To keep his balance or his hold, Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled, 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 bumped considerably--that's all. At this no great alarm we feel, As the Squire's head can bear a deal.

_Wednesday morning_

Squire much the same--head rather light-- Raved about "Barbers' Wigs" all night.

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

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 even the Flood Was able to wash away clane from the earth)[1] As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth, 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'[2]-- 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 forced to discind thro' the same dirty ways. Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last showed his phiz, I'd have known what a quare sort of monsthsr he is; For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough, That himself and his other wild Irish showed off; And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman-- 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 natur 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 consarned "To differ on this point so much with the Larned, "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 righst of it all. Had _I_ been their showman at Exether Hail-- Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin (Of the owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin), The famed Daddy Coke--who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you've thrown 'em A good frindly sop of the rale _Raigin Donem_.[3] But throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear, For anything, 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--divil a bit less-- And that even our priests, when we go to confess, Give us lessons in murthering and wish us success!

When axed how he daared, by tongue or by pen, To belie, in this way, seven millions of men, Faith, he said'twas all towld him by Docthor Den![4] "And who the divil'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, villains, All the whole kit of the 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 axed for his proofs again and again, Divil an answer he'd give but Docthor Den. Couldn'the 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 Catholics, knew; And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry, Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray!

But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon, Tho' myself, from bad habits, is _makin'_ it one. Even _you_, had you witnessed 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_, "_Risen_"--but, by dad, I'm afeared I can't give it ye-- "_Risen from the sepulchre of--inactivity_; "_And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity_, "_Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity_!!"--[5] Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light, Would have laught, out and out, at this iligant flight Of that figure of speech called the Blatherumskite. As for me, tho' 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 cockt up my head, divil a sinse remained in it. Tho', _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, detarmined the chaps should pursaive What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave, "In regard of all that," says I--there I stopt short-- Not a word more would come, tho' I shtruggled hard for't. So, shnapping my fingers at what's called the Chair, And the owld Lord (or Lady, I believe) that sat there-- "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 prayer 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 letter, tho' 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.

(_Private outside_.)

Just come from his riv'rence--the job is all done-- By the powers, I've discharged 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 even 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 sawls, when hard dhrove!

[1] "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_."

[2] 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."

[3] Larry evidently means the _Regium Donum_;--a sum contributed by the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in Ireland.

[4]Correctly, Dens--Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature.

[5] "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.

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.

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 Aimed at the _body_ their attack; But modern torturers, more refined, 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 killed By being on a gridiron grilled, Had he but shared _my_ errant lot, Instead of grill on gridiron 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, But that (as I may own to _you_, Tho' 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 Kellyman; 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 severed 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;--[1] Tho' oft, we're told, _one_ outlawed brother Saved cost, by eating up _the other_, Finding thus all those schemes and hopes I built upon my flowers and tropes All scattered, 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 tired of war's alarms, Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms. The weary Day-God's last retreat is The breast of silvery-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 tho' 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 Can not around _her_ sons diffuse:-- Which, whencesoever flows its bliss, From wealthy Miss or benefice, To Mortimer indifferent is, So he can only make it _his_. 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 (tho' it may look henpeckt), I can’t quite decently object, Having myself long chosen to shine Conspicuous in the _alias_[2] line; So that henceforth, by wife's decree, (For Biddy from this point won’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 a calm Euthanasia. 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 filled with preachers-- The prayer given 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. 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.

[1] "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_,