by Thomas Moore
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 wasnt 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 wont see that he might be the man;
And, perhaps, dear — who knows? — if naught better befall
But — O’Mulligan may be the man, after all.
N. B.
Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout,
For the special discussion of matters devout; —
Like those soirées, at Powerscourt, so justly renowned,
For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round;
Those theology-routs which the pious Lord Roden,
That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in;
Where, blessed down-pouring5from 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., .
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,
Didnt 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 ye
t),
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 wont 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 wont 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
Cant 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 wont 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,
&nb
sp; 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,
