“Pardon, my Lord, your Sowls’ excessive zeal,
It is a theme on which I strongly feel.”
(The sermon somebody had sent him down
From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)
The Bishop bowed his head,
And, acquiescing, said,
“I’ve heard your well-meant rage
Against the Modern Stage.
“A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,
Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may;
But let me ask you, my respected son,
Pray, have you ever ventured into one?”
“My Lord,” said Micah, “no!
I never, never go!
What! Go and see a play?
My goodness gracious, nay!”
The worthy Bishop said, “My friend, no doubt
The Stage may be the place you make it out;
But if, my Reverend Sowls, you never go,
I don’t quite understand how you’re to know.”
“Well, really,” Micah said,
“I’ve often heard and read,
But never go—do you?”
The Bishop said, “I do.”
“That proves me wrong,” said Micah, in a trice:
“I thought it all frivolity and vice.”
The Bishop handed him a printed card;
“Go to a theatre where they play our Bard.”
The Bishop took his leave,
Rejoicing in his sleeve.
The next ensuing day
Sowls went and heard a play.
He saw a dreary person on the stage,
Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,
Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,
And spoke an English Sowls had never heard.
For “gaunt” was spoken “garnt,”
And “haunt” transformed to “harnt,”
And “wrath” pronounced as “rath,”
And “death” was changed to “dath.”