Part 1
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MORE MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN
By HARRY GRAHAM
_Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," "Misrepresentative Men," "Ballads of the Boer War," "Verse and Worse," etc., etc._
PICTURES BY MALCOLM STRAUSS
NEW YORK FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY MCMV
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY FOX, DUFFIELD & COMPANY
Published in September, 1905
To E. B.
_Contents_
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD
PUBLISHER'S PREFACE
ROBERT BURNS
WILLIAM WALDORF ASTOR
HENRY VIII
ALTON B. PARKER
EUCLID
J. M. BARRIE
OMAR KHAYYAM
ANDREW CARNEGIE
KING COPHETUA
JOSEPH F. SMITH
SHERLOCK HOLMES
AFTWORD
_Authors Foreword_
(_To the Publisher_)
When honest men are all in bed, We poets at our desks are toiling, To earn a modicum of bread, And keep the pot a-boiling; We weld together, bit by bit, The fabric of our laboured wit.
We see with eyes of frank dismay The coming of this Autumn season, When bards are driven to display Their feast of rhyme and reason; With hectic brain and loosened collar, We chase the too-elusive dollar.
While Publishers, in search of grist, Despise our masterly inaction, And shake their faces in our fist, Demanding satisfaction, We view with vague or vacant mind The grim agreements we have signed.
For though a willing public gives Its timely share of cash assistance, The author (like the dentist) lives A hand-to-mouth existence; And Publishers, those modern Circes, Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.
Behold! How ill, how thin and pale, The features of the furtive jester! Compelled by contracts to curtail His moments of siesta! A true White Knight is he to-day (_Nuit Blanche_, as Stevenson would say).
Ah, surely he has laboured well, Constructing this immortal sequel,-- A work which no one could excel, And very few can equal,-- A volume which, I dare to say, Is epoch-making, in its way.
When other poets' work is not, These verses shall retain their label; When Herford is a thing forgot, And Ade an ancient fable; When Goops no longer give a sign Of Burgess's empurpled kine.
My Publishers, I love you so! Your well-secreted virtues viewing; Who never let your right hand know Whom your left hand is doing; Who hold me firmly in your grip, And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!
My Publishers, make no mistake, You have in me an _avis rara_, So write a princely cheque, and make It payable to bearer; I love you, as I said before, But oh! I love your money more!
_Publisher's Preface_
(_To the Author_)
Voracious Author, gorged with gold, Your grasping greed shall not avail! In vain you venture to unfold Your false prehensile tale! I view in scorn (unmixed with awe) The width of your capacious maw.
On me the onus has to fall Of your malevolent effusions; 'Tis I who bear the brunt of all Your libellous allusions; To bolster up your turgid verse, I jeopardise my very purse!
You do not hesitate to fleece The Publisher you scorn to thank, And when you manage to decrease His balance at the bank, Your face is lighted up with greed, And you are lantern-jawed indeed!
Yet will I still heap coals of fire, Until your coiffure is imbedded, And you at last, perchance, shall tire Of growing so hot-headed, And realise that being funny Is not a mere affair of money.
And so, in honour of your pow'rs, A fragrant bouquet will I pick, Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rs Of speech and rhetoric; I'll add a thistle, if I may, And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.
The blossoms for your button-hole, To mark your affluent condition, Exotics to inspire your soul To further composition. Come, set the bays upon your brow! * * * * * Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!
_Robert Burns_
The jingling rhymes of Dr. Watts Excite the reader's just impatience, He wearies of Sir Walter Scott's Melodious verbal collocations, And with advancing years he learns To love the simpler style of Burns.
Too much the careworn critic knows Of that obscure robustious diction, Which like a form of fungus grows Amid the Kailyard school of fiction; In Crockett's cryptic caves one sighs For Burns's clear and spacious skies.
Tho' no aspersions need be cast On Barrie's wealth of wit fantastic, Creator of that unsurpass'd If most minute ecclesiastic; Yet even here the eye discerns No master-hand like that of Burns.
The works of Campbell and the rest Exhale a sanctimonious odour, Their vintage is but Schnapps, at best, Their Scotch is simply Scotch-and-sodour! They cannot hope, like Burns, to win That "touch which makes the whole world kin."
Tho' some may sing of Neil Munro, And virtues in Maclaren see, Or want but little here below, And want that little Lang, maybe; Each renegade at length returns, To praise the peerless pow'rs of Burns.
His verse, as all the world declares, And Tennyson himself confesses, The radiance of the dewdrop shares, The berry's perfect shape possesses; And even William Wordsworth praises The magic of his faultless phrases.
But he, whose books bedeck our shelves, Whose lofty genius we adore so, Was only human, like ourselves,-- Perhaps, indeed, a trifle more so! And joined a thirst that nought could quench To morals which were frankly French.
