The Fudges In England. 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.