The Fudges In England. Letter XI. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----. ------, Ireland.

Dear Dick--just arrived at my own humblegîte,
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.

P.S.

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!

EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED.

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.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

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The Fudges In England. Letter X. From The Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan, To The Rev. ----.

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--quiz...

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The Fudges In England. Letter I. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----; Curate Of ----, In Ireland.

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy.
    Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise--
Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy,
    Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs--
    Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
    And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off--gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,--
Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet,
And warranted godly--to make all complete.

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The Fudges In England. Letter IV. From Patrick Magan, Esq., To The Rev. Richard ----.

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
    With hot effusions--hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
    To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,^[1]
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this,
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
    Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
    Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell
    To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
    Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:--
Of ten whole bis...

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The Fudge Family In Paris Letter VI. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., To His Brother Tim Fudge, Esq., Barrister At Law.

Yours of the 12th received, just now--
    Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother!
'Tis truly pleasing to see how
    We, FUDGES, stand by one another.
But never fear--I know my chap,
And he knows me too--verbum sap,
My Lord and I are kindred spirits,
Like in our ways as two young ferrets;
Both fashioned, as that supple race is,
To twist into all sorts of places;--
Creatures lengthy, lean and hungering,
Fond of blood and burrow-mongering.

As to my Book in 91,
    Called "Down with Kings, or, Who'd have thought it?"
Bless you! the Book's long dead and gone,--
    Not even the Attorney-General bought it.
And tho' some few seditious tricks
I played in '95 and '6,
As you remind me in your letter,
His Lordship likes me all...

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The Fudges In England. Letter VIII. From Bob Fudge, Esq., To The Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan.

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 p...

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The Fudge Family In Paris Letter I. From Miss Biddy Fudge To Miss Dorothy ----, Of Clonkilty, In Ireland.

Amiens.

Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting,
    The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,
Into very bad French is as usual translating
    His English resolve not to give a sou more,
I sit down to write you a line--only think!--
A letter from France, with French pens and French ink,
How delightful! tho', would you believe it, my dear?
I have seen nothing yet very wonderful here;
No adventure, no sentiment, far as we've come,
But the cornfields and trees quite as dull as at home;
And but for the post-boy, his boots and his queue,
I might just as well be at Clonkilty with you!
In vain, at DESSEIN'S, did I take from my trunk
That divine fellow, STERNE, and fall reading "The Monk;"
In vain did I think of his charmi...

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