And now, dear—to tell you a secret which, pray In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me. 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. Talk'd of Intellect's march-whether right 'twas And then settled the point in a bold en avant. That I too had Poems which-long'd to be printed, "But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thie. 66 eyes, "All letter'd and press'd, and of large-paper size." How unlike that Magan, who my genius would smother. But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring, Which I meant to have made a most beautiful And how we, true geniuses, find out each other! thing, Where I talk'd of the "dewdrops from freshly-blown This, and much more he said, with that fine phre roses," sied glance The nasty things made it "from freshly-blown One so rarely now sees, as we slid through the dance; noses!" And once when, to please my cross Aunt, I had Till between us 'twas finally fix'd that, next year. tried In this exquisite task I my pen should engage To commemorate some saint of her clique, who'd And, at parting, he stoop'd down and lisp'd in my just died, Having said he "had tak'n up in heaven his po- These mystical words, which I could but just bea "Terms for rhyme-if it's prime-ten sixpence per page." sition," 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 ear Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right, contains; If for nothing to write is itself a delight, Having dropp'd the dear fellow a court'sy found, Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran; I'm to write the Keepsake-yes, Kitty, my And from what I could learn, do you know, d dear, To write in the Keepsake, as sure as you're T'other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance I've found That he's quite a new species of literary man One, whose task is-to what will not fashies ** custom us? To edite live authors, as if they were posthumes Was the author of something-one couldn't tell In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher "Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented; Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,' And, quick as the change of all things and all Twin prosers, Watchman and Record! names is, Who knows but, as authors, like girls, are presented, Journals reserved for realms of bliss, 1 must now close my letter-there's Aunt, in full And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners, preach. To go and sit still to be preach'd at, to-day. That, so far from presenting young nymphs with a For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said, if I can, Before the post goes, Your affectionate Fan. Four o'clock. Might make ev'n grim Dissenter's heart ache:- (With God knows, too, how many more, From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home, Will not to Bath or Cheltenham come; Such a sermon!-though not about dancing, my Of that once happy Hierarchy, dear; "Twas only on th' 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 :' LETTER IV. FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. He comes from Erin's speechful shore With hot effusions-hot and weak,; To Britain's well-fed Church to speak. 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 alculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit, et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846 Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly; But now, alas, is doom'd to see 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; or 1847. "A cette époque," he says, "les fidèles peuvent espérer de voir s'effectuer la purification du Sanctuaire." 2 "Our anxious desire is to be found on the side of the Lord."-Record Newspaper. 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; Though try them even at this, they'll bear it, If tender and wash'd down with claret. Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions, Haste, Dick--you're lost, if you lose time; That sick, rich squire, whose wealth and lands 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. The six childher with you, my dear Judy, ochone! But it was, after all-for, by spellin' quite slow, First I made out "Rev. Mortimer"-then a great "0;" again, How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin' my skull By dhraggin' owld ladies all day through the street- Have brought into fashion to plase the owld darlins. But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say, Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a flutther, Up I jump'd, like a sky-lark, my jewel, at that name, Div'l a doubt on my mind, but it must be the same. "Masther Murthagh, himself," says I, "all the world over! Muff, feathers and all-the descint was most But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the case; unlawful: For, though, with mere women, no very great evil, What's the name of this town I can't say very well, Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day, way. Bein' hungry, God help me, and happenin' to stop, Though printed it was in some quare A B C, As, doubtin', I cried, "why it is!-no, it isn't:" know, With an awkward mishfortune some short time ago; larn; But, of coorse, he knew best, an' it's not my consarn. His name being convarted, at laist, if he isn't- What Murthagh could mane, and, in troth, Judy What I myself meant, doesn't seem mighty clear; stickler, I was just then too shtarved to be over partic'lar : Next Tuesday (as towld in the play-bills I min- | And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse And sorra a word more will this shmall paper And granting such accident, think, what a shame, But, though clear to our minds all these arguments b How I grieve you're not with us!-pray, come, if People cannot or will not their cogency see; you can, Ere we're robb'd 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, com pounded)— The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly, As can't but do good to the Protestant cause. |