He smoked, and he chewed, and he drank, and he swore; But then every man whom the ladies adore, Is prone to these failings--some more and some less, Which are all overlooked in a man of address. It also was whispered that he had betrayed The too trusting faith of an innocent maid; But the ladies all blamed _her_ for going astray, While they pardoned and petted--“dear Mr. De Splae.” There was good Mr. Honest, who lived but next door, He was true, and substantial, and sound to the core; He had made it the rule of his life, from his youth, To shun all evasions and speak the plain truth; But _the ladies_--who always are judges, you know, Declared him to be a detestable beau-- Not worthy of mention within the same day, With that _pink of perfection_--“dear Mr. De Splae.” Withal he was pious--perhaps you will smile, And ask how he happened the church to beguile; Why, the churches accept men for better or worse, If there’s only a plenty of cash in the purse. Gold still buys remission as freely and fast, As it did in the Catholic Church in the past. ’Tis the same thing right over, and that was the way, That the church swallowed smoothly “_good_ Mr. De Splae.” O, you ought to have heard him when leading in prayer! How he flattered the Father of All for his care, And confessed he was sinful a thousand times o’er, Which ’twas morally certain the Lord knew before. The ladies responded in sweet little sighs, With their elegant handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes, But the pure, unseen spirits turned sadly away From the loud-mouthed devotions of Mr. De Splae. O, short-sighted mortal! Poor Mr. De Splae! His mask of deception was molded in clay, And when his external in death was let fall, What he was, without seeming, was known unto all. His garment of patches--his flimsy disguise-- Which had won him distinction in other men’s eyes, Was “changed in a twinkling”--ay, vanished away, Leaving nothing to boast of to Mr. De Splae. Ah, a great reputation, a title, or name, Oft brings its possessor to sorrow and shame; But a _character_, founded in goodness and worth, Outlasts all the perishing glories of earth. O’er the frailties of nature, and changes of time, It rises majestic, in beauty sublime, Till the weak and faint-hearted are cheered by its ray, Far above all mere seeming and empty display. WILL IT PAY? Men may say what they will Of the Author of Ill, And the wiles of the Devil that tempt them astray, But there’s something far worse-- A more terrible curse-- It is selling the Truth for the sake of the pay.