Carrying inside a bard or two,
Book'd for posterity "all through;"-
Their luggage, a few close-pack'd rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times-
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road ;-
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his nightcap on the way.1
Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author-that's enough.
In vain the critics, set to watch him,
Try at the starting post to catch him:
He's off the puffers carry it hollow-
The critics, if they please, may follow.
Ere they've laid down their first positions,
He's fairly blown through six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme)-
The Quarterly, at three months' date,
To catch th' Unread One, comes too late;
And nonsense, litter'd in a hurry,
Becomes " immortal," spite of Murray.
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Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon, on board wages
To go about with him incog.,
And sometimes give his wits a jog.
So L-nd-st, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward, from that nameless spot,
His inspirations, hot and hot.
But, neat as are old L-nd-st's doings-
Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings-
Had I, Lon. Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks
With age's sourest politics;
The urchin's freaks, the vete an's gall,
Both duly mix'd, and matchless all;
A compound naught in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, rid'st the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee-
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's done, you care not where,
I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new, brisk method of tormenting-
A way, they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon't
The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.
Ireland, we're told, means land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord St-nl-y
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than th' Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
Yes-sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, "swelter'd venom" got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"
And, thanks to practice on that land,
I stir it with a master-hand.
Again thou'lt see, when forth hath gone
The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!"
How Caravats and Shanavests
Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,
With all their merry moonlight brothers,
To whom the Church (step-dame to others)
Hath been the best of nursing mothers.
Again o'er Erin's rich domain
Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;
And both, exempt from vulgar toil,
Between them share that titheful soil;
Puzzling ambition which to climb at,
The post of Captain, or of Primate.
And so, long life to Church and Co.-
Hurrah for mischief!-here we go.
EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO
LORD L-NDH-T.
DEAR L-ndh-t, you'll pardon my making thus
But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,
Have both the same praiseworthy object, in pri-
Namely, never to let the old regions of riot,
Where Rock hath long reign'd, have one instant of
quiet,
But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught
To love more than meat, drink, or clothing-hot
All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it,
Is simply, that you make the law and I break it;
And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two
Play'd so well into each other's hands as we do;
Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufac-
ture,
Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to frac-
Not Birmingham's self-to her shame be it spo-
ken-
E'er made things more neatly contrived to be
broken;
And hence, I confess, in this island religious,
The breakage of laws-and of heads is prodigious.
And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,
Though, of late, much I fear'd all our fun was gono
As, except when some tithe-hunting parson show'd
sport,
Some rector-a cool hand at pistols and port,
Who "keeps dry" his powder, but never himself-
One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf,
Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-
Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges ;-
Except when some hero of this sort turn'd out,
Or, th' Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs1
about-
A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flat-
tery,
Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and
battery;
So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow,
To have hit off so rich a receipt for a row;-
Except for such rigs turning up, now and then,
I was actually growing the dullest of men;
And, had this blank fit been allow'd to increase,
Might have snored myself down to a Justice of
Like you, Reformation in Church and in State
Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate;
If once these cursed Ministers do as they like,
All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my
pike,
And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth,
Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors
But we must not despair-even already Hope sees
You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze
Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you,
Who have box'd the whole compass of party right
through,
And care not one farthing, as all the world knows,
So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it
blows.
Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare
My own small resources with thine to compare:
Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst
Compete, for one instant, with thee, my dear
L-ndh-t.
But, hark, there's a shot!-some parsonic practi-
tioner?
No-merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner;
The Courts having now, with true law erudition,
Put even Rebellion itself " in commission."
As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor,
I'll just pay my shot, and then fold up this letter.
1 Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.-Chronicle.
In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks! If that "Lord," in his well-known discernment, but
Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks!
Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres,
Me and L-ndh-t, to look after Ireland's affairs,
And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of We shall soon such a region of devilment make it,
That Old Nick himself for his own may mistake it.
Even already-long life to such Big-wigs, say I, For, as long as they flourish, we Rocks cannot dieHe has served our right riotous cause by a speech Whose perfection of mischief he only could reach; As it shows off both his and my merits alike, Both the swell of the wig, and the point of the pike; Mixes up, with a skill which one can't but admire, HERE I am, at head-quarters, dear Terry, once The lawyer's cool craft with th' incendiary's fire,
LETTER FROM THE CAPTAIN TO TERRY ALT, ESQ.
Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before :-
For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed
You and I, Terry Alt, would scarce know what to
do;
So ready they're always, when dull we are growing,
To set our old concert of discord a-going,
While L-ndh-t's the lad, with his Tory-Whig
face,
To play, in such concert, the true double-base.
I had fear'd this old prop of my realm was beginning
To tire of his course of political sinning,
And, like Mother Cole, when her heyday was past,
Meant, by way of a change, to try virtue at last.
But I wrong'd the old boy, who as stanchly derides
All reform in himself as in most things besides;
And, by using two faces through life, all allow,
Has acquired face sufficient for any thing now.
