FullReads

[1] Of such relapses we find innumerable instances in the accounts of the Missionaries.

[2] The god Krishna, one of the incarnations of the god Vishnu. “One day [says the Bhagavata] Krishna’s playfellows complained to Tasuda that he had pilfered and ate their curds.”

[3] “Roteen wants shaving; but the barber here will not do it. He is run away lest he should be compelled. He says he will not shave Yesoo Kreest’s people.”–Bapt. Mission Society, vol. ii., p. 498.

[4] In the Reports of the Missionaries, the Roman Catholics are almost always classed along with the Heathen.

[5] “About eight o’clock the Lord began to pour down his spirit copiously upon us–for they had all by this time assembled in my room for the purpose of prayer. This down-pouring continued till about ten o’clock.”– Letter from Mary Campbell to the Rev. John Campbell, of Row, dated Feruicary, April 4, 1830, giving an account of her “miraculous cure.”

LETTER VII. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY —-.

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
To wake to light each diamond eye,
And let loose every florid sigh!

Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they’ve lain–
THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!–
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
The language of their PARENT SEA
(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek),
Tho’ soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
They’ll thunder loud and long as HE!

Bring me, from Hecla’s iced abode,
Young fires–

I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE
Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom,
But, having invoked such a lot of fine things,
Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings,
Didn’t know what to do with ’em, when I had got ’em.
The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute,
Of Past MSS. any new ones to try.
This very night’s coach brings my destiny in it–
Decides the great question, to live or to die!
And, whether I’m henceforth immortal or no,
All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!

You’ll think, love, I rave, so ’tis best to let out
The whole secret, at once–I have publisht a book!!!
Yes, an actual Book:–if the marvel you doubt,
You have only in last Monday’s Courier to look,
And you’ll find “This day publisht by Simpkins and Co.
A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled ‘Woe Woe!’
By Miss Fanny F—-, known more commonly so [symbol: hand].”
This I put that my friends mayn’t be left in the dark
But may guess at my writing by knowing my mark.

How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve,
Is itself a “Romaunt” which you’d scarce, dear believe;
Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl,
Looking out for the Magnet,[1] explain it, dear girl.
Suffice it to say, that one half the expense
Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence–
(Tho’ “God knows,” as aunt says my humble ambition
Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)–
One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,
I’ve managed, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting
My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,
Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!

And who, my dear Kitty; would not do the same?
What’s eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame?
Yards of riband soon end–but the measures of rhyme,
Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro’ all time.
Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe’s gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics thro’ ages trip on.