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 th' Inquisition-quizzing!

Your men of thumb-screws and of racks
Aim'd at the body their attacks;
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 kill'd
By being on a gridir'n grill'd,
Had he but shared 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. In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified 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 ;'-
Though oft, we're told, one outlaw'd brother
Saved 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 "ed 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 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 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 com mend."-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,) Eloped 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 pers. 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.

mine,)

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, canzouets—
Some twisted up neatly, to form allumettes,
Some turn'd into papillotes, worthy to rise
And enwreath 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 dared 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.

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.

P. S.

Hurrah, Dick, hurrah, Dick, ten thousand hurrahs!

I'm a happy, rich dog to the end of my days. There-read the good news-and while glad, for my sake,

That Wealth should thus follow in Love's shining wake,

Admire also the moral-that he, the sly elf, Who has fudged all the world, should be now fudged himself!

EXTRACT FROM LETTER ENCLOSED.

With pain the mournful news I write,
Miss Fudge's uncle died last night;
And much to mine and friends' surprise,
By will doth all his wealth devise-
Lands, dwellings-rectories likewise-
To his "beloved grand-niece," Miss Fanny,
Leaving Miss Fudge herself, who many
Long years hath waited-not a penny!
Have notified the same to latter,
And wait instructions in the matter.
For self and partners, &c. &c

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, unmoved,

To love, in wintry age, the same
As first in youth we loved;

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 wo, And teaches ev'n our tears to keep

The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

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That the life almost seem'd to forsake him, Even then, one soul-thrilling blast

From the trumpet of Glory would wake him.

CUPID'S LOTTERY.

A LOTTERY, a Lottery,

In Cupid's Court there used to be; Two roguish eyes

The highest prize

In Cupid's scheming Lottery;
And kisses, too,

As good as new,

Which weren't very hard to win,

For he, who won

The eyes of fun,

Was sure to have the kisses in.
A Lottery, a Lottery, &c

This Lottery, this Lottery,

In Cupid's Court went merrily, And Cupid play'd

A Jewish trade

In this his scheming Lottery;
For hearts, we're told,

In shares he sold

To many a fond believing drone,

And cut the hearts

So well in parts,

That each believed the whole his own.

AT night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound

Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
""Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,

With those we love exchanged at night!

TO LADY HOLLAND.

ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF-BOX.

GIFT of the Hero, on his dying day,

To her, whose pity watch'd, forever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up in her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy Paris, July, 1821.

1 Sung in the character of a Frenchman

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA

LAST night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and-all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write:
Sudden I saw as in some witching dream-
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning, from a violet bed.

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Bless me!" I starting cried, "what imp are

you?"

“A small he-devil, Ma'am-my name BAS BLE "A bookish sprite, much giv'n to routs and read.

ing;

""Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding, "The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, "The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, "And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy brain,

"With metaphysics twirl it back again!"

I view'd him, as he spoke-his hose was blue, His wings--the covers of the last ReviewCerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue,

2 These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for 15 device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.