While to his case a tear I dropt, And sauntered home, thought I—ye Gods! How many heads might thus be swopt, And, after all, not make much odds! For instance, there's VANSITTART'S head— ("Tam carum" it may well be said) If by some curious chance it came To settle on BILL SOAMES'S[3] shoulders, The effect would turn out much the same On all respectable cash-holders; Except that while, in its new socket, The head was planning schemes to win A zig-zag way into one's pocket, The hands would plunge directly in.

Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead Of his own grave, respected head, Might wear (for aught I see that bars) Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S— So while the hand signed Circulars, The head might lisp out "What is trumps?"— The REGENT'S brains could we transfer To some robust man-milliner, The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on; And, vice versa, take the pains To give the PRINCE the shopman's brains, One only change from thence would flow, Ribbons would not be wasted so.

'Twas thus I pondered on, my Lord; And, even at night, when laid in bed, I found myself, before I snored, Thus chopping, swopping head for head. At length I thought, fantastic elf! How such a change would suit myself. 'Twixt sleep and waking, one by one, With various pericraniums saddled, At last I tried your Lordship's on, And then I grew completely addled— Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em! And slept, and dreamt that I was—BOTTOM.

August 21.

Walked out with daughter BID—was shown The House of Commons and the Throne, Whose velvet cushion's just the same NAPOLEON sat on—what a shame! Oh! can we wonder, best of speechers, When LOUIS seated thus we see, That France's "fundamental features" Are much the same they used to be? However,—God preserve the Throne, And cushion too—and keep them free; From accidents, which have been known To happen even to Royalty![4]

August 28.

Read, at a stall (for oft one pops On something at these stalls and shops, That does to quote and gives one's Book A classical and knowing look.— Indeed, I've found, in Latin, lately, A course of stalls improves me greatly)— 'Twas thus I read that in the East A monarch's fat's a serious matter; And once in every year, at least, He's weighed—to see if he gets fatter:[5] Then, if a pound or two he be Increased, there's quite a jubilee![6] Suppose, my Lord—and far from me To treat such things with levity— But just suppose the Regent's weight Were made thus an affair of state; And, every sessions, at the close,— 'Stead of a speech, which, all can see, is Heavy and dull enough, God knows— We were to try how heavy he is. Much would it glad all hearts to hear— That, while the Nation's Revenue Loses so many pounds a year, The PRINCE, God bless him! gains a few. With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices, I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;— But, for the REGENT, my advice is, We should throw in much heavier things: For instance——-'s quarto volumes, Which, tho' not spices, serve to wrap them; Dominie STODDART'S Daily columns, "Prodigious!"—in, of course, we'd clap them— Letters, that CARTWRIGHT'S[7] pen indites, In which, with logical confusion, The Major like a Minor writes, And never comes to a Conclusion:— Lord SOMERS'S pamphlet—or his head— (Ah! that were worth its weight in lead!) Along with which we in may whip, sly, The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPISLY; That Baronet of many words, Who loves so, in the House of Lords, To whisper Bishops—and so nigh Unto their wigs in whispering goes, That you may always know him by A patch of powder on his nose!— If this won't do, we in must cram The "Reasons" of Lord BUCKINGHAM; (A Book his Lordship means to write, Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting":) Or, should these prove too small and light, His rump's a host—we'll bundle that in! And, still should all these masses fail To stir the REGENT'S pondrous scale, Why, then, my Lord, in heaven's name, Pitch in, without reserve or stint, The whole of RAGLEY'S beauteous Dame— If that won't raise him, devil's in it!

August 31.

Consulted MURPHY'S TACITUS About those famous spies at Rome,[8] Whom certain Whigs—to make a fuss— Describe as much resembling us, Informing gentlemen, at home. But, bless the fools, they can't be serious, To say Lord SIDMOUTH'S like TIBERIUS! What! he, the Peer, that injures no man, Like that severe, blood-thirsty Roman!— 'Tis true, the Tyrant lent an ear to All sorts of spies—so doth the Peer, too. 'Tis true, my Lord's elect tell fibs, And deal in perjury—ditto TIB's. 'Tis true, the Tyrant screened and hid His rogues from justice—ditto SID. 'Tis true the Peer is grave and glib At moral speeches—ditto TIB. 'Tis true the feats the Tyrant did Were in his dotage—ditto SID.

