by Thomas Moore
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 cont
int 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 didnt find Rector and Clerk when they came!
It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay,
These little Church embryos must go astray;
And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost,
Precious souls are meanwhile to the Establishment lost!
In vain do we put the case sensibly thus; —
They’ll still with their figures and facts make a fuss,
And ask “if, while all, choosing each his own road,
Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly Abode,
It is right that seven eighths of the travellers should pay
For one eighth that goes quite a different way?” —
Just as if, foolish people, this wasn’t, in reality,
A proof of the Church’s extreme liberality,
That tho’ hating Popery in other respects,
She to Catholic money in no way objects;
And so liberal her very best Saints, in this sense,
That they even go to heaven at the Catholic’s expense.
But tho’ clear to our minds all these arguments be,
People cannot or will not their cogency see;
And I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church
Stand on reasoning alone, she’d be left in the lurch.
It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere,
That I heard this nice Reverend O’something we’ve here,
Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading,
A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding,
In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought,
All that Irving himself in his glory e’er taught.
Looking thro’ the whole history, present and past,
Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last;
Considering how strange its original birth —
Such a thing having never before been on earth —
How opposed to the instinct, the law and the force
Of nature and reason has been its whole course;
Thro’ centuries encountering repugnance, resistance,
Scorn, hate, execration — yet still in existence!
Considering all this, the conclusion he draws
Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws —
That Reason, dumb-foundered, gives up the dispute,
And before the portentous anomaly stands mute;
That in short ’tis a Miracle! and, once begun,
And transmitted thro’ ages, from father to son,
For the honor of miracles, ought to go on.
Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound,
Or so fitted the Church’s weak foes to confound.
For observe the more low all her merits they place,
The more they make out the miraculous case,
And the more all good Christians must deem it profane
To disturb such a prodigy’s marvellous reign.
As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond doubt
That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out,
As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear,
As anything else has been ever found there: —
While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals
With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals,
And the ease with which vial on vial he strings,
Shows him quite a first-rate at all these sort of things.
So much for theology: — as for the affairs
Of this temporal world — the light drawing-room cares
And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek,
From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek,
And to be, as the Apostle, was, “weak with the weak,”
Thou wilt find quite enough (till I’m somewhat less busy)
In the extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.
EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.
Thursday.
Last night, having naught more holy to
do,
Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew,
About the “Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club,”
Which we wish by some shorter name to dub: —
As the use of more vowels and Consonants
Than a Christian on Sunday really wants,
Is a grievance that ought to be done away,
And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.
Sunday.
Sir Andrew’s answer! — but, shocking to say,
Being franked unthinkingly yesterday.
To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,
It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!! —
How shocking! — the postman’s self cried “shame on’t,”
Seeing the immaculate Andrew’s name on’t!!
What will the Club do? — meet, no doubt.
’Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,
And the friends of the Sabbath must speak out.
Tuesday.
Saw to-day, at the raffle — and saw it with pain —
That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.
Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces —
She who long has stood by me thro’ all sorts of flounces,
And showed by upholding the toilet’s sweet rites,
That we girls may be Christians without being frights.
This, I own, much alarms me; for tho’ one’s religious,
And strict and — all that, there’s no need to be hideous;
And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way
Of one’s going to heaven, ’tisn’t easy to say.
Then, there’s Gimp, the poor thing — if her custom we drop,
Pray what’s to become of her soul and her shop?
If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given,
She’ll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven;
And this nice little “fire-brand, pluckt from the burning,”
May fall in again at the very next turning.
Wednesday.
Mem. — To write to the India Mission Society; And send £20 — heavy tax upon piety!
Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast,
Making “Company’s Christians” perhaps costs the most.
And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown,
Having lived in our faith mostly die in their own,1
Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say,
When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.2
Think, how horrid, my dear! — so that all’s thrown away;
And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice
They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price.
