These few brief lines, my reverend friend,By a safe, private hand I send(Fearing lest some low Catholic wagShould pry into the Letter-bag),To tell you, far as pen can dareHow 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 mysteriousPermits 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 playOf that great engine of our day,Unknown to the Inquisition—quizzing!Your men of thumb-screws and of racksAimed at thebodytheir attack;But modern torturers, more refined,Worktheirmachinery on themind.Had St. Sebastian had the luckWith me to be a godly rover,Instead of arrows, he'd be stuckWith stings of ridicule all over;And poor St. Lawrence who was killedBy being on a gridiron grilled,Had he but sharedmyerrant lot,Instead of grill on gridiron hot,Amoralroasting would have got.
Nor should I (trying as all this is)Much heed the suffering or the shame—As, like an actor,usedto hisses,I long have known no other fame,But that (as I may own toyou,Tho' to theworldit would not do,)No hope appears of fortune's beamsShining onanyof my schemes;No chance of something moreper ann,As supplement to Kellyman;No prospect that, by fierce abuseOf Ireland, I shall e'er induceThe rulers of this thinking nationTo rid us of Emancipation:To forge anew the severed chain,And bring back Penal Laws again.
Ah happy time! when wolves and priestsAlike were hunted, as wild beasts;And five pounds was the price,perhead,For baggingeither, live or dead;—[1]Tho' oft, we're told,oneoutlawed brotherSaved cost, by eating upthe other,Finding thus all those schemes and hopesI built upon my flowers and tropesAll scattered, one by one, away,As flashy and unsound as they,The question comes—what's to be done?And there's but one course left me—one.Heroes, when tired of war's alarms,Seek sweet repose in Beauty's arms.The weary Day-God's last retreat isThe breast of silvery-footed Thetis;And mine, as mighty Love's my judge,Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge!
Start not, my friend,—the tender scheme,Wild and romantic tho' it seem,Beyond a parson's fondest dream,Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes,So pleasing to a parson's eyesThat onlygildingwhich the MuseCan not aroundhersons diffuse:—Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,From wealthy Miss or benefice,To Mortimer indifferent is,So he can only make ithis.There is but one slight damp I seeUpon this scheme's felicity,And that is, the fair heroine's claimThat I shall takeherfamily name.To this (tho' it may look henpeckt),I cant quite decently object,Having myself long chosen to shineConspicuous in thealias[2] line;So that henceforth, by wife's decree,(For Biddy from this point wont budge)Your old friend's new address must beTheRev. Mortimer O'Fudge—The "O" being kept, that all may seeWe'rebothof ancient family.
Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you,My public life's a calm Euthanasia.Thus bid I long farewell to allThe freaks of Exeter's old Hall—Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding,And rivalling its bears in breeding.Farewell, the platform filled with preachers—The prayer given out, as grace, by speechers,Ere they cut up their fellow-creatures:—Farewell to dead old Dens's volumes,And, scarce less dead, oldStandard'scolumns:—From each and all I now retire,My task, henceforth, as spouse and sire,To bring up little filial Fudges,To be M.P.s, and Peers, and Judges—ParsonsI'd add too, if alas!There yet were hope the Church could passThe gulf now oped for hers and her,Or long survive whatExeter—Both Hall and Bishop, of that name—Have done to sink her reverend fame.Adieu, dear friend—you'll oft hearfromme,Now I'm no more a travelling drudge;Meanwhile I sign (that you may judgeHow well the surname will become me)Yours truly,MORTIMER O'FUDGE.
[1] "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1649), the price of five pounds was set on the head of a Romish priest—being exactly the same sum offered by the same legislators for the head of a wolf."—Memoirs of Captain Rock, book i., chap. 10.
[2] In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified the meaning of the word "alias" by the instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Malloch. "Whatotherproofs he gave [says Johnson] of disrespect to his native country, I know not; but it was remarked of him that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend."—Life of Mallet.
Dear Dick—just arrived at my own humble_gîte_,I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,Just arrived,perexpress, 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, inIrish, of the Word,He, who the Lord's force lately led on—(Exeter Hall hisArmagh-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 ourGazette, 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-devantcurlpapers,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 wereone, she must give up theNine;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 bitsThe whole produce sublime of her dear little wits—Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes canzonets—Some twisted up neatly, to formallumettes,Some turned intopapillotes, worthy to riseAnd enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my pay),Begged, as "lover ofpo'thry," to read on the way.
Having thus of life'spoetrydared to dispose,How we now, Dick, shall manage to get thro' itsprose,With such slender materials forstyle, Heaven knows!But—I'm called off abruptly—anotherExpress!What the deuce can it mean?—I'm alarmed, I confess.
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, formysake,That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,Admire also themoral—that he, the sly elf,Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudgedhimself!
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 manyLong years hath waited—not a penny!Have notified the same to latter,And wait instructions in the matter.For self and partners, etc.
[1] The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county ofArmagh!—a most remarkable coincidence—and well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.
[Illustration: Thomas Moore]