by Thomas Moore
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 VÉRYS!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 VÉRYS — 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 Vendôme.
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 Couturière 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 Cimetière 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.
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? doesnt 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 aërial
(And only of such) am, God help me! a builder;
Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal,
And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye,
Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.
But, alas! nothing’s perfect on earth — even she,
This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes;
Talks learning — looks wise (rather painful to see),
Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;
And raves — the sweet, charming, absurd little dear,
About Amulets, Bijous, and Keepsakes, next year.
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 dont 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), à la
folle,
Charming hats, pou de soie — tho’ the shape rather droll.
But you cant think how nicely the caps of tulle lace,
With the mentonnières look on this poor sinful face;
And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right,
To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram’s to-night.
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 — cant 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,
