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In the Morning of Life

<h1 id="id01981" style="margin-top: 6em">IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.</h1> In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;— Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Then, then is the time when affection holds sway With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid the flowers, Their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth; 'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers, That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. So it is not mid splendor, prosperity, mirth, That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears; To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears. [1] A day-coach of that name. <h1 id="id07664" style="margin-top: 6em">LETTER VIII.</h1> <h5 id="id07665">FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.</h5> Tuesday evening, I much regret, dear Reverend Sir, I could not come to * * * to meet you; But this curst gout wont let me stir— Even now I but by proxy greet you; As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is, Owes all to an amanuensis. Most other scourges of disease Reduce men to extremities— But gout wont leave one even these. From all my sister writes, I see That you and I will quite agree. I'm a plain man who speak the truth, And trust you'll think me not uncivil, When I declare that from my youth I've wisht your country at the devil: Nor can I doubt indeed from all I've heard of your high patriot fame— From every word your lips let fall— That you most truly wish the same. It plagues one's life out—thirty years Have I had dinning in my ears, "Ireland wants this and that and t'other," And to this hour one nothing hears But the same vile, eternal bother. While, of those countless things she wanted, Thank God, but little has been granted, And even that little, if we're men And Britons, we'll have back again! I really think that Catholic question Was what brought on my indigestion; And still each year, as Popery's curse Has gathered round us, I've got worse; Till even my pint of port a day Cant keep the Pope and bile away. And whereas, till the Catholic bill, I never wanted draught or pill, The settling of that cursed question Has quite _un_settled my digestion. Look what has happened since—the Elect Of all the bores of every sect, The chosen triers of men's patience, From all the Three Denominations. Let loose upon us;—even Quakers Turned into speechers and lawmakers, Who'll move no question, stiff-rumpt elves, Till first the Spirit moves themselves; And whose shrill Yeas and Nays, in chorus, Conquering our Ayes and Noes sonorous, Will soon to death's own slumber snore us. Then, too, those Jews!—I really sicken To think of such abomination; Fellows, who wont eat ham with chicken, To legislate for this great nation!— Depend upon't, when once they've sway, With rich old Goldsmid at the head o' them, The Excise laws will be done away, And Circumcise ones past instead o' them! In short, dear sir, look where one will, Things all go on so devilish ill, That, 'pon my soul, I rather fear Our reverend Rector may be right, Who tells me the Millennium's near; Nay, swears he knows the very year, And regulates his leases by 't;— Meaning their terms should end, no doubt, Before the world's own lease is out. He thinks too that the whole thing's ended So much more soon than was intended, Purely to scourge those men of sin Who brought the accurst Reform Bill in. However, let's not yet despair; Tho' Toryism's eclipst, at present. And—like myself, in this old chair— Sits in a state by no means pleasant; Feet crippled—hands, in luckless hour, Disabled of their grasping power; And all that rampant glee, which revelled In this world's sweets, be-dulled, be-deviled— Yet, tho' condemned to frisk no more, And both in Chair of Penance set, There's something tells me, all's not o'er With Toryism or Bobby yet; That tho', between us, I allow We've not a leg to stand on now; Tho' curst Reform and colchicum Have made us both look deuced glum, Yet still, in spite of Grote and Gout, Again we'll shine triumphant out! Yes—back again shall come, egad, Our turn for sport, my reverend lad. And then, O'Mulligan—oh then, When mounted on our nags again, You, on your high-flown Rosinante, Bedizened out, like Show-Gallantee (Glitter great from substance scanty);— While I, Bob Fudge, Esquire, shall ride Your faithful Sancho, by your side; Then—talk of tilts and tournaments! Dam'me, we'll— * * * * * 'Squire Fudge's clerk presents To Reverend Sir his compliments; Is grieved to say an accident Has just occurred which will prevent The Squire—tho' now a little better— From finishing this present letter. Just when he'd got to "Dam'me, we'll"— His Honor, full of martial zeal, Graspt at his crutch, but not being able To keep his balance or his hold, Tumbled, both self and crutch, and rolled, Like ball and bat, beneath the table. All's safe—the table, chair and crutch;— Nothing, thank God, is broken much, But the Squire's head, which in the fall Got bumped considerably—that's all. At this no great alarm we feel, As the Squire's head can bear a deal. Wednesday morning Squire much the same—head rather light— Raved about "Barbers' Wigs" all night. Our housekeeper, old Mrs. Griggs, Suspects that he meant "barbarous Whigs." <h1 id="id07681" style="margin-top: 6em">LETTER IX.</h1> <h5 id="id07682">FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN, TO HIS WIFE JUDY.</h5> As it was but last week that I sint you a letther, You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about; And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther, Could I manage to lave the contints of it out; For sure, if it makes even me onaisy, Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrive you crazy. Oh! Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him! That e'er I should come to've been sarvant-man to him, Or so far demane the O'Branigan blood, And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not even the Flood Was able to wash away clane from the earth)[1] As to sarve one whose name, of mere yestherday's birth, Can no more to a great O, before it, purtend, Than mine can to wear a great Q at its end. But that's now all over—last night I gev warnin,' And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this mornin'. The thief of the world!—but it's no use balraggin'[2]— All I know is, I'd fifty times rather be draggin' Ould ladies up hill to the ind of my days, Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at my aise, And be forced to discind thro' the same dirty ways. Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last showed his phiz, I'd have known what a quare sort of monsthsr he is; For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure enough, That himself and his other wild Irish showed off; And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no man Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their showman— Sayin', "Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take notice, "How shlim and how shleek this black animal's coat is; "All by raison, we're towld, that the natur o' the baste "Is to change its coat once in its lifetime, at laste; "And such objiks, in our counthry, not bein' common ones, "Are bought up, as this was, by way of Fine Nomenons. "In regard of its name—why, in throth, I'm consarned "To differ on this point so much with the Larned, "Who call it a 'Morthimer,' whereas the craythur "Is plainly a 'Murthagh,' by name and by nathur." This is how I'd have towld them the righst of it all. Had I been their showman at Exether Hail— Not forgettin' that other great wondher of Airin (Of the owld bitther breed which they call Prosbetairin), The famed Daddy Coke—who, by gor, I'd have shown 'em As proof how such bastes may be tamed, when you've thrown 'em A good frindly sop of the rale Raigin Donem.[3] But throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy dear, For anything, barrin' our own doings here, And the cursin' and dammin' and thund'rin like mad, We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh have had. He says we're all murtherers—divil a bit less— And that even our priests, when we go to confess, Give us lessons in murthering and wish us success! When axed how he daared, by tongue or by pen, To belie, in this way, seven millions of men, Faith, he said'twas all towld him by Docthor Den![4] "And who the divil's he?" was the question that flew From Chrishtian to Chrishtian—but not a sowl knew. While on went Murthagh, in iligant style, Blasphaming us Cath'lics all the while, As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villains, All the whole kit of the aforesaid millions;— Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest, And the innocent craythur that's at your breast, All rogues together, in word and deed, Owld Den our insthructor and Sin our creed! When axed for his proofs again and again, Divil an answer he'd give but Docthor Den. Couldn'the call into coort some livin' men? "No, thank you"—he'd stick to Docthor Den— An ould gintleman dead a century or two, Who all about us, live Catholics, knew; And of coorse was more handy, to call in a hurry, Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray! But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon, Tho' myself, from bad habits, is makin' it one. Even you, had you witnessed his grand climactherics, Which actially threw one owld maid in hysterics— Or, och! had you heerd such a purty remark as his, That Papists are only "Humanity's carcasses, "Risen"—but, by dad, I'm afeared I can't give it ye— "Risen from the sepulchre of—inactivity; "And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity, "Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity!!"—[5] Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light, Would have laught, out and out, at this iligant flight Of that figure of speech called the Blatherumskite. As for me, tho' a funny thought now and then came to me, Rage got the betther at last—and small blame to me, So, slapping my thigh, "by the Powers of Delf," Says I bowldly "I'll make a noration myself." And with that up I jumps—but, my darlint, the minit I cockt up my head, divil a sinse remained in it. Tho', saited, I could have got beautiful on, When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all gone:— Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er we've a hand in, At laste in our legs show a sthrong understandin'. Howsumdever, detarmined the chaps should pursaive What I thought of their doin's, before I tuk lave, "In regard of all that," says I—there I stopt short— Not a word more would come, tho' I shtruggled hard for't. So, shnapping my fingers at what's called the Chair, And the owld Lord (or Lady, I believe) that sat there— "In regard of all that," says I bowldly again— "To owld Nick I pitch Mortimer—and Docthor Den";— Upon which the whole company cried out "Amen"; And myself was in hopes 'twas to what I had said, But, by gor, no such thing—they were not so well bred: For, 'twas all to a prayer Murthagh just had read out, By way of fit finish to job so devout: That is—afther well damning one half the community, To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity! This is all I can shtuff in this letter, tho' plinty Of news, faith, I've got to fill more—if 'twas twinty. But I'll add, on the outside, a line, should I need it, (Writin' "Private" upon it, that no one may read it,) To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrishten him) Bears the big shame of his sarvant's dismisshin' him. (Private outside.) Just come from his riv'rence—the job is all done— By the powers, I've discharged him as sure as a gun! And now, Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do With myself and my appetite—both good as new— Without even a single traneen in my pocket, Let alone a good, dacent pound—starlin', to stock it— Is a mysht'ry I lave to the One that's above, Who takes care of us, dissolute sawls, when hard dhrove! [1] "I am of your Patriarchs, I, a branch of one of your antediluvian families—fellows that the Flood could not wash away."—CONGREVE, "Love for Love." [2] To balrag is to abuse—Mr. Lover makes it ballyrag, and he is high authority: but if I remember rightly, Curran in his national stories used to employ the word as above.—See Lover's most amusing and genuinely Irish work, the "Legends and Stories of Ireland." [3] Larry evidently means the Regium Donum;—a sum contributed by the government annually to the support of the Presbyterian churches in Ireland. [4]Correctly, Dens—Larry not being very particular in his nomenclature. [5] "But she (Popery) is no longer the tenant of the sepulchre of inactivity. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted the carcass of her departed humanity; noxious and noisome an object of abhorrence and dismay to all who are not leagued with her in iniquity."—Report of the Rev. Gentleman's Speech, June 20, in the Record Newspaper. <h1 id="id07700" style="margin-top: 6em">LETTER X.</h1> <h5 id="id07701">FROM THE REV. MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN, TO THE REV. ——.</h5> These few brief lines, my reverend friend, By a safe, private hand I send (Fearing lest some low Catholic wag Should pry into the Letter-bag), To tell you, far as pen can dare How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;— Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack, As Saints were, some few ages back. But—scarce less trying in its way— To laughter, wheresoe'er we stray; To jokes, which Providence mysterious Permits on men and things so serious, Lowering the Church still more each minute, And—injuring our preferment in it. Just think, how worrying 'tis, my friend, To find, where'er our footsteps bend, Small jokes, like squibs, around us whizzing; And bear the eternal torturing play Of that great engine of our day, Unknown to the Inquisition—quizzing! Your men of thumb-screws and of racks Aimed at the body their attack; But modern torturers, more refined, Work their machinery on the mind. Had St. Sebastian had the luck With me to be a godly rover, Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck With stings of ridicule all over; And poor St. Lawrence who was killed By being on a gridiron grilled, Had he but shared my errant lot, Instead of grill on gridiron hot, A moral roasting would have got. Nor should I (trying as all this is) Much heed the suffering or the shame— As, like an actor, used to hisses, I long have known no other fame, But that (as I may own to you, Tho' to the world it would not do,) No hope appears of fortune's beams Shining on any of my schemes; No chance of something more per ann, As supplement to Kellyman; No prospect that, by fierce abuse Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce The rulers of this thinking nation To rid us of Emancipation: To forge anew the severed chain, And bring back Penal Laws again. Ah happy time! when wolves and priests Alike were hunted, as wild beasts; And five pounds was the price, per head, For bagging either, live or dead;—[1] Tho' oft, we're told, one outlawed brother Saved cost, by eating up the other, Finding thus all those schemes and hopes I built upon my flowers and tropes All scattered, one by one, away, As flashy and unsound as they, The question comes—what's to be done? And there's but one course left me—one. Heroes, when tired of war's alarms, Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms. The weary Day-God's last retreat is The breast of silvery-footed Thetis; And mine, as mighty Love's my judge, Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge! Start not, my friend,—the tender scheme, Wild and romantic tho' it seem, Beyond a parson's fondest dream, Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes, So pleasing to a parson's eyes That only gilding which the Muse Can not around her sons diffuse:— Which, whencesoever flows its bliss, From wealthy Miss or benefice, To Mortimer indifferent is, So he can only make it his. There is but one slight damp I see Upon this scheme's felicity, And that is, the fair heroine's claim That I shall take her family name. To this (tho' it may look henpeckt), I cant quite decently object, Having myself long chosen to shine Conspicuous in the alias[2] line; So that henceforth, by wife's decree, (For Biddy from this point wont budge) Your old friend's new address must be The Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge— The "O" being kept, that all may see We're both of ancient family. Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you, My public life's a calm Euthanasia. Thus bid I long farewell to all The freaks of Exeter's old Hall— Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding, And rivalling its bears in breeding. Farewell, the platform filled with preachers— The prayer given out, as grace, by speechers, Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:— Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes, And, scarce less dead, old Standard's columns:— From each and all I now retire, My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire, To bring up little filial Fudges, To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges— Parsons I'd add too, if alas! There yet were hope the Church could pass The gulf now oped for hers and her, Or long survive what Exeter— Both Hall and Bishop, of that name— Have done to sink her reverend fame. Adieu, dear friend—you'll oft hear from me, Now I'm no more a travelling drudge; Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge How well the surname will become me) Yours truly, MORTIMER O'FUDGE. [1] "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish priest—being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the head of a wolf."—Memoirs of Captain Rock, book i., chap. 10. [2] In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified the meaning of the word "alias" by the instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Malloch. "What other proofs he gave [says Johnson] of disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend."—Life of Mallet. <h1 id="id07710" style="margin-top: 6em">LETTER XI.</h1> <h5 id="id07711">FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ——. ———, IRELAND.</h5> Dear Dick—just arrived at my own humble_gîte_, I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete, Just arrived, per express, of our late noble feat. [Extract from the "County Gazette."] This place is getting gay and full again. * * * * * Last week was married, "in the Lord," The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan, Preacher, in Irish, of the Word, He, who the Lord's force lately led on— (Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,)[1] To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place, One of the chosen, as "heir of grace," And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge, Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge. Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted— Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan Lyre," In our Gazette, last week, we printed). Eloped with Pat. Magan, Esquire. The fugitives were trackt some time, After they'd left the Aunt's abode, By scraps of paper scrawled with rhyme, Found strewed along the Western road;— Some of them, ci-devant curlpapers, Others, half burnt in lighting tapers. This clew, however, to their flight, After some miles was seen no more; And, from inquiries made last night, We find they've reached the Irish shore. Every word of it true, Dick—the escape from Aunt's thrall— Western road—lyric fragments—curl-papers and all. My sole stipulation, ere linkt at the shrine (As some balance between Fanny's numbers and mine), Was that, when we were one, she must give up the Nine; Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS. With a vow never more against prose to transgress. This she did, like a heroine;—smack went to bits The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits— Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes canzonets— Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes, Some turned into papillotes, worthy to rise And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies! While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay), Begged, as "lover of po'thry," to read on the way. Having thus of life's poetry dared to dispose, How we now, Dick, shall manage to get thro' its prose, With such slender materials for style, Heaven knows! But—I'm called off abruptly—another Express! What the deuce can it mean?—I'm alarmed, I confess. <h5 id="id07720">P.S.</h5> Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs! I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days. There—read the good news—and while glad, for my sake, That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake, Admire also the moral—that he, the sly elf, Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudged himself! <h5 id="id07722">EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED.</h5> With pain the mournful news I write, Miss Fudge's uncle died last night; And much to mine and friends' surprise, By will doth all his wealth devise— Lands, dwellings—rectories likewise— To his "beloved grand-niece," Miss Fanny, Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many Long years hath waited—not a penny! Have notified the same to latter, And wait instructions in the matter. For self and partners, etc. [1] The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county of Armagh!—a most remarkable coincidence—and well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse. [Illustration: Thomas Moore] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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