Chapter 37

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH ----.

How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can, Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man, Who combines in himself all the multiple glory Of, Orangeman, Saint, _quondam_ Papist and Tory;-- (Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded, The best sort of _brass_ was, in old times, compounded.)-- The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly, All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly! In short, he's a _dear_--and _such_ audiences draws, Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause, As _can't_ but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view Of her history and prospect, to _me_ at least new, And which (if it _takes_ as it ought) must arouse The whole Christian world her just rights to espouse. As to _reasoning_--you know, dear, that's now of no use, People still will their _facts_ and dry _figures_ produce, As if saving the souls of a Protestant flock were A thing to be managed "according to Cocker!" In vain do we say, (when rude radicals hector At paying some thousands a year to a Rector, In places where Protestants _never yet were_,) "Who knows but young Protestants _may_ be born there?" And granting such accident, think, what a shame, If they didn’t find Rector and Clerk when they came! It is clear that, without such a staff on full pay, These little Church embryos _must_ go astray; And, while fools are computing what Parsons would cost, Precious souls are meanwhile to the Establishment lost!

In vain do we put the case sensibly thus;-- They'll still with their figures and facts make a fuss, And ask "if, while all, choosing each his own road, Journey on, as we can, towards the Heavenly Abode, It is right that _seven_ eighths of the travellers should pay For _one_ eighth that goes quite a different way?"-- Just as if, foolish people, this wasn't, in reality, A proof of the Church's extreme liberality, That tho' hating Popery in _other_ respects, She to Catholic _money_ in no way objects; And so liberal her very best Saints, in this sense, That they even go to heaven at the Catholic's expense.

But tho' clear to _our_ minds all these arguments be, People cannot or _will_ not their cogency see; And I grieve to confess, did the poor Irish Church Stand on reasoning alone, she'd be left in the lurch. It was therefore, dear Lizzy, with joy most sincere, That I heard this nice Reverend O'_something_ we've here, Produce, from the depths of his knowledge and reading, A view of that marvellous Church, far exceeding, In novelty, force, and profoundness of thought, All that Irving himself in his glory e'er taught.

Looking thro' the whole history, present and past, Of the Irish Law Church, from the first to the last; Considering how strange its original birth-- Such a thing having _never_ before been on earth-- How opposed to the instinct, the law and the force Of nature and reason has been its whole course; Thro' centuries encountering repugnance, resistance, Scorn, hate, execration--yet still in existence! Considering all this, the conclusion he draws Is that Nature exempts this one Church from her laws-- That Reason, dumb-foundered, gives up the dispute, And before the portentous anomaly stands mute; That in short 'tis a Miracle! and, _once_ begun, And transmitted thro' ages, from father to son, For the honor of miracles, _ought to go on_.

Never yet was conclusion so cogent and sound, Or so fitted the Church's weak foes to confound. For observe the more low all her merits they place, The more they make out the miraculous case, And the more all good Christians must deem it profane To disturb such a prodigy's marvellous reign.

As for scriptural proofs, he quite placed beyond doubt That the whole in the Apocalypse may be found out, As clear and well-proved, he would venture to swear, As anything else has been _ever_ found there:-- While the mode in which, bless the dear fellow, he deals With that whole lot of vials and trumpets and seals, And the ease with which vial on vial he strings, Shows him quite a _first-rate_ at all these sort of things.

So much for theology:--as for the affairs Of this temporal world--the light drawing-room cares And gay toils of the toilet, which, God knows, I seek, From no love of such things, but in humbleness meek, And to be, as the Apostle, was, "weak with the weak," Thou wilt find quite enough (till I'm somewhat less busy) In the extracts inclosed, my dear news-loving Lizzy.

EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY.

_Thursday_.

Last night, having naught more holy to do, Wrote a letter to dear Sir Andrew Agnew, About the "Do-nothing-on-Sunday-club," Which we wish by some shorter name to dub:-- As the use of more vowels and Consonants Than a Christian on Sunday _really_ wants, Is a grievance that ought to be done away, And the Alphabet left to rest, that day.

_Sunday_.

