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—quizzing!
Your men of thumb-screws and of racks
Aimed at the body their attack;
But modern torturers, more refined,
Work their machinery on the mind.
Had St. Sebastian had the luck
  With me to be a godly rover,
Instead of arrows, he'd be stuck
  With stings of ridicule all over;
And poor St. Lawrence who was killed
By being on a gridiron grilled,
Had he but shared my errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridiron hot,
A moral roasting would have got.

Nor should I (trying as all this is)
  Much heed the suffering or the shame—
As, like an actor, used to hisses,
  I long have known no other fame,
But that (as I may own to you,
Tho' to the world it would not do,)
No hope appears of fortune's beams
Shining on any of my schemes;
No chance of something more per ann,
As supplement to Kellyman;
No prospect that, by fierce abuse
Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce
The rulers of this thinking nation
To rid us of Emancipation:
To forge anew the severed chain,
And bring back Penal Laws again.

Ah happy time! when wolves and priests
Alike were hunted, as wild beasts;
And five pounds was the price, per head,
For bagging either, live or dead;—[1]
Tho' oft, we're told, one outlawed brother
Saved cost, by eating up the other,
Finding thus all those schemes and hopes
I built upon my flowers and tropes
    All 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 is
The 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 eyes
That only gilding which the Muse
Can not around her sons diffuse:—
Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,
From wealthy Miss or benefice,
To Mortimer indifferent is,
So he can only make it his.
There is but one slight damp I see
Upon this scheme's felicity,
And that is, the fair heroine's claim
That I shall take her family name.
To this (tho' it may look henpeckt),
I cant quite decently object,
Having myself long chosen to shine
Conspicuous in the alias[2] line;
So that henceforth, by wife's decree,
  (For Biddy from this point wont budge)
Your old friend's new address must be
  The Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge—
The "O" being kept, that all may see
We're both of ancient family.

Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you,
My public life's a calm Euthanasia.
Thus bid I long farewell to all
The 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, old Standard's columns:—
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—
Parsons I'd add too, if alas!
There yet were hope the Church could pass
The gulf now oped for hers and her,
Or long survive what Exeter—
Both Hall and Bishop, of that name—
Have done to sink her reverend fame.
Adieu, dear friend—you'll oft hear from me,
  Now I'm no more a travelling drudge;
  Meanwhile I sign (that you may judge
How 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. "What other proofs 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.

LETTER XI.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD ——. ———, IRELAND.

Dear Dick—just arrived at my own humble_gîte_,
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.

[1] The rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county of Armagh!—a most remarkable coincidence—and well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.

[Illustration: Thomas Moore]