<h2><SPAN name="page484"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE PHANTOM CURATE.<br/> <span class="GutSmall">A FABLE</span></h2>
<p class="poetry">A <span class="GutSmall">BISHOP</span>
once—I will not name his see—<br/>
Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;<br/>
From pulpit shackles never set them free,<br/>
And found a sin where sin was unintentional.<br/>
All pleasures ended in abuse auricular—<br/>
The Bishop was so terribly particular.</p>
<p class="poetry">Though, on the whole, a wise and upright
man,<br/>
He sought to make of human pleasures clearances;<br/>
And form his priests on that much-lauded plan<br/>
Which pays undue attention to appearances.<br/>
He couldn’t do good deeds without a psalm in ’em,<br/>
Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in ’em.</p>
<p class="poetry">Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,<br/>
Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,<br/>
He sought by open censure to enhance<br/>
Their dread of joining harmless social jollity.<br/>
Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)<br/>
The ordinary pleasures of society.</p>
<p class="poetry">One evening, sitting at a pantomime<br/>
(Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of
him),<br/>
Roaring at jokes, <i>sans</i> metre, sense, or rhyme,<br/>
He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him,<br/>
His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it,<br/>
A curate, also heartily enjoying it.</p>
<p class="poetry">Again, ’t was Christmas Eve, and to
enhance<br/>
His children’s pleasure in their harmless
rollicking,<br/>
He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;<br/>
When something checked the current of his
frolicking:<br/>
That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly,<br/>
Stood up and figured with him in the “Coverley!”</p>
<p class="poetry">Once, yielding to an universal choice<br/>
(The company’s demand was an emphatic one,<br/>
For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),<br/>
In a quartet he joined—an operatic one.<br/>
Harmless enough, though ne’er a word of grace in it,<br/>
When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!</p>
<p class="poetry">One day, when passing through a quiet
street,<br/>
He stopped awhile and joined a Punch’s
gathering;<br/>
And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet,<br/>
To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;<br/>
And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty,<br/>
That phantom curate laughing all hyænally.</p>
<p class="poetry">Now at a picnic, ’mid fair golden
curls,<br/>
Bright eyes, straw hats, <i>bottines</i> that fit
amazingly,<br/>
A croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls;<br/>
And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt
praisingly;<br/>
But suddenly declines to play at all in it—<br/>
The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!</p>
<p class="poetry">Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed<br/>
From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,<br/>
He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,<br/>
In manner anything but hierarchical—<br/>
He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—<br/>
That curate’s face, with half a yard of hair on it!</p>
<p class="poetry">At length he gave a charge, and spake this
word:<br/>
“Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye
may;<br/>
To check their harmless pleasuring’s absurd;<br/>
What laymen do without reproach, my clergy
may.”<br/>
He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,<br/>
The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.</p>
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