The Fudges In England. Letter VII. From Miss Fanny Fudge, To Her Cousin, Miss Kitty ----.

A poem by Thomas Moore

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.

The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas!
My poor copyright too--into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Devil of the "County Gazette"
(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now see up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says)
Live on naught but ambrosia, his lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!

As for puffing--that first of all literary boons,
And essential alike both to bards and balloons,
As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found
Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;--
In this respect, naught could more prosperous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)

Knows the whole would of critics--the hypers and all.
I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,
Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;
As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,
That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.

But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town--
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.
That awful Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum,
All full of my book--I shall sink when I see 'em.
And then the great point--whether Simpkins and Co.
Are actually pleased with their bargain or no!--

Five o'clock.

All's delightful--such praises!--I really fear
That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear,
I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps--
All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.

FROM THE "MORNING POST."

'Tis known that a certain distinguisht physician
Prescribes, for dyspepsia, a course of light reading;
And Rhymes by young Ladies, the first, fresh edition
(Ere critics have injured their powers of nutrition,)
Are he thinks, for weak stomachs, the best sort of feeding.
Satires irritate--love-songs are found calorific;
But smooth, female sonnets he deems a specific,
And, if taken at bedtime, a sure soporific.
Among works of this kind, the most pleasing we know,
Is a volume just published by Simpkins and Co.,
Where all such ingredients--the flowery, the sweet,
And the gently narcotic--are mixt per receipt,
With a hand so judicious, we've no hesitation
To say that--'bove all, for the young generation--
'Tis an elegant, soothing and safe preparation.

Nota bene--for readers, whose object's to sleep,
And who read, in their nightcaps, the publishers keep
Good fire-proof binding, which comes very cheap.

ANECDOTE--FROM THE "COURT JOURNAL."

T' other night, at the Countess of ***'s rout,
An amusing event was much whispered about.
It was said that Lord ---, at the Council, that day,
Had, move than once, jumpt from his seat, like a rocket,
And flown to a corner, where--heedless, they say,
How the country's resources were squandered away--
He kept reading some papers he'd brought in his pocket.
Some thought them despatches from Spain or the Turk,
Others swore they brought word we had lost the Mauritius;
But it turned out 'twas only Miss Fudge's new work,
Which his Lordship devoured with such zeal expeditious--
Messrs. Simpkins and Co., to avoid all delay,
Having sent it in sheets, that his Lordship might say,
He had distanced the whole reading world by a day!

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