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
Aim'd at the body their attacks;
But modern torturers, more refin'd,
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 kill'd
By being on a gridir'n grill'd,
Had he but shar'd my errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridir'n 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,
Though 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 K-llym-n;

1 "Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1619), 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 exemplied the meaning of the word "alias" by

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 sever'd 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
Though oft, we're told, one outlaw'd brother
Sav'd cost, by eating up the other.

Finding thus all those schemes and hopes
I built upon my flowers and tropes
All scatter'd, 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 silv'ry-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 though 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
Cannot around her sons diffuse ;-
Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,
From wealthy Miss or benefice,
To Mortimer indiff'rent is,
So he can make it only 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 (though it may look henpeck'd),
I can't quite decently object,
Having myself long chos'n to shine
Conspicuous in the alias 2 line;

So that henceforth, by wife's decree,

(For Biddy from this point wo'nt budge) Your old friend's new address must be

The Rev. Mortimer O'Fudge—

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.

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 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 fill'd with preachers -
The pray'r giv'n 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,

(He, who the Lord's force lately led on-
Exeter Hall his Armagh-geddon,) 2
To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chos'n, as "heir of grace,"
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 'tis hinted—

Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan Lyre," In our Gazette, last week, we printed,) Elop'd with Pat. Magan, Esquire. The fugitives were track'd, some time, After they'd left the Aunt's abode, By scraps of paper, scrawl'd with rhyme, Found strew'd along the Western road; Some of them, ci-devant curl-papers, Others, half burnt in lighting tapers. This clue, however, to their flight,

After some miles was seen no more;

And, from inquiries made last night,

We find they've reach'd the Irish shore.

LETTER XI.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD

, Ireland.

DEAR DICK-just arriv'd at my own humble gite, I inclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete, Just arriv'd, per express, of our late noble feat.

[Extract from the "County Gazette."]

This place is getting gay and full again.

*

Last week was married, "in the Lord," The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan, Preacher, in Irish, of the Word,

Nine;

Nay, devote to the Gods her whole stock of MS.
With a vow never more against prose to transgress.
This she did, like a heroine ;-smack went to bits
The whole produce sublime of her dear little wits-
Sonnets, elegies, epigrams, odes, canzonets-
Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,
Some turn'd into papillotes, worthy to rise
And enwreathe Berenice's bright locks in the skies!
While the rest, honest Larry (who's now in my
pay),

Begg'd, as “lover of po'thry," to read on the way.

Having thus of life's poetry dar'd to dispose,
How we now, Dick, shall manage to get through

its prose,

With such slender materials for style, Heaven knows!

But I'm call'd off abruptly—another Express! What the deuce can it mean?—I'm alarm'd, I confess.

"I think I am acting in unison with the feelings of a Meeting assembled for this solemn object, when I call on the Rev. Doctor Holloway to open it by prayer." - Speech of Lord Kenyon.

2 The Rectory which the Rev. gentleman holds is situated in the county of Armagh!-a most remarkable coincidenceand well worthy of the attention of certain expounders of the Apocalypse.

To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.
This is love, faithless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Through life unchill'd, unmov'd, To love, in wintry age, the same As first in youth we lov'd;

To feel that we adore,

Ev'n to such fond excess,

That, though the heart would break, with more,
It could not live with less.

This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,

That leads us to thy fairy shrine. There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to Sorrow known; But breath so soft, and drops so clear, That Bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens woe, And teaches ev'n our tears to keep The tinge of pleasure as they flow.