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Miss Fudge hath a niece—such a creature! — with

eyes

Like those sparklers that peep out from summernight skies

At astronomers-royal, and laugh with delight
To see elderly gentlemen spying all night.

While her figure-oh, bring all the grace fullest things

That are borne through 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 form'd to bewilder

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 scraph-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;

That floor which a facetious garreteer called "le premier en descendant du ciel."

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 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 acres!—oh Dick, it don't matter one pin

How she touches the' affections, so you touch the rents;

And Love never looks half so pleas'd 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 rumour'd 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 th' amusement of Christians, a summerset. Tis fear'd their chief “Merriman,” C―ke, cannot come,

Being called off, at present, to play Punch at home;*
And the loss of so practis'd a wag in divinity

Will grieve much all lovers of jokes on the Trinity; -
His pun on the name Unigenitus, lately
Having pleas'd Robert Taylor, the Reverend, greatly.t

"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 ev❜n though depriv'd of this comical elf,
We've a host of buffoni in Murtagh himself,

*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 his former reputation in that line.

"All are punsters if they have wit to be so; and therefore when an Irishman has to commence with a Bull, you will naturally pronounce it a bull (A laugh.) Allow me to bring before you the famous Bull that is called Unigenitus, referring to he only-begotten Son of God."- Report of the Rev. Doctor' Speech June 20 in the Record Newspaper.

VOL. III.

22

Who of all the whole troop is chief mummer and mime,

As C―ke takes the Ground Tumbling, he the Sublime; *

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

LETTER II.

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy, With godly concernments - and worldly ones, 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 do.

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

Sleeves still worn (which I think is wise), à la folle, Charming hats, pou de soie- though the shape rather droll.

But you can't think how nicely the caps of tulle lace, With the mentonnières, look on this poor sinful face;

* In the language of the play-bills, "Ground and Lofts Tumbling."

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 heav'nly:- I'm glad, too, to say, Gimp herself grows more godly and good every day;

Hath had sweet experience - yea, ev'n 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!

99

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,
Though ordain'd (God 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."

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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 savours of doctrine there never was kitchen.

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