So far, I own, the parallel 'Twixt TIB and SIB goes vastly well; But there are points in TIB that strike My humble mind as much more like Yourself, my dearest Lord, or him, Of the India Board—that soul of whim! Like him, TIBERIUS loved his joke, On matters, too, where few can bear one; E. g. a man cut up, or broke Upon the wheel—a devilish fair one! Your common fractures, wounds and fits, Are nothing to such wholesale wits; But, let the sufferer gasp for life, The joke is then, worth any money; And, if he writhe beneath a knife,— Oh dear, that's something quite too funny. In this respect, my Lord, you see The Roman wag and ours agree: Now as to your resemblance—mum— This parallel we need not follow: Tho' 'tis, in Ireland, said by some Your Lordship beats TIBERIUS hollow; Whips, chains—but these are things too serious For me to mention or discuss; Whene'er your Lordship acts TIBERIUS, PHIL. FUDGE'S part is Tacitus!

September 2.

Was thinking, had Lord SIDMOUTH got Any good decent sort of Plot Against the winter-time—if not, Alas, alas, our ruin's fated; All done up and spiflicated! Ministers and all their vassals, Down from CASTLEREAGH to CASTLES,— Unless we can kick up a riot, Ne'er can hope for peace or quiet! What's to be done?—Spa-Fields was clever; But even that brought gibes and mockings Upon our heads—so, mem.—must never Keep ammunition in old stockings; For fear some wag should in his curst head Take it to say our force was worsted. Mem. too—when SID an army raises, It must not be "incog." like Bayes's: Nor must the General be a hobbling Professor of the art of cobbling; Lest men, who perpetrate such puns, Should say, with Jacobinic grin, He felt, from soleing Wellingtons,[9] A Wellington's great soul within! Nor must an old Apothecary Go take the Tower, for lack of pence, With (what these wags would call, so merry,) Physical force and phial-ence! No—no—our Plot, my Lord, must be Next time contrived more skilfully. John Bull, I grieve to say, is growing So troublesomely sharp and knowing, So wise—in short, so Jacobin— 'Tis monstrous hard to take him in.

September 6.

Heard of the fate of our Ambassador In China, and was sorely nettled; But think, my Lord, we should not pass it o'er Till all this matter's fairly settled; And here's the mode occurs to me:— As none of our Nobility, Tho' for their own most gracious King (They would kiss hands, or—anything), Can be persuaded to go thro' This farce-like trick of the Ko-tou; And as these Mandarins won't bend, Without some mumming exhibition, Suppose, my Lord, you were to send GRIMALDI to them on a mission: As Legate, JOE could play his part, And if, in diplomatic art, The "volto sciolto"'s meritorius,[10] Let JOE but grin, he has it, glorious!

A title for him's easily made; And, by the by, one Christmas time, If I remember right, he played Lord MORLEY in some pantomime:—[1] As Earl of Morley then gazette him, If t'other Earl of MORLEY'll let him, (And why should not the world be blest "With two such stars, for East and West?) Then, when before the Yellow Screen He's brought—and, sure, the very essence Of etiquette would be that scene Of JOE in the Celestial Presence!—

He thus should say:—"Duke Ho and Soo, "I'll play what tricks you please for you, "If you'll, in turn, but do for me "A few small tricks you now shall see. "If I consult your Emperor's liking, "At least you'll do the same for my King."

He then should give them nine such grins, As would astound even Mandarins; And throw such somersets before The picture of King GEORGE (God bless him!) As, should Duke Ho but try them o'er, Would, by CONFUCIUS, much distress him!

I start this merely as a hint, But think you'll find some wisdom in't; And, should you follow up the job, My son, my Lord (you know poor BOB), Would in the suite be glad to go And help his Excellency, JOE:— At least, like noble AMHERST'S son, The lad will do to practise on.

[1] The celebrated letter to Prince Hardenburgh (written, however, I believe, originally in English) in which his Lordship, professing to see "no moral or political objection" to the dismemberment of Saxony, denounced the unfortunate King as "not only the most devoted, but the most favored, of Bonaparte's vassals".

[2] This extraordinary madman is, I believe, in the Bicetre. He imagines, exactly as Mr. Fudge states it, that when the heads of those who had been guillotined were restored, he by mistake got some other person's instead of his own.

[3] A celebrated pickpocket.

[4] I am afraid that Mr. Fudge alludes here to a very awkward accident, which is well known to have happened to poor Louis le Desire, some years since, at one of the Regent's Fetes. He was sitting next our gracious Queen at the time.

