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 Can?T 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 Won?T 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.