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

STANZAS ENCLOSED.

TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?–WHAT?–HOW?

Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky
Thus wed their charms, in bridal light arrayed,
Why in this bright hour, walkst thou ever nigh;
Blackening my footsteps, with thy length of shade–
Dark comrade, WHY?

Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,
Glidest beside me o’er each sunny spot,
Saddening them as thou goest–say, what means
So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot–
Grim goblin, WHAT?

Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,
Thou bendest, too–then risest when I rise;–
Say, mute, mysterious Thing! how is’t that thou
Thus comest between me and those blessed skies–
Dim shadow, HOW?

(ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.)

Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge
Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,
Oh Why? What? How?–a Voice, that one might judge
To be some Irish echo’s, faint replied,
Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!

You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;
And, with it, that odious “additional stanza,
Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,
And which, you’ll at once see, is Mr. Magan’s;–a
Most cruel and dark-designed extravaganza,
And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are
To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.

Just so ’twas with Byron’s young eagle-eyed strain,
Just so did they taunt him;–but vain, critics, vain
All your efforts to saddle Wit’s fire with a chain!
To blot out the splendor of Fancy’s young stream,
Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!!
Thou perceivest, dear, that, even while these lines I indite,
Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,
And I’m all over poet, in Criticism’s spite!

That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards
Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards–
That she should make light of my works I can’t blame;
But that nice, handsome, odious Magan–what a shame!
Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him,
I’m really afraid–after all, I–must hate him,
He is so provoking–naught’s safe from his tongue;
He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.
Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou
Once shone as contributor, Lord! how he’d quiz you!
He laughs at all Monthlies–I’ve actually seen
A sneer on his brow at The Court Magazine!–
While of Weeklies, poor things, there’s but one he peruses,
And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.
But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,
One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;
And tho’ tried by the fire, my young genius shall burn as
Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!
(I suspect the word “crucified” must be made “crucible,”
Before this fine image of mine is producible.)
And now, dear–to tell you a secret which, pray
Only trust to such friends as with safety you may–
You know and indeed the whole country suspects
(Tho’ the Editor often my best things rejects),
That the verses signed so,[symbol: hand], which you now and then see
In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me.
But ’tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes
The vile country Press in one’s prosody makes.
For you know, dear–I may, without vanity, hint–
Tho’ an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print;
And you can’t think what havoc these demons sometimes
Choose to make of one’s sense, and what’s worse, of one’s rhymes.
But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring,
Which I meant to have made a most beautiful thing,
Where I talkt of the “dewdrops from freshly-blown roses,”
The nasty things made it “from freshly-blown noses!”
And once when to please my cross Aunt, I had tried
To commemorate some saint of her cligue, who’d just died,
Having said he “had taken up in heaven his position,”
They made it, he’d “taken up to heaven his physician!”