The Reverend Micah Sowls

The REVEREND MICAH SOWLS, He shouts and yells and howls, He screams, he mouths, he b.u.mps, He foams, he rants, he thumps.

His armour he has buckled on, to wage The regulation war against the Stage; And warns his congregation all to shun "The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,"

The subject's sad enough To make him rant and puff, And fortunately, too, His Bishop's in a pew.

So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam, His eyes are flashing with superior gleam, He is as energetic as can be, For there are fatter livings in that see.

The Bishop, when it's o'er, Goes through the vestry door, Where MICAH, very red, Is mopping of his head.

"Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS' excessive zeal, It is a theme on which I strongly feel."

(The sermon somebody had sent him down From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)

The Bishop bowed his head, And, acquiescing, said, "I've heard your well-meant rage Against the Modern Stage.

"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say, Sows seeds of evil broadcast--well it may; But let me ask you, my respected son, Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"

"My Lord," said MICAH, "no!

I never, never go!

What! Go and see a play?

My goodness gracious, nay!"

The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt The Stage may be the place you make it out; But if, my REVEREND SOWLS, you never go, I don't quite understand how you're to know."

"Well, really," MICAH said, "I've often heard and read, But never go--do you?"

The Bishop said, "I do."

"That proves me wrong," said MICAH, in a trice: "I thought it all frivolity and vice."

The Bishop handed him a printed card; "Go to a theatre where they play our Bard."

The Bishop took his leave, Rejoicing in his sleeve.

The next ensuing day SOWLS went and heard a play.

He saw a dreary person on the stage, Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage, Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd, And spoke an English SOWLS had never heard.

For "gaunt" was spoken "garnt,"

And "haunt" transformed to "harnt,"

And "wrath " p.r.o.nounced as "rath,"

And "death" was changed to "dath."

For hours and hours that dismal actor walked, And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked, Till lethargy upon the parson crept, And sleepy MICAH SOWLS serenely slept.

He slept away until The farce that closed the bill Had warned him not to stay, And then he went away.

"I thought MY gait ridiculous," said he-- "MY elocution faulty as could be; I thought _I_ mumbled on a matchless plan-- I had not seen our great Tragedian!

"Forgive me, if you can, O great Tragedian!

I own it with a sigh-- You're drearier than I!"

A Discontented Sugar Broker

A GENTLEMAN of City fame Now claims your kind attention; East India broking was his game, His name I shall not mention: No one of finely-pointed sense Would violate a confidence, And shall _I_ go And do it? No!

His name I shall not mention.

He had a trusty wife and true, And very cosy quarters, A manager, a boy or two, Six clerks, and seven porters.

A broker must be doing well (As any lunatic can tell) Who can employ An active boy, Six clerks, and seven porters.

His knocker advertised no dun, No losses made him sulky, He had one sorrow--only one-- He was extremely bulky.

A man must be, I beg to state, Exceptionally fortunate Who owns his chief And only grief Is--being very bulky.

"This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear; I'm nineteen stone or twenty!

Henceforward I'll go in for air And exercise in plenty."

Most people think that, should it come, They can reduce a bulging tum To measures fair By taking air And exercise in plenty.

In every weather, every day, Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty, He took to dancing all the way From Brompton to the City.

You do not often get the chance Of seeing sugar brokers dance From their abode In Fulham Road Through Brompton to the City.

He braved the gay and guileless laugh Of children with their nusses, The loud uneducated chaff Of clerks on omnibuses.

Against all minor things that rack A nicely-balanced mind, I'll back The noisy chaff And ill-bred laugh Of clerks on omnibuses.

His friends, who heard his money c.h.i.n.k, And saw the house he rented, And knew his wife, could never think What made him discontented.

It never entered their pure minds That fads are of eccentric kinds, Nor would they own That fat alone Could make one discontented.

"Your riches know no kind of pause, Your trade is fast advancing; You dance--but not for joy, because You weep as you are dancing.

To dance implies that man is glad, To weep implies that man is sad; But here are you Who do the two-- You weep as you are dancing!"

His mania soon got noised about And into all the papers; His size increased beyond a doubt For all his reckless capers: It may seem singular to you, But all his friends admit it true-- The more he found His figure round, The more he cut his capers.

His bulk increased--no matter that-- He tried the more to toss it-- He never spoke of it as "fat,"

But "adipose deposit."

Upon my word, it seems to me Unpardonable vanity (And worse than that) To call your fat An "adipose deposit."

At length his brawny knees gave way, And on the carpet sinking, Upon his shapeless back he lay And kicked away like winking.

Instead of seeing in his state The finger of unswerving Fate, He laboured still To work his will, And kicked away like winking.

His friends, disgusted with him now, Away in silence wended-- I hardly like to tell you how This dreadful story ended.

The shocking sequel to impart, I must employ the limner's art-- If you would know, This sketch will show How his exertions ended.

MORAL.