The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook. active 19th century Novice
plunges headlong in the stream.
This story first in early youth
I heard, and, lest it might be truth,
I ne'er the place have ventured nigh
Until the sun was pretty high.
But I forget, you do not know
The tale; but read, and I will show
You where it is, that you may go
('Tis best upon a drizzling night)
To see this worried angling sprite."
I rose to leave,—it was a splendid night,
The rising moon shone beautifully bright,
And pleased I dwelt upon my homeward walk,
Which formed the subject of our passing talk;
But as we parted at the garden-gate
A groom appearing said, "The horses wait."
My thoughtful host this pleasure had supplied,
And greatly I enjoyed the moonlight ride.
This may indeed (thought I) a sample be
Of Ireland's pleasing hospitality.
Ere seeking rest I thought to read
The tale, but found that much indeed
Of time and patience it would need,
Before its pages could defy
The watchful critic's piercing eye,
Which seeks and points out ev'ry flaw;
(Like landladies, when we withdraw
From sea-side towns, who items tack
On bills for many a hidden crack,
Which ev'ry lodger ev'ry year
Has paid them for, and paid too, dear.)
In fact, so much had been destroyed
That really I felt quite annoyed,
And feared I never could restore
And make it perfect as before.
But, quite resolved to do my best,
I gave my quill but little rest,
And sketched the outlines in a week;
When, as I wished with him to speak
About some parts, I roamed across
And found him,—not at home, of course,
Yet waited I quite patiently
(Although some time he p'rhaps might be),
And rambled o'er the garden wide
With fair Rosina by my side.
At length he came, and truly he
Seemed pleased my work and self to see.
"You must have studied soon and late
To get it in this forward state.
Those truant flies have never yet,
I fear, their rightful owner met.
I thank you greatly for this speed,
But tell me, will the public read
A tale like this, if I should choose
To print it for them to peruse?"
"Well, really, I can't tell," said I;
"If it were mine I think I'd try:
But many parts must altered be
Before it will from faults be free.
The satires on the lovely sex
Some gentle heart will surely vex;
You ought to rather soften down
What else will make some fair one frown."
"Not so," said he; "'tis only those
Whom the dress fits will wear the clothes,
For each will on her neighbour try
The pointed truths the lines supply,
And all will laugh and much enjoy
What does not them, but friends, annoy."
"Then, sir, I would curtail that scene
In which the Friar feigns a dream;
The tale he tells is much too long,
And critics will pronounce it wrong,—
Too perfect it appears to me
For an impromptu fib to be."
"That's exactly the point, my good fellow," he said;
"It was Fiction who stuffed all those lies in his head.
He the fair muse invoked, so she had (I don't doubt it)
Made him think of a good one while he was about it."
I made other remarks, but each frailty he proved
To be rather a beauty, so none were removed.
And, kind reader, I'll beg you to keep this in mind,
If with aught in the legend you wish fault to find,
That each blemish or bull's in the manuscript line,
While the prettiest bits are undoubtedly mine.
But though he and Rosina took
Me out one morn to have a look
At what is called the Friar's Nook,
And we together rambled o'er
The moulding ruins to explore,
Where I the name of Mary saw
(Or what a tombstone seemed to me),
I yet could never plainly see
Why these should proofs conclusive be
That Peter had resided here;
But as it seemed to him so clear,
I would not breathe a contradiction,
But thought, Then truth's more strange than fiction.
But now the tale itself we'll read,
I have delayed you long, indeed;
But what is life? to most a plain
In which men roam in search of gain;
They build, they plant, they heap up store,
They work, they toil, they strive for more,
Nor joys nor comforts will desire:
Their wish, they say, is to retire,
But when they would their wealth enjoy
They find that every sweet will cloy.
Now, though your patience, reader, 's vast,
In hopes to reach the tale at last,
I still must hope that here and there
Some parts you'll find reward your care.
The truth is I, so pleas'd had been
With all that I had heard and seen,
I thought, perhaps, that you
Might with the old man's history,
With