In short, he's all right; and, if mankind's old foe, My "Lord Harry" himself-who's the leader, we know,
Of another red-hot Opposition, below
And enlists, in the gravest, most plausible manner,
Seven millions of souls under Rockery's banner!
Oh Terry, my man, let this speech never die;
Through the regions of Rockland, like flame, let it
fly;
Let each syllable dark the Law-Oracle utter'd
By all Tipperary's wild echoes be mutter'd,
Till naught shall be heard, over hill, dale, or flood,
But "You're aliens in language, in creed, and in
blood;"
While voices, from sweet Connemara afar,
Shall answer, like true Irish echoes, "We are!"
And, though false be the cry, and though sense
must abhor it,
Still th' echoes may quote Law authority for it,
And naught L-ndh-t cares for my spread of
They're bad hands at mob-work, but, once they
begin,
They'll have plenty of practice to break them well
"THE FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS."
THE name of the country town, in England-a well-known fashionable watering-place-in which the events that gave rise to the following correspondence occurred, is, for obvious reasons, suppressed. The interest attached, however, to the facts and personages of the story, renders it independent of all time and place; and when it is recollected that the whole train of romantic circumstances so fully unfolded in these Letters has passed during the short period which has now elapsed since the great Meetings in Exeter Hall, due credit will, it is hoped, be allowed to the Editor for the rapidity with which he has brought the details before the Public; while, at the same time, any errors that may have been the result of such haste will, he trusts, with equal consideration, be pardoned.
FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD -, CURATE OF, IN IRELAND.
WHO d'ye think we've got here?-quite reform'd from the giddy,
Poor " Pa" hath popp'd off-gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much-pals.d rela-
tions,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites matt,-
Age thirty, or thereabouts stature six feet,
And warranted godly-to make all complete.
Nota Bene-a Churchman would suit, if he's high,
But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.
What say you, Dick? doesn't this tempt your ambition?
The whole wealth of Fudge, that renown'd man of pith,
[with. All brought to the hammer, for Church competition,Sole encumbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken thereThink, my boy, for a Curate how glorious a catch! While, instead of the thousands of souls you now watch,
To save Biddy Fudge's is all you need do;
And her purse will, meanwhile, be the saving of you.
Fantastic young thing, that once made such a noise
Or had cogenter reasons than mine to assail her With tender love-suit-at the suit of his tailor.
Why, the famous Miss Fudge - that delectable
Biddy,
Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs-
Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to
paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.
At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.
Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home And the loss of so practised a wag in divinity Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trimity;
A gay youth like me, who of castles aërial
(And only of such) am, God help me! a builder;
Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal,
And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye,
His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately
Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the Having pleased Robert Taylor, the Rever
But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth-even she, This divine little gipsy, does odd things some.times;
Talks learning-looks wise, (rather painful to see,)
Prints already in two County papers her rhymes;
And raves-the sweet, charming, absurd little dear!
About Amulets, Bijous, and Keepsakes, next year,
In a manner which plainly bad symptoms portends
Of that Annual blue fit, so distressing to friends;
A fit which, though lasting but one short edition,
Leaves the patient long after in sad inanition.
However, let's hope for the best-and, meanwhile, Be it mine still to bask in the niece's warm smile; While you, if you're wise, Dick, will play the gallant (Uphill work, I confess) to her Saint of an Aunt. Think, my boy, for a youngster like you, who've a lack,
Not indeed of rupees, but of all other specie, What 'uck thus to find a kind witch at your back, An o.d goose with gold eggs, from all debts to release ye;
Never mind, tho' the spinster be reverend and thin, What are all the Three Graces to her Three per
'Twill prove a sad drawback, if absent he be,
As a wag Presbyterian's a thing quite to see;
And, 'mong the Five Points of the Calvinists, none
of 'em
Ever yet reckon'd a point of wit one of 'em
But even though deprived of this comical elt,
We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself,
Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and
mime,
As C-ke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the Sub-
lime;
And of him we're quite certain, so, pray, come in
time.
FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MRS. ELIZABETH
Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy,
While her acres!-oh Dick, it don't matter one pin How she touches th' affections, so you touch the
And Love never looks half so pleased, as when, bless
Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesamé."
1 That floor which a facetious garreteer called "le premier en descendant du ciel."
2 See the Dublin Evening Post, of the 9th of this month, (July.) for an account of a scene which lately took place at a meeting of the Synod of Ulster, in which the performance of the above-mentioned part by the personage in question appears to have been worthy of all its former reputation in that line.
With godly concernments and worldly anes, too;
Things carnal and spiritual mix'd, my dear Lizzy, In this little brain till bewilder'd and dizzy, 'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I
3 "All are punsters if they have wit to be so; and there fore when an Irishman has to commence with a Bul. you will naturally pronounce it a bull. (A laugh.) Allow me ta bring before you the famous Bull that is called Unigen tus referring to the only-begotten Son of God."-Report of the Rev. Doctor's speech, June 20, in the Record Newspaper.
In the language of the play-bills, "Grouad and Lefty Tumbling."
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