[5] "The third day of the Feast the King causeth himself to be weighed with great care,"—F. Bernier's "Voyage to Surat," etc.

[6] "I remember," says Bernier, "that all the Omrahs expressed great joy that the King weighed two pounds more now than the year preceding."— Another author tells us that "Fatness, as well as a very large head, is considered, throughout India, as one of the most precious gifts of heaven." An enormous skull is absolutely revered, and the happy owner is looked up to as a superior being. To a Prince a joulter head is invaluable."—Oriental Field Sports.

[7] Major Cartwright.

[8] The name of the first worthy who set up the trade of informer at Rome (to whom our Olivers and Castleses ought to erect a statue) was Romanus Hispo.

[9] Short boots so called.

[10] The open countenance, recommended by Lord Chesterfield.

[11] Mr. Fudge is a little mistaken here. It was not Grimaldi, but some very inferior performer, who played this part of "Lord Morley" in the Pantomime,—so much to the horror of the distinguished Earl of that name.



LETTER X.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——.

Well, it isn't the King, after all, my dear creature! But don't you go laugh, now—there's nothing to quiz in't— For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He might be a King, DOLL, tho', hang him, he isn't. At first, I felt hurt, for I wisht it, I own, If for no other cause but to vex Miss MALONE,— (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with such airs, and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry, old rabbit-skin, dear!) But Pa says, on deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should not be the King; "As I think for my BIDDY, so gentille and jolie. "Whose charms may their price in an honest way fetch, "That a Brandenburgh"—(what is a Brandenburgh, DOLLY?)— "Would be, after all, no such very great catch. "If the REGENT indeed"—added he, looking sly— (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopt him with "La, Pa, how can you say so, "When the REGENT loves none but old women, you know!" Which is fact, my dear DOLLY—we, girls of eighteen, And so slim—Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen: And would like us much better as old-as, as old As that Countess of DESMOND, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was killed by a fall from a cherry-tree then! What a frisky old girl! but—to come to my lover, Who, tho' not a King, is a hero I'll swear,— You shall hear all that's happened, just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whiskt thro' the air!

Let me see—'twas on Saturday—yes, DOLLY, yes— From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, BOB says, is so like Love and Marriage, "Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly, "And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"[1] Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night thro'; And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, I set out with Papa, to see Louis DIX-HUIT Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois- And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! The gardens seemed full—so, of Course, we walkt o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipt into town-bred decorum, And daphnes and vases and many a statue There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you! The ponds, too, we viewed—stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes— "Live bullion," says merciless BOB, "which, I think, "Would, if coined, with a little mint sauce, be delicious!"

But what, DOLLY, what, is the gay orange-grove, Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love? In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing like a man was—no lover sat there! In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustachios and wigs that went past, To obtain if I could but a glance at that curl,— A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says,[2]is to Mussulman given, For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!" Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his! Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"— Thought of the words of TOM MOORE'S Irish Melody, Something about the "green spot of delight" (Which, you know, Captain MACKINTOSH sung to us one day): Ah DOLLY, my "spot" was that Saturday night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had withered by Sunday! We dined at a tavern—La, what do I say?

If BOB was to know!—a Restaurateur's, dear; Where your properest ladies go dine every day, And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer. Fine BOB (for he's really grown super-fine) Condescended for once to make one of the party; Of course, tho' but three, we had dinner for nine, And in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty. Indeed, DOLL, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief; And BOB, who's in love, said he felt the same, quite— "My sighs," said he, "ceased with the first glass I drank you; "The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light, "And—now that all's o'er—why, I'm—pretty well, thank you!"

To my great annoyance, we sat rather late; For BOBBY and Pa had a furious debate About singing and cookery—BOBBY, of course, Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force; And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst, "The French Singers or Cooks, but I wish us well over it— "What with old LAI'S and VERY, I'm curst "If my head or my stomach will ever recover it!"