And ev'ry night he made his way, With boon companions, bent on frolic, To inns of ill-repute, where lay Refreshments--chiefly alcoholic! (But I decline to raise your gorges, Describing these nocturnal orgies.)
Of love-affairs he knew no end, So long and ardently he flirted, And e'en the least suspicious friend Would feel a trifle disconcerted, When Burns was sitting with his "_sposa_," "As thick as thieves on Vallombrosa!"
A Cockney Chiel who found him thus, And showed some conjugal alarm, When Burns implored him not to fuss, Enquiring calmly, "Where's the harm?" Replied at once, with perfect taste, "The _h_arm is round my consort's waist!"
"A poor thing but my own," said he, His fair but fickle bride denoting, And she, with scathing repartee, Assented, wilfully misquoting, (Tho' carefully brought up, like Jonah), "A poorer thing--and yet my owner!"
The most bucolic hearts were burnt By Burns' amatory glances; The most suburban spinsters learnt To welcome his abrupt advances; When Burns was on his knee, 'twas said, They wished that _they_ were there instead!
They loved him from the first, in spite Of angry parents' interference; They deemed his courtship so polite, So captivating his appearance; So great his charm, so apt his wit, In local parlance, Burns was IT!
The rustic maids from far and wide, Encouraged his unwise flirtations; For love of Burns they moped and sighed, And, while their nearest male relations Were up in arms, the sad thing is That they themselves were up in his!
His crest a mug, with open lid, The kind in vogue with ancient Druids,-- Inscribed "Amari Aliquid," (Which means "I'm very fond of fluids!"), On either side, as meet supporters, The village blacksmith's lovely daughters.
"Men were deceivers ever!" True, As Shakespeare says (Hey Nonny! Nonny!), But one should always keep in view That "_tout comprendr' c'est tout pardonny_"; In judging poets it suffices To scan their verses, not their vices. . . . . . . The poets of the present time Attempt their feeble imitations; Are economical of rhyme, And lavish with reiterations; The while a patient public swallows A "Border Ballad" much as follows:--
_Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel, Jamie lad, I lo'e nae ither, Jamie lad, I lo'e ye weel, Like a mither._
_Jamie's ganging doon the burn, Jamie's ganging doon, whateffer, Jamie's ganging doon the burn, To Strathpeffer!_
_Jamie's comin' hame to dee, Jamie's comin' hame, I'm thinkin', Jamie's comin' hame to dee, Dee o' drinkin'!_
_Hech! Jamie! Losh! Jamie! Dinna greet sae sair! Gin ye canna, winna, shanna See yer lassie mair! Wha' hoo! Wha' hae! Strathpeffer!_
I give you now, as antidote, Some lines which I myself indited. Carnegie, when he read them, wrote To say that he was quite delighted; Their pathos cut him to the quick, Their humour almost made him sick.
_The queys are moopin' i' the mirk, An' gin ye thole ahin' the kirk, I'll gar ye tocher hame fra' work, Sae straught an' primsie; In vain the lavrock leaves the snaw, The sonsie cowslips blithely blaw, The elbucks wheep adoon the shaw, Or warl a whimsy. The cootie muircocks crousely craw, The maukins tak' their fud fu' braw, I gie their wames a random paw, For a' they're skilpy; For wha' sae glaikit, gleg an' din, To but the ben, or loup the linn, Or scraw aboon the tirlin'-pin Sae frae an' gilpie?_
_Och, snood the sporran roun' ma lap, The cairngorm clap in ilka cap, Och, hand me o'er Ma lang claymore, Twa, bannocks an' a bap, Wha hoo! Twa bannocks an' a bap!_ . . . . . . O fellow Scotsman, near and far, Renowned for health and good digestion, For all that makes you what you are,-- (But are you really? That's the question)-- Be grateful, while the world endures, That Burns was countryman of yours.
And hand-in-hand, in alien land, Foregather with your fellow cronies, To masticate the haggis (cann'd) At Scottish Conversaziones, Where, flushed with wine and Auld Lang Syne, You worship at your country's shrine!
_William Waldorf Astor_
How blest a thing it is to die For Country's sake, as bards have sung! How sweet "pro patria mori," (To quote the vulgar Latin tongue); And yet to him the palm we give Who for his fatherland can _live_.
Historians have explained to us, In terms that never can grow cold, How well the bold Horatius Played bridge in the brave days of old; And we can read of hosts of others, From Spartan boys to Roman mothers.
But nowhere has the student got, From poet, pedagogue, or pastor, The picture of a patriot So truly typical as Astor; And none has ever shown a greater Affection for his Alma Mater.
With loyalty to Fatherland His heart inflexible as starch is, Whene'er he hears upon a band The too prolific Sousa's marches; And from his eyes a tear he wipes, Each time he sees the Stars and Stripes.
Tho' others roam across the foam To European health resorts, The fact that "there's no place like home" Is foremost in our hero's thoughts; And all in vain have people tried To lure him from his "ain fireside."
