The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 264

The nasty things made it "from freshly-blown noses!"

And once when to please my cross Aunt, I had tried To commemorate some saint of her _cligue_, who'd just died, Having said he "had taken up in heaven his position,"

They made it, he'd "taken up to heaven his physician!"

This is very disheartening;--but brighter days s.h.i.+ne, 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-- I'm to write in "_The Keepsake_"--yes, Kitty, my dear.

To write in "_The Keepsake_," as sure as you're there!!

T' other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance, Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught.

Was the author of _something_--one couldn?t tell what; But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt It was something that Colburn had lately brought out.

We conversed of _belles-lettres_ thro' all the quadrille,-- Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still; Talkt of Intellect's march--whether right 'twas or wrong-- And then settled the point in a bold _en avant_.

In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just hinted That _I_ too had Poems which--longed to be printed, He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight, I was actually _born_ in "_The Keepsake_" to write.

"In the Annals of England let some," he said, "s.h.i.+ne, "But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!

"Even now future '_Keepsakes_' seem brightly to rise, "Thro' the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,-- "All lettered and prest, and of large-paper size!"

How un_like_ 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 thro' the dance; Till between us 'twas finally fixt that, next year, In this exquisite task I my pen should engage; And, at parting, he stoopt down and lispt in my ear These mystical words, which I could but _just_ hear, "Terms for rhyme--if it's _prime_--ten and sixpence per page."

Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right, What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains; If for nothing to write is itself a delight, Ye G.o.ds, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!

Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy profound, Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran; And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've found That he's quite a new species of literary man; One, whose task is--to what will not fas.h.i.+on accustom us?-- To _edit_ live authors, as if they were posthumous.

For instance--the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!-- If any young he or she author feels modest In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher; Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light, Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight, And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.

My Aunt says--tho' scarce on such points one can credit her-- He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor.

'Tis certain the fas.h.i.+on'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_, We girls may be _edited_ soon at St. James's?

I must now close my letter--there's Aunt, in full screech, Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.

G.o.d forgive me, I'm not much inclined, I must say, To go and sit still to be preached at to-day.

And besides--'twill be all against dancing, no doubt, Which my poor Aunt abhors with such hatred devout, That so far from presenting young nymphs with a head, For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said, She'd wish their own heads in the platter instead.

There again--coming, Ma'am!--I'll write more, if I can, Before the post goes, Your affectionate Fan.

_Four o'clock_.

Such a sermon!--tho' _not_ about dancing, my dear; 'Twas only on the 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[1]

And I own, of the two, I'd prefer much the latter, 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.

[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 calculators. M. Alphonse Nicole, Docteur en Droit. et Avocat, merely doubts whether it is to be in 1846 or 1847.

LETTER IV.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ----.

He comes from Erin's speechful sh.o.r.e Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er With hot effusions--hot and weak; Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums, He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,[1]

Twin prosers, _Watchman_ and _Record_!

Journals reserved for realms of bliss, Being much too good to sell in this, Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners, Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets; And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners, Blow all your little penny trumpets.

He comes, the reverend man, to tell To all who still the Church's part take, Tales of parsonic woe, that well Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:-- Of ten whole bishops s.n.a.t.c.hed away For ever from the light of day; (With G.o.d knows, too, how many more, For whom that doom is yet in store)-- Of Rectors cruelly compelled From Bath and Cheltenham to haste home, Because the t.i.thes, by Pat withheld, Will _not_ to Bath or Cheltenham come; Nor will the flocks consent to pay Their parsons thus to stay away;-- Tho' with _such_ parsons, one may doubt If 'tisn't money well laid out;-- Of all, in short, and each degree Of that once happy Hierarchy, Which used to roll in wealth so pleasantly; But now, alas! is doomed to see Its surplus brought to nonplus presently!

Such are the themes this man of pathos, Priest of prose and lord of bathos, Will preach and preach t'ye, till you're dull again; Then, hail him, Saints, with joint acclaim, Shout to the stars his tuneful name, Which Murtagh _was_, ere known to fame, But now is _Mortimer_ O'Mulligan!

All true, d.i.c.k, true as you're alive-- I've seen him, some hours since, arrive.

Murtagh is come, the great Itinerant-- And Tuesday, in the market-place, Intends, to every saint and sinner in't, To state what _he_ calls Ireland's Case; Meaning thereby the case of _his_ shop,- Of curate, vicar, rector, bishop, And all those other grades seraphic, That make men's souls their special traffic, Tho' caring not a pin _which_ way The erratic souls go, so they _pay_.-- 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; Tho' try them even at this, they'll bear it, If tender and washt down with claret.

Meanwhile Miss Fudge, who loves all lions.

Your saintly, _next_ to great and high 'uns-- (A Viscount, be he what he may, Would cut a Saint out any day,) Has just announced a G.o.dly rout, Where Murtagh's to be first brought out, And shown in his tame, _week-day_ state:-- "Prayers, half-past seven, tea at eight."

Even so the circular missive orders-- Pink cards, with cherubs round the borders.

Haste, d.i.c.k--you're lost, if you lose time;-- Spinsters at forty-five grow giddy, And Murtagh with his tropes sublime Will surely carry off old Biddy, Unless some spark at once propose, And distance him by downright prose.

That sick, rich squire, whose wealth and lands All pa.s.s, they say, to Biddy's hands, (The patron, d.i.c.k, 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_, d.i.c.k--'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 cla.s.ses, Down to that new Estate, "the ma.s.ses "; Till one pursuit all tastes combines-- One common railroad o'er Parna.s.sus, 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 c.h.i.n.king 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 G.o.d'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 fas.h.i.+on 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.