The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.

373

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,

374

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;
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
Sav'd cost, by eating up the other.

375

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 tir'd 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 only make it his.

376

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 wo'n'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 calm Euthanasia.

377

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.

378

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.

“Among other amiable enactments against the Catholics at this period (1649), 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 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.

“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.