Let tourists travel near or far, By wayward breezes widely blown, _He_ stops at the Astoria, "A poor thing" (Shakespeare), "but his own;" And nothing that his friends may do Can drag him from Fifth Avenue.
The Western heiress is content To scale, as a prospective bride, The bare six-story tenement Where foreign pauper peers reside; But men like Astor all disparage The so-called Morgan-attic marriage.
The rich Chicago millionaire May buy a mansion in Belgravia, Have footmen there with powdered hair And frigidly correct behaviour; But marble stairs and plate of gold Leave Astor absolutely cold.
The lofty ducal residence, That fronts some Surrey riverside, Would wound his socialistic sense, And pain his patriotic pride; He would not change for Castles Highland His cabbage-patch on Coney Island.
A statue in some Roman street, A palace of Venetian gilding, Appear to him not half so sweet As any modern Vanderbuilding; He views, without an envious throe, The wolf that suckled Romeo!
Roast beef, or frogs, or sauerkraut, Their mead of praise from some may win; Our hero cannot do without Peanuts and clams and terrapin; Away from home, his soul would lack The cocktail and the canvasback.
Not his to walk the crowded Strand; 'Mid busy London's jar and hum. On quiet Broadway he would stand, Saying "Americanus sum!" His smile so tranquil, so seraphic,-- Small wonder that it stops the traffic!
Who would not be a man like he, (This lapse of grammar pray forgive,) So simply satisfied to be, Contented with his lot to live,-- Whether or not it be, I wot, A little lot,--or quite a lot?
Content with any kind of fare, With any tiny piece of earth, So long as he can find it there Within the land that gave him birth; Content with simple beans and pork, If he may eat them in New York!
O persons who have made your pile, And spend it far across the seas, Like landlords of the Em'rald Isle, Denounced notorious absentees, I pray you imitate the Master, And stay at home like Mr. Astor!
But if you go abroad at all, And leave your fatherland behind you, Without an effort to recall The sentimental ties that bind you, I should be grateful if you could Contrive to stay away for good!
_Henry VIII_
With Stevenson we must agree, Who found the world so full of things, That all should be, or so said he, As happy as a host of Kings; Yet few so fortunate as not To envy Bluff King Henry's lot.
A polished monarch, through and through, Tho' somewhat lacking in religion, Who joined a courtly manner to The figure of a pouter pigeon; And was, at time of feast or revel A ... well ... a perfect little devil!
But tho' his vices, I'm afraid, Are hard for modern minds to swallow, Two lofty virtues he displayed, Which we should do our best to follow:-- A passion for domestic life, A cult for what is called The Wife.
He sought his spouses, North and South. Six times (to make a misquotation) He managed, at the Canon's mouth, To win a bubble reputation; And ev'ry time, from last to first, His matrimonial bubble burst!
Six times, with wide, self-conscious smile And well-blacked, button boots, he entered The Abbey's bust-congested aisle, With ev'ry eye upon him centred; Six times he heard, and not alone, The march of Mr. Mendelssohn.
Six sep'rate times (or three times twice), In order to complete the marriage, 'Mid painful show'rs of boots and rice, He sought the shelter of his carriage; Six times the bride, beneath her veil, Looked "beautiful, but somewhat pale."
Within the limits of one reign, Six females of undaunted bearing, Two Annes, three Kath'rines, and a Jane, Enjoyed the privilege of sharing A conjugal career so chequer'd It almost constitutes a record!
Yet sometimes it occurs to me That Henry missed his true vocation; A husband by profession he, A widower by occupation; And, honestly, it seems a pity He didn't live in Salt Lake City.
For there he could have put in force His plural marriage views, unbaffled; Nor had recourse to dull divorce, Nor sought the service of the scaffold; Nor looked for peace, nor found release, In any partner's predecease.
Had Henry been alive to-day, He might have hired a timely motor, And sent each wife in turn to stay Within the confines of Dakota; That State whose rigid marriage-law, Is eulogised by Bernard Shaw.
But Henry's simple days are done, And, in the present generation, A wife is seldom woo'd and won By prospects of decapitation. For nowadays when Woman weds, It is the _Men_ who lose their heads!
_Alton B. Parker_
Those Roman Fathers, long ago, Established a sublime tradition, Who gave the Man Behind the Hoe His proud proconsular position; When Cincinnatus left his hens, And beat his ploughshares into pens.
His modern prototype we see, Descended from some humble attic, The Presidential nominee Of those whose views are Democratic; From Millionaire to Billiard Marker They plumped their votes for Central Parker.
A member of the sterner sex, Possessing neither wealth nor beauty, But gifted with a really ex-- --Traordinary sense of Duty; In Honour's list I place him first,-- With Caesar's Wife and Mr. Hearst.
From childhood's day this son of toil, Since first he laid aside his rattle, Was wont to cultivate the soil, Or milk his father's kindly cattle; To groom the pigