The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 262

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE

"FUDGE FAMILY IN PARIS."

PREFACE.

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 circ.u.mstances so fully unfolded in these Letters has pa.s.sed 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.

THE FUDGES IN ENGLAND

LETTER I.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ----; CURATE OF ----, IN IRELAND.

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy.

Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise-- 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.

Poor "Pa" hath popt 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 palsied relations, Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,-- Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet, And warranted G.o.dly--to make all complete.

_Nota bene_--a Churchman would suit, if he's _high_, But Socinians or Catholics need not apply.

What say you, d.i.c.k? doesn?t this tempt your ambition?

The whole wealth of Fudge, that renowned man of pith.

All brought to the hammer, for Church compet.i.tion,-- Sole enc.u.mbrance, Miss Fudge to be taken therewith.

Think, 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_.

You may ask, d.i.c.k, how comes it that I, a poor elf, Wanting substance even more than your spiritual self, Should thus generously lay my own claims on the shelf, When, G.o.d knows! there ne'er was young gentleman yet So much lackt an old spinster to rid him from debt, Or had cogenter reasons than mine to a.s.sail her With tender love-suit--at the suit of his tailor.

But thereby there hangs a soft secret, my friend, Which thus to your reverend breast I commend: Miss Fudge hath a niece--such a creature!--with eyes Like those sparklers that peep out from summer-night skies At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

While her figure--oh! bring all the gracefullest things That are borne thro' the light air by feet or by wings, Not a single new grace to that form could they teach, Which combines in itself the perfection of each; While, rapid or slow, as her fairy feet fall, The mute music of symmetry modulates all.

Ne'er in short was there creature more formed to bewilder A gay youth like me, who of castles aerial (And _only_ of such) am, G.o.d help me! a builder; Still peopling each mansion with lodgers ethereal, And now, to this nymph of the seraph-like eye, Letting out, as you see, my first floor next the sky.

But, alas! nothing's perfect on earth--even she, This divine little gipsy, does odd things sometimes; 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, tho' 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, d.i.c.k, 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 luck thus to find a kind witch at your back, An old 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 Cents?

While her aeres!--oh d.i.c.k, it don?t matter one pin How she touches the affections, so _you_ touch the rents; And Love never looks half so pleased as when, bless him, he Sings to an old lady's purse "Open, Sesame."

By the way, I've just heard, in my walks, a report, Which, if true, will insure for your visit some sport.

'Tis rumored our Manager means to bespeak The Church tumblers from Exeter Hall for next week; And certainly ne'er did a queerer or rummer set Throw, for the amus.e.m.e.nt of Christians, a summerset.

'Tis feared their chief "Merriman," C--ke, cannot come, 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 Trinity;-- His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately Having pleased Robert Taylor, the _Reverend_, greatly.

'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 reckoned a point of wit one of 'em.

But even tho' deprived of this comical elf, We've a host of _buffoni_ in Murtagh himself.

Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime, And c.o.ke takes the _Ground_ Tumbling, _he_ the _Sublime_;[1]

And of him we're quite certain, so pray come in time.

[1] In the language of the play-bills, "Ground and _Lofty_ Tumbling."

LETTER II.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE TO MRS. ELIZABETH ----.

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy, With G.o.dly concernments--and worldly ones, too; Things carnal and spiritual mixt, my dear Lizzy, In this little brain till, bewildered and dizzy, 'Twixt heaven and earth, I scarce know what I do.

First, I've been to see all the gay fashions from Town, Which our favorite Miss Gimp for the spring has had down.

Sleeves _still_ worn (which _I_ think is wise), _a la folle_, Charming hats, _pou de soie_--tho' the shape rather droll.

But you can?t think how nicely the caps of _tulle_ lace, With the _mentonnieres_ look on this poor sinful face; And I mean, if the Lord in his mercy thinks right, To wear one at Mrs. Fitz-wigram's to-night.

The silks are quite heavenly:--I'm glad too to say Gimp herself grows more G.o.dly and good every day; Hath had sweet experience--yea, even doth begin To turn from the Gentiles, and put away sin-- And all since her last stock of goods was laid in.

What a blessing one's milliner, careless of pelf, Should thus "walk in newness," as well as one's self!

So much for the blessings, the comforts of Spirit I've had since we met, and they're more than I merit!-- Poor, sinful, weak creature in every respect, Tho' ordained (G.o.d knows why) to be one of the Elect.

But now for the picture's reverse.--You remember That footman and cook-maid I hired last December; _He_ a Baptist Particular--_she_, of some sect Not particular, I fancy, in any respect; But desirous, poor thing, to be fed with the Word, And "to wait," as she said, "on Miss Fudge and the Lord."

Well, my dear, of all men, that Particular Baptist At preaching a sermon, off hand, was the aptest; And, long as he staid, do him justice, more rich in Sweet savors of doctrine, there never was kitchen.

He preached in the parlor, he preached in the hall, He preached to the chambermaids, scullions and all.

All heard with delight his reprovings of sin, But above all, the cook-maid:--oh, ne'er would she tire-- Tho', in learning to save sinful souls from the fire, She would oft let the soles she was frying fall in.

(G.o.d forgive me for punning on points thus of piety!-- A sad trick I've learned in Bob's heathen society.) But ah! there remains still the worst of my tale; Come, Asterisks, and help me the sad truth to veil-- Conscious stars, that at even your own secret turn pale!