'Twas dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, When, sudden it struck me—last hope of my soul— That some angel might take the dear man to TORTONI'S![3] We entered—and, scarcely had BOB, with an air, For a grappe a la jardiniere called to the waiters, When, oh DOLL! I saw him—my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him,[4] And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! Oh! DOLLY, these heroes—what creatures they are; In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter! As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car, As when safe at TORTONI'S, o'er iced currant water! He joined us—imagine, dear creature, my ecstasy— Joined by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see! BOB wished to treat him with Punch a la glace, But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my grace, And my ja-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirled) Were to him, "on de top of all Ponch in de vorld."— How pretty!—tho' oft (as of course it must be) Both his French and his English are Greek, DOLL, to me. But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did; And happier still, when 'twas fixt, ere we parted, That, if the next day should be pastoral weather. We all would set off, in French buggies, together, To see Montmorency—that place which, you know, Is so famous for cherries and JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. His card then he gave us—the name, rather creased— But 'twas CALICOT—something—a Colonel, at least!

After which—sure there never was hero so civil—he Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli, Where his last words, as, at parting, he threw A soft look o'er his shoulders, were—"How do you do!" But, lord!—there's Papa for the post—I'm so vext— Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next. That dear Sunday night—I was charmingly drest, And—so providential!—was looking my best; Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce—and my frills, You've no notion how rich—(tho' Pa has by the bills) And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, Colonel CALICOT eyeing the cambric, my dear. Then the flowers in my bonnet—but, la! it's in vain— So, good-by, my sweet DOLL—I shall soon write again.

B. F.

Nota bene—our love to all neighbors about— Your Papa in particular—how is his gout?

P.S.—I've just opened my letter to say, In your next you must tell me, (now do, DOLLY, pray, For I hate to ask BOB, he's so ready to quiz,) What sort of a thing, dear, a Brandenburgh is.

[1] The cars, on return, are dragged up slowly by a chain.

[2] For this scrap of knowledge "Pa" was, I suspect, indebted to a note upon Volney's "Ruins:"

"It is by this tuft of hair (on the crown of the head), worn by the majority of Mussulmans, that the Angel of the Tomb is to take the elect and carry them to Paradise."

[3] A fashionable cafe glacier on the Italian Boulevards.

[4] "You eat your ice at Tortoni's," says Mr. Scott, "under a Grecian group."



LETTER XI.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO ——.

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great As ever hero died to vindicate— A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice, And own no power but of the Nation's choice! Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow; Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured, In patriot eyes, a light around his sword, A hallowing light, which never, since the day Of his young victories, had illumed its way!

Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates, Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates; When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye. As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,[1] Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain, Myriads of swords to bind it fast again— Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track Thro' your best blood his path of vengeance back; When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined, Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind, Gathered around, with hosts from every shore, Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more, And, in that coming strife, appalled to see The world yet left one chance for liberty!— No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight, When every hope was in his speed and might— To waste the hour of action in dispute, And coolly plan how freedom's boughs should shoot, When your Invader's axe was at the root! No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws, Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knows How well I love thee and how deeply hate All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate— Yet, in that hour, were France my native land, I would have followed, with quick heart and hand, NAPOLEON, NERO—ay, no matter whom— To snatch my country from that damning doom, That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits— A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates!

True, he was false—despotic—all you please— Had trampled down man's holiest liberties— Had, by a genius, formed for nobler things Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings, But raised the hopes of men—as eaglets fly With tortoises aloft into the sky— To dash them down again more shatteringly! All this I own—but still

* * * * *

[1] See Aellan, lib. v. cap. 29.,—who tells us that these geese, from a consciousness of their own loquacity, always cross Mount Taurus with stones in their bills, to prevent any unlucky cackle from betraying them to the eagles.



LETTER XII.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MISS DOROTHY ——.

At last, DOLLY,—thanks to potent emetic, Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic, Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss, Of an eel matelote and a bisque d'ecrevisses— I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down To describe you our heavenly trip out of town. How agog you must be for this letter, my dear! Lady JANE, in the novel, less languisht to hear, If that elegant cornet she met at Lord NEVILLE'S Was actually dying with love or—blue devils. But Love, DOLLY, Love is the theme I pursue; With Blue Devils, thank heaven, I have nothing to do— Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies Any imps of that color in certain blue eyes, Which he stares at till I, DOLL, at his do the same; Then he simpers—I blush—and would often exclaim, If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, Sir, for shame!"

Well, the morning was lovely—the trees in full dress For the happy occasion—the sunshine express— Had we ordered it, dear, of the best poet going, It scarce could be furnisht more golden and glowing. Tho' late when we started, the scent of the air Was like GATTIE'S rose-water,—and, bright, here and there, On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabbinet! While the birds seemed to warble as blest on the boughs, As if each a plumed Calicot had for her spouse; And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows, And—in short, need I tell you wherever one goes With the creature one loves, 'tis couleur de rose; And ah! I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see A day such as that at divine Montmorency!