Sir Andrew's answer!--but, shocking to say, Being franked unthinkingly yesterday. To the horror of Agnews yet unborn, It arrived on this blessed Sunday morn!!-- How shocking!--the postman's self cried "shame on't," Seeing the immaculate Andrew's name on't!! What will the Club do?--meet, no doubt. 'Tis a matter that touches the Class Devout, And the friends of the Sabbath _must_ speak out.

_Tuesday_.

Saw to-day, at the raffle--and saw it with pain-- That those stylish Fitzwigrams begin to dress plain. Even gay little Sophy smart trimmings renounces-- She who long has stood by me thro' all sorts of flounces, And showed by upholding the toilet's sweet rites, That we girls may be Christians without being frights. This, I own, much alarms me; for tho' one's religious, And strict and--all that, there's no need to be hideous; And why a nice bonnet should stand in the way Of one's going to heaven, 'tisn't easy to say.

Then, there's Gimp, the poor thing--if her custom we drop, Pray what's to become of her soul and her shop? If by saints like ourselves no more orders are given, She'll lose all the interest she now takes in heaven; And this nice little "fire-brand, pluckt from the burning," May fall in again at the very next turning.

_Wednesday_.

_Mem_.--To write to the India Mission Society; And send £20--heavy tax upon piety!

Of all Indian luxuries we now-a-days boast, Making "Company's Christians" perhaps costs the most. And the worst of it is, that these converts full grown, Having lived in _our_ faith mostly die in their _own_,[1] Praying hard, at the last, to some god who, they say, When incarnate on earth, used to steal curds and whey.[2] Think, how horrid, my dear!--so that all's thrown away; And (what is still worse) for the rum and the rice They consumed, while believers, we saints pay the price.

Still 'tis cheering to find that we _do_ save a few-- The Report gives six Christians for Cunnangcadoo; Doorkotchum reckons seven, and four Trevandrum, While but one and a half's left at Cooroopadum. In this last-mentioned place 'tis the barbers enslave 'em, For once they turn Christians no barber will shave 'em.[3]

To atone for this rather small Heathen amount, Some Papists, turned Christians,[4] are tackt to the account. And tho' to catch Papists, one needn't go so far, Such fish are worth hooking, wherever they are; And _now_, when so great of such converts the lack is, _One_ Papist well caught is worth millions of Blackies.

_Friday_.

Last night had a dream so odd and funny, I cannot resist recording it here.-- Methought that the Genius of Matrimony Before me stood with a joyous leer, Leading a husband in each hand, And both for _me_, which lookt rather queer;-- _One_ I could perfectly understand, But why there were _two_ wasn’t quite so clear. T'was meant however, I soon could see, To afford me a _choice_--a most excellent plan; And--who should this brace of candidates be, But Messrs. O'Mulligan and Magan:-- A thing, I suppose, unheard of till then, To dream, at once, of _two_ Irishmen!-- That handsome Magan, too, with wings on his shoulders (For all this past in the realms of the Blest.) And quite a creature to dazzle beholders; While even O'Mulligan, feathered and drest As an elderly cherub, was looking his best. Ah Liz, you, who know me, scarce can doubt As to _which_ of the two I singled out. But--awful to tell--when, all in dread Of losing so bright a vision's charms, I graspt at Magan, his image fled, Like a mist, away, and I found but the head Of O'Mulligan, wings and all, in my arms! The Angel had flown to some nest divine. And the elderly Cherub alone was mine!

Heigho!--it is certain that foolish Magan Either can'tor won’t see that he _might_ be the man; And, perhaps, dear--who knows?--if naught better befall But--O'Mulligan _may_ be the man, after all.

N. B.

Next week mean to have my first scriptural rout, For the special discussion of matters devout;-- Like those _soirées_, at Powerscourt, so justly renowned, For the zeal with which doctrine and negus went round; Those theology-routs which the pious Lord Roden, That pink of Christianity, first set the mode in; Where, blessed down-pouring[5]from tea until nine, The subjects lay all in the Prophecy line;-- Then, supper--and then, if for topics hard driven, From thence until bed-time to Satan was given; While Roden, deep read in each topic and tome, On all subjects (especially the last) was _at home_.

[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."