Part 25

“I must have made a mull, This matter I’ve been blind in it: Examine, please, my skull, And tell me what you find in it.”

That Crusher looked, and said, With unimpaired urbanity, “SIR HERBERT, you’ve a head That teems with inhumanity.

“Here’s Murder, Envy, Strife (Propensity to kill any), And Lies as large as life, And heaps of Social Villany.

“Here’s Love of Bran-New Clothes, Embezzling—Arson—Deism— A taste for Slang and Oaths, And Fraudulent Trusteeism.

“Here’s Love of Groundless Charge— Here’s Malice, too, and Trickery, Unusually large Your bump of Pocket-Pickery—”

“Stop!” said the Bart., “my cup Is full—I’m worse than him in all; Policeman, take me up— No doubt I am some criminal!”

That Pleeceman’s scorn grew large (Phrenology had nettled it), He took that Bart. in charge— I don’t know how they settled it.

THE FAIRY CURATE

ONCE a fairy Light and airy Married with a mortal; Men, however, Never, never Pass the fairy portal. Slyly stealing, She to Ealing Made a daily journey; There she found him, Clients round him (He was an attorney).

Long they tarried, Then they married. When the ceremony Once was ended, Off they wended On their moon of honey. Twelvemonth, maybe, Saw a baby (Friends performed an orgie). Much they prized him, And baptized him By the name of GEORGIE.

GEORGIE grew up; Then he flew up To his fairy mother. Happy meeting— Pleasant greeting— Kissing one another. “Choose a calling Most enthralling, I sincerely urge ye.” “Mother,” said he (Rev’rence made he), “I would join the clergy.

“Give permission In addition— Pa will let me do it: There’s a living In his giving— He’ll appoint me to it. Dreams of coff’ring, Easter off’ring, Tithe and rent and pew-rate, So inflame me (Do not blame me), That I’ll be a curate.”

She, with pleasure, Said, “My treasure, ’T is my wish precisely. Do your duty, There’s a beauty; You have chosen wisely. Tell your father I would rather As a churchman rank you. You, in clover, I’ll watch over.” GEORGIE said, “Oh, thank you!”

GEORGIE scudded, Went and studied, Made all preparations, And with credit (Though he said it) Passed examinations. (Do not quarrel With him, moral, Scrupulous digestions— ’Twas his mother, And no other, Answered all the questions.)

Time proceeded; Little needed GEORGIE admonition: He, elated, Vindicated Clergyman’s position. People round him Always found him Plain and unpretending; Kindly teaching, Plainly preaching, All his money lending.

So the fairy, Wise and wary, Felt no sorrow rising— No occasion For persuasion, Warning, or advising. He, resuming Fairy pluming (That’s not English, is it?) Oft would fly up, To the sky up, Pay mamma a visit.

* * * * * * * *

Time progressing, GEORGIE’S blessing Grew more Ritualistic— Popish scandals, Tonsures—sandals— Genuflections mystic; Gushing meetings— Bosom-beatings— Heavenly ecstatics— Broidered spencers— Copes and censers— Rochets and dalmatics.

This quandary Vexed the fairy— Flew she down to Ealing. “GEORGIE, stop it! Pray you, drop it; Hark to my appealing: To this foolish Papal rule-ish Twaddle put an ending; This a swerve is From our Service Plain and unpretending.”

He, replying, Answered, sighing, Hawing, hemming, humming, “It’s a pity— They’re so pritty; Yet in mode becoming, Mother tender, I’ll surrender— I’ll be unaffected—” But his Bishop Into his shop Entered unexpected!

“Who is this, sir,— Ballet miss, sir?” Said the Bishop coldly. “’T is my mother, And no other,” GEORGIE answered boldly. “Go along, sir! You are wrong, sir; You have years in plenty, While this hussy (Gracious mussy!) Isn’t two and twenty!”

(Fairies clever Never, never Grow in visage older; And the fairy, All unwary, Leant upon his shoulder!) Bishop grieved him, Disbelieved him; GEORGE the point grew warm on; Changed religion, Like a pigeon, {452} And became a Mormon!

THE WAY OF WOOING

A MAIDEN sat at her window wide, Pretty enough for a Prince’s bride, Yet nobody came to claim her. She sat like a beautiful picture there, With pretty bluebells and roses fair, And jasmine-leaves to frame her. And why she sat there nobody knows; But this she sang as she plucked a rose, The leaves around her strewing: “I’ve time to lose and power to choose; ’T is not so much the gallant who woos, But the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A lover came riding by awhile, A wealthy lover was he, whose smile Some maids would value greatly— A formal lover, who bowed and bent, With many a high-flown compliment, And cold demeanour stately, “You’ve still,” said she to her suitor stern, “The ’prentice-work of your craft to learn, If thus you come a-cooing. I’ve time to lose and power to choose; ’T is not so much the gallant who woos, As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A second lover came ambling by— A timid lad with a frightened eye And a colour mantling highly. He muttered the errand on which he’d come, Then only chuckled and bit his thumb, And simpered, simpered shyly. “No,” said the maiden, “go your way; You dare but think what a man would say, Yet dare to come a-suing! I’ve time to lose and power to choose; ’T is not so much the gallant who woos, As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A third rode up at a startling pace— A suitor poor, with a homely face— No doubts appeared to bind him. He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist, And off he rode with the maiden, placed On a pillion safe behind him. And she heard the suitor bold confide This golden hint to the priest who tied The knot there’s no undoing; “With pretty young maidens who can choose, ’Tis not so much the gallant who woos, As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

HONGREE AND MAHRY