The Fudges In England. Letter X. From The Rev. Mortimer O'Mulligan, To The Rev. ----.

By Thomas Moore

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.