“No billiard-rooms—no stately trees— No croquêt-grounds or pineries.” “Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true: This property won’t do for you.” “All these about the house you’ll find.”— “Well,” said the parson, “never mind; I’ll manage to submit to these Luxurious superfluities. “A clergyman who does not shirk The various calls of Christian work, Will have no leisure to employ These ‘common forms’ of worldly joy. “To preach three times on Sabbath days— To wean the lost from wicked ways— The sick to soothe—the sane to wed— The poor to feed with meat and bread; “These are the various wholesome ways In which I’ll spend my nights and days: My zeal will have no time to cool At croquêt, archery, or pool.” The agent said, “From what I hear, This living will not suit, I fear— There are no poor, no sick at all; For services there is no call.” The reverend gent looked grave, “Dear me! Then there is _no_ ‘society’?— I mean, of course, no sinners there Whose souls will be my special care?” The cunning agent shook his head, “No, none—except”—(the agent said)— “The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B., The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D. “But you will not be quite alone, For though they’ve chaplains of their own, Of course this noble well-bred clan Receive the parish clergyman.” “Oh, silence, sir!” said SIMON M., “Dukes—Earls! What should I care for them? These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!” “Of course,” the agent said, “no doubt!” “Yet I might show these men of birth The hollowness of rank on earth.” The agent answered, “Very true— But I should not, if I were you.” “Who sells this rich advowson, pray?” The agent winked—it was his way— “His name is HART; ’twixt me and you, He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!” “A Jew?” said SIMON, “happy find! I purchase this advowson, mind. My life shall be devoted to Converting that unhappy Jew!” MY DREAM. THE other night, from cares exempt, I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt? I dreamt that somehow I had come To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom— Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice: Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice: Where right is wrong and wrong is right— Where white is black and black is white. Where babies, much to their surprise, Are born astonishingly wise; With every Science on their lips, And Art at all their finger-tips. For, as their nurses dandle them They crow binomial theorem, With views (it seems absurd to us) On differential calculus. But though a babe, as I have said, Is born with learning in his head, He must forget it, if he can, Before he calls himself a man. For that which we call folly here, Is wisdom in that favoured sphere; The wisdom we so highly prize Is blatant folly in their eyes.