There was but one drawback—at first when we started, The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted; How cruel—young hearts of such moments to rob! He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB: And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so. For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S— Served with him of course—nay, I'm sure they were cronies. So martial his features! dear DOLL, you can trace Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face As you do on that pillar of glory and brass,[1] Which the poor DUC DE BERRI must hate so to pass! It appears, too, he made—as most foreigners do— About English affairs an odd blunder or two. For example misled by the names, I dare say— He confounded JACK CASTLES with LORD CASTLEREAGH; And—sure such a blunder no mortal hit ever on— Fancied the present Lord CAMDEN the clever one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; 'Twas for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. And oh! had you heard, as together we walkt Thro' that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talkt; And how perfectly well he appeared, DOLL, to know All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU?— "'Twas there," said he—not that his words I can state— 'Twas a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;— But "there," said he, (pointing where, small and remote, The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote,— "Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure; "Then sauded it over with silver and azure, "And—oh, what will genius and fancy not do!— "Tied the leaves up together with nonpareille blue!" What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here! Alas, that a man of such exquisite notions Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear! "'Twas here too perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said— As down the small garden he pensively led— (Tho' once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle) "'Twas here he received from the fair D'EPINAY "(Who called him so sweetly her Bear, every day,) "That dear flannel petticoat, pulled off to form "A waistcoat, to keep the enthusiast warm!"

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we pondered, As, full of romance, thro' that valley we wandered. The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is!) Led us to talk about other commodities, Cambric, and silk, and—I ne'er shall forget, For the sun was then hastening in pomp to its set.

And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, When he askt me, with eagerness,—who made my gown? The question confused me—for, DOLL, you must know, And I ought to have told my best friend long ago, That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ[2] That enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI; But am forced now to have VICTORINE, who—deuce take her!— It seems is, at present, the King's mantua-maker— I mean of his party—and, tho' much the smartest, LE ROI is condemned as a rank Bonapartist.[3] Think, DOLL, how confounded I lookt—so well knowing The Colonel's opinions—my cheeks were quite glowing; I stammered out something—nay, even half named The legitimate sempstress, when, loud, he exclaimed, "Yes; yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to be seen "It was made by that Bourbonite bitch, VICTORINE!" What a word for a hero!—but heroes will err, And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things just as they were. Besides tho' the word on good manners intrench, I assure you 'tis not half so shocking in French.

But this cloud, tho' embarrassing, soon past away, And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day, The thoughts that arise, when such dear fellows woo us,— The nothings that then, love, are—everything to us— That quick correspondence of glances and sighs, And what BOB calls the "Two-penny-post of the Eyes"— Ah, DOLL! tho' I know you've a heart, 'tis in vain, To a heart so unpractised these things to explain. They can only be felt, in their fulness divine, By her who has wandered, at evening's decline, Thro' a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

But here I must finish—for BOB, my dear DOLLY, Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, Is seized with a fancy for churchyard reflections; And, full of all yesterday's rich recollections, Is just setting off for Montmartre—"for there is," Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS![4] "Long, long have I wisht as a votary true, "O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans; "And, to-day—as my stomach is not in good cue "For the flesh of the VERYS—I'll visit their bones!" He insists upon my going with him—how teasing! This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie Unsealed in my drawer, that, if anything pleasing Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you—good-by.

B.F.

Four o'clock.

Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruined for ever— I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never! To think of the wretch—what a victim was I! 'Tis too much to endure—I shall die, I shall die— "My brain's in a fever—my pulses beat quick— I shall die or at least be exceedingly sick! Oh! what do you think? after all my romancing, My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to paper— This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!! 'Tis true as I live—I had coaxt brother BOB so, (You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so,) For some little gift on my birthday—September The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember— That BOB to a shop kindly ordered the coach, (Ah! little I thought who the shopman would prove,) To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche, Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love— (The most beautiful things—two Napoleons the price— And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop. But—ye Gods, what a phantom!—I thought I should drop— There he stood, my dear DOLLY—no room for a doubt— There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, With a piece of French cambric, before him rolled out, And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand! Oh!—Papa, all along, knew the secret,' is clear— 'Twas a shopman he meant by a "Brandenburgh," dear! The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, And, when that too delightful illusion was past, As a hero had worshipt—vile, treacherous thing— To turn out but a low linen-draper at last! My head swam around—the wretch smiled, I believe, But his smiling, alas, could no longer deceive— I fell back on BOB—my whole heart seemed to wither— And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither! I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, With cruel facetiousness said, "Curse the Kiddy! "A stanch Revolutionist always I've thought him, "But now I find out he's a Counter one, BIDDY!"

