And as we stand, like clockwork toys, A lecturer papa employs To puff and praise Our modest ways And guileless character-- Our well-known blush--our downcast eyes-- Our famous look of mild surprise (Which competition still defies)-- Our celebrated "Sir!!!" Then all the crowd take down our looks In pocket memorandum books. To diagnose Our modest pose The kodaks do their best: If evidence you would possess Of what is maiden bashfulness, You only need a button press-- And _we_ do all the rest. [Illustration] THE PHANTOM CURATE A FABLE A bishop once--I will not name his see-- Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional; From pulpit shackles never set them free, And found a sin where sin was unintentional. All pleasures ended in abuse auricular-- That Bishop was so terribly particular. Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man, He sought to make of human pleasures clearances, And form his priests on that much-lauded plan Which pays undue attention to appearances. He couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em, Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in 'em. Enraged to find a deacon at a dance, Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity, He sought by open censure to enhance Their dread of joining harmless social jollity; Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety) The ordinary pleasures of society. One evening, sitting at a pantomime (Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him), Roaring at jokes _sans_ metre, sense, or rhyme, He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him-- His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it-- A curate, also heartily enjoying it. Again, 'twas Christmas Eve, and to enhance His children's pleasure in their harmless rollicking, He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance; When something checked the current of his frolicking: That curate, with a maid he treated loverly, Stood up and figured with him in the "Coverley"! Once, yielding to an universal choice (The company's demand was an emphatic one, For the old Bishop had a glorious voice), In a quartet he joined--an operatic one-- Harmless enough, though ne'er a word of grace in it; When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it! One day, when passing through a quiet street, He stopped awhile and joined a Punch's gathering, And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet To see that gentleman his Judy lathering; And heard, as Punch was being treated penally, That phantom curate laughing all hyænally!