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_.