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.