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss MALONE! What a story 'twill be at Shandangan for ever! What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men! It will spread thro' the country—and never, oh! never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again! Farewell—I shall do something desperate, I fear— And, ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge To her poor—broken-hearted—young friend, BIDDY FUDGE.

Nota bene—I am sure you will hear, with delight, That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night. A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. COX (Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

[1] The column in the Place Vendome.

[2] Miss Biddy's notions of French pronunciation may be perceived in the rhymes which she always selects for "Le Roi."

[3] LE ROI, who was the Couturiere of the Empress Maria Louisa, is at present, of course, out of fashion, and is succeeded in her station by the Royalist mantua-maker, VICTORINE.

[4] It is the brother of the present excellent Restaurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in the Cimetiere Monmartre.



THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE

"FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS."



PREFACE.

The name of the country town, in England—a well-known fashionable watering-place—in which the events that gave rise to the following correspondence occurred, is, for obvious reasons, suppressed. The interest attached, however, to the facts and personages of the story, renders it independent of all time and place; and when it is recollected that the whole train of romantic circumstances so fully unfolded in these Letters has passed during the short period which has now elapsed since the great Meetings in Exeter Hall, due credit will, it is hoped, be allowed to the Editor for the rapidity with which he has brought the details before the Public; while, at the same time any errors that may have been the result of such haste will, he trusts, with equal consideration, be pardoned.



THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND



LETTER I.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ——; CURATE OF ——, IN IRELAND.

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 colors to paint; Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers, And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off—gone, as charity judges, To some choice Elysium reserved 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 renowned 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.

You may ask, Dick, how comes it that I, a poor elf, Wanting substance even 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 lackt 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 thro' the light air by feet or by wings, 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 formed to bewilder A gay youth like me, who of castles aerial (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. In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends; A fit which, tho' 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 aeres!—oh Dick, it don't matter one pin How she touches the affections, so you touch the rents; And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, he Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame."

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report, Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport. 'Tis rumored 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 the amusement of Christians, a summerset. 'Tis feared their chief "Merriman," C—ke, cannot come, Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home; And the loss of so practised a wag in divinity Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity;— His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately Having pleased Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly. 'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be, As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see; And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none of 'em Ever yet reckoned a point of wit one of 'em. But even tho' deprived of this comical elf, We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself. Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime, And Coke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the Sublime;[1] And of him we're quite certain, so pray come in time.

[1] In the language of the play-bills, "Ground and Lofty Tumbling."



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 mixt, my dear Lizzy, In this little brain till, bewildered 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 favorite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down. Sleeves still worn (which I think is wise), a la folle, Charming hats, pou de soie—tho' the shape rather droll. But you can't think how nicely the caps of tulle lace, With the mentonnieres 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.

The silks are quite heavenly:—I'm glad too to say Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day; Hath had sweet experience—yea, even 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, Tho' ordained (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; And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in Sweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen. He preached in the parlor, he preached in the hall, He preached 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— Tho', 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 learned in Bob's heathen society.) But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale; Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veil— Conscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale! * * * * * * * * * * 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, And besides, from the drawer—I neglecting to lock it— My neat "Morning Manna, done up for the pocket."[1] 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?

I'm now and have been for this week past in chase Of some godly young couple this pair to replace. The enclosed two announcements have just met my eyes In that venerable Monthly where Saints advertise For such temporal comforts as this world supplies; 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 "learned 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 Establisht Wine Company proudly gives out That the whole of the firm, Co. and all, are devout.

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, And the serious frequenters of market and dock All lay in religion as part of their stock.[2] 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?

P. S.

Have mislaid the two paragraphs—can't stop to look, But both describe charming—both Footman and Cook. She, "decidedly pious"—with pathos deplores The increase of French cookery and sin on our shores; And adds—(while for further accounts she refers To a great Gospel preacher, a cousin of hers,) That "tho' 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; Served last a young gentleman, studying divinity, But left—not approving the morals of Trinity.

P. S.

I enclose, 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 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 chaele 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 tete-a-tete, 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 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 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 L20—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 soirees, 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 unsettled 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.

THE END