That Very Mab

by May Kendall; Andrew Lang

Queen Mab and the Owl found him uncongenial, and flew away again.

'That is just like him,' said the Owl, when they had reached the outside of the building at last, and were perched on the roof, enjoying the fresh air. 'He will get all he can for his money. In him you may see a typical and beautiful example of the Survival of the Fittest. He worked his way, by means of native moral superiority and pure chocolate composed of mortar and molasses tinted with sepia, right from the gallery into one of the very best reserved seats, and now has little books written on himself, as exemplifying the reward of virtue, and exhorts everybody to go in and do likewise. The pamphlets conclude:

'"If your vocation furnishes only the trivial round and the common task; if it does not fall to your lot to invent a new pure chocolate, you can at least buy Mr. Tubbs's pure chocolate, and reverence the benefactors of humanity."

'He sends copies to all the dukes, and earls, and archbishops, and the result is an immense sale of the pure chocolate. He has never missed a chance of advertising it; he takes boxes to the meetings of the Church Missionary Society for propagation among the heathen, and so has managed to get large profits from the Zunis, and the Thlinkeets, and the Mikado, and the Shah. He nearly got into difficulty with the Low Church party once by writing privately to the Pope to solicit orders—not holy orders; orders for pure chocolate, I mean. I hope he won't carry it too far. His wife's uncle, who was a wholesale draper, seized one golden opportunity too many, and never recovered from the effects.'

'How was that?' asked Mab.

'It was an incident that took place in the Strand one day,' said the Owl with a modest air, 'of which I learned the particulars from two City sparrows. It struck my fancy, and I wrote a few stanzas upon it. The kingfisher, in fact, did me the honour to say that I had wedded the circumstance to immortal verse; but that was his partiality. I will, however, repeat the little poem to you.' And with becoming diffidence the Owl recited:

'The Seraph and the Snob.
It was a draper eminent,
A merchant of the land,
On lofty calculations bent,
Who raised his eyes, on cent, per cent.
From pondering, in the Strand.
He saw a Seraph standing there,
With aspect bright and sainted,
Ethereal robe of fabric fair,
And wings that might have been the pair
Sir Noel Paton painted.
A real Seraph met his gaze—
There was no doubt of that—
Irradiate with celestial rays.
Our merchant viewed him with amaze,
And then he touched his hat.
I own, before he raised his hand,
A moment he reflected,
Because in this degenerate land,
To meet a Seraph in the Strand
Was somewhat unexpected.
Yet there one stood, as wrapt in thought,
Amid the City's din,
No other eye the vision caught,
Not even a stray policeman sought
To run that Seraph in.
But on the merchant curious eyes
Men turned, and mocking finger,
For well they knew his mien and guise,
He was not wont, in moonstruck wise,
About the Strand to linger.
Mute stood the draper for a space,
The mystery to probe,
Alas! in that his hour of grace,
His eyes forsook the Seraph's face,
And rested on his robe.
And wildly did he seek in vain
To guess the strange material,
And golden fancies filled his brain,
And hopes of unimagined gain
Woke at the sight ethereal.
Then, suffered not by fate austere
The impulse to discard,
He never paused to idly veer
About the bush; but calm and clear
He said: 'How much a yard?'
A bright and tremulous lustre shone
Through the dull, dingy Strand,
From parting wings seraphic thrown;
And then, mute, motionless, alone,
Men saw the merchant stand.

---

In town to-day his memory's cold,
No more his name on 'Change is,
Idle his mart, his wares are sold,
And men forget his fame of old,
Who now in Earlswood ranges.
Yet evermore, with toil and care
He ponders on devices
For stuffs superlatively rare,
Celestial fabrics past compare,
At reasonable prices.
To him the padded wall and dead
With gorgeous colour gleams,
And huge advertisements are spread,
And lurid placards, orange, red,
Drive through his waking dreams.'

'Thank you,' said Queen Mab, 'that is very interesting; but I can't help being sorry for the merchant. For, after all, you know, it was his nature to. Is it not time, now, for us to go back?'