"For Burglars, Thieves, and Co., Indeed I'm no apologist; But I, some years ago, Assisted a Phrenologist. "Observe his various bumps, His head as I uncover it; His morals lie in lumps All round about and over it." "Now take him," said SIR WHITE, "Or you will soon be rueing it; Bless me! I must be right,-- I caught the fellow doing it!" Policeman calmly smiled, "Indeed you are mistaken, sir, You're agitated--riled-- And very badly shaken, sir. "Sit down, and I'll explain My system of Phrenology, A second, please, remain"-- (A second is horology). Policeman left his beat-- (The Bart., no longer furious, Sat down upon a seat, Observing, "This is curious!") [Illustration] "Oh, surely here are signs Should soften your rigidity, This gentleman combines Politeness with timidity. "Of Shyness here's a lump-- A hole for Animosity-- And like my fist his bump Of Generenerosity. "Just here the bump appears Of Innocent Hilarity, And just behind his ear Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity. "He of true Christian ways As bright example sent us is-- This maxim he obeys, '_Sorte tuâ contentus sis_.' "There, let him go his ways, He needs no stern admonishing." The Bart., in blank amaze, Exclaimed, "This is astonishing! "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." Policeman 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 Villainy: "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 Policeman's scorn grew large (Phrenology had nettled it), He took that Bart. in charge-- I don't know how they settled it. [Illustration] POETRY EVERYWHERE What time the poet hath hymned The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, How can he paint her woes, Knowing, as well he knows, That all can be set right with calomel? When from the poet's plinth The amorous colocynth Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills, How can he hymn their throes Knowing, as well he knows, That they are only uncompounded pills?