For, what do you think?-so delightful! next Having dropp'd the dear fellow a court'sy pro year, Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare I'm to write in the Keepsake-yes, Kitty, my dear, Tother night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now found, Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran; That he's quite a new species of literary man; One, whose task is-to what will not fashion ac custom us? To edite live authors, as if they were posthumous. Was the author of something-one couldn't tell In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher what; But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt It was something that Colburn had lately brought out. Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher; And, in short, renders readers and critics polite. We conversed of belles-lettres through all the quad- My Aunt says-though scarce on such points one rille, Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still; or wrong And then settled the point in a bold en avant. In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just That I too had Poems which-long'd to be printed, "But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine! eyes, * All letter'd and press'd, 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 through the Till between us 'twas finally fix'd that, next year, ear 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, I must now close my letter-there's Aunt, in full screech, Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite God forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say, doubt, Which my poor Aunt abhors, with such hatred devout, That, so far from presenting young nymphs with a For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said, Your affectionate Fan. Four o'clock. These mystical words, which I could but just hear, Such a sermon!-though not about dancing, my Ye gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains. 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. LETTER IV. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD HE comes from Erin's speechful shore With hot effusions-hot and weak; To Britain's well-fed Church to speak. Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets; To all who still the Church's part take, Tales of parsonic woe, that well Might make ev'n grim Dissenter's heart ache:Of ten whole Bishops snatch'd 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 compell'd From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home, Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come; Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly; Its surplus brought to nonplus presently! Such are the themes this man of pathos, Will preach and preach t'ye, till you're dull again; Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim, All true, Dick, true as you're alive— To state what he calls Ireland's Case; Who takes a foundling babe to suckle, Then leaves poor dear to-suck its knuckle: Will tell, next week, a different story; Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions, Haste, Dick-you're lost, if you lose time, 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 make 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 taste combinesOne common railroad o'er Parnassus, Where, sliding in those tuneful grooves, Call'd couplets, all creation moves, And the whole world runs mad in lines. Add to all this-what's even still worse, As rhyme itself, though 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 th' amount between us. However, things may yet prove better:- LETTER V. FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, IN ENGLAND, TO HIS WIFE DEAR JUDY, I sind you this bit of a letther, meant To dry-nurse, in the parlor, to pay off the rent, Julianna, the craythur-that name was the death of her-10 Gave us the shlip and we saw the last breath of her! And there were the childher, six innocent sowls, Stud over Julianna's remains, melancholy- money, *Arrah, why did ye die till we'd sowl'd 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 gother'd up all the poor duds we could catch, Lock'd 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 turn'd 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, meat, By dhraggin' owld ladies all through the streetWhich their docthors (who pocket, like fun, the pound starlins) Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins. But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say, Muff, feathers, and all!-the descint was most awful, And-what was still worse, faith-I knew 'twas unlawful; For, though, with mere women, no very great evil, 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, 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 div'l a more word And read there a name, och! that made my heart Controvarsial between us has since then occurr’d. Next Tuesday, (as towld in the play-bills I min tion'd, Address'd to the loyal and godly intintion'd,) "My own fosther-brother-by jinks, I'm in clover. "Though there, in the play-bill, he figures so grand, But, whisht!-there's his Rivirence, shoutin' out "One wet-nurse it was brought us both up by hand, "And he'll not see me shtarve in the inemy's land!" Well, to make a long hishtory short, niver doubt see. Nor is Murthagh less plased with th' 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 cross'd, as you know, With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago; That's to say, he turn'd Protestant-why, I can't larn; But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn. All I know is, we both were good Cath'lics, at nurse, And myself am so still-nayther betther nor worse. Well, our bargain was all right and tight in a jiffey, And lads more contint never yet left the Liffey, Whoa Murthagh-or Morthimer, as he's now chrishen'd, His name being convarted, at laist, if he isn'tLookin' sly at me, (faith, 'twas divartin' to see,) "Of coorse, you're a Protestant, Larry," says he, "Larry," And sorra a word more will this shmall paper carry; But div'l a one Post-office hole in this town Kiss Oonagh's sweet mouth, and kiss Katty all over Not forgettin' the mark of the red currant whiskey LARRY O'BRANIGAN. LETTER VI. FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH How I grieve you're not with us!—pray, come, it you can, Ere we're robb'd of this dear oratorical man, (Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded, The best sort of brass was, in old times, com- The sly and the saintly, the worldy and godly, Poor dear Irish Church!-he to-day sketch'd a view use, People still will their facts and dry figures produce, And granting such accident, think, what a shame, came! It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay 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 A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding, Looking through the whole history, present and Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last; Of nature and reason has been its whole course, ance, Scorn, hate, execration-yet still in existence! Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her That Reason, dumb-founder'd, gives up the dispute, Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound, Precious souls are meanwhile to th' Establishment For, observe, the more low all her merits they place, lost! In vain do we put the case sensibly thus; The more they make out the miraculous case, They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss, To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign. "Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond Abode, "It is right that seven eighths of the travellers should, pay doubt That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out, "For one eighth that goes quite a different way?" As clear and well-proved, he would venture to |