FullReads

But tho’ clear to our minds all these arguments be,
People cannot or will not their cogency see;
And I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church
Stand on reasoning alone, she’d be left in the lurch.
It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere,
That I heard this nice Reverend O’something we’ve here,
Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading,
A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding,
In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought,
All that Irving himself in his glory e’er taught.

Looking thro’ the whole history, present and past,
Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last;
Considering how strange its original birth–
Such a thing having never before been on earth–
How opposed to the instinct, the law and the force
Of nature and reason has been its whole course;
Thro’ centuries encountering repugnance, resistance,
Scorn, hate, execration–yet still in existence!
Considering all this, the conclusion he draws
Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws–
That Reason, dumb-foundered, gives up the dispute,
And before the portentous anomaly stands mute;
That in short ’tis a Miracle! and, once begun,
And transmitted thro’ ages, from father to son,
For the honor of miracles, ought to go on.

Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound,
Or so fitted the Church’s weak foes to confound.
For observe the more low all her merits they place,
The more they make out the miraculous case,
And the more all good Christians must deem it profane
To disturb such a prodigy’s marvellous reign.

As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond doubt
That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out,
As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear,
As anything else has been ever found there:–
While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals
With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals,
And the ease with which vial on vial he strings,
Shows him quite a first-rate at all these sort of things.

So much for theology:–as for the affairs
Of this temporal world–the light drawing-room cares
And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek,
From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek,
And to be, as the Apostle, was, “weak with the weak,”
Thou wilt find quite enough (till I’m somewhat less busy)
In the extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

Thursday.

Last night, having naught more holy to do,
Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew,
About the “Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club,”
Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:–
As the use of more vowels and Consonants
Than a Christian on Sunday really wants,
Is a grievance that ought to be done away,
And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.

Sunday.

Sir Andrew’s answer!–but, shocking to say,
Being franked unthinkingly yesterday.
To the horror of Agnews yet unborn,
It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!!–
How shocking!–the postman’s self cried “shame on’t,”
Seeing the immaculate Andrew’s name on’t!!
What will the Club do?–meet, no doubt.
‘Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout,
And the friends of the Sabbath must speak out.

Tuesday.

Saw to-day, at the raffle–and saw it with pain–
That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain.
Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces–
She who long has stood by me thro’ all sorts of flounces,
And showed by upholding the toilet’s sweet rites,
That we girls may be Christians without being frights.
This, I own, much alarms me; for tho’ one’s religious,
And strict and–all that, there’s no need to be hideous;
And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way
Of one’s going to heaven, ’tisn’t easy to say.