FullReads

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 aeres!–oh Dick, 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 amusement 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 Coke 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 godly 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 godly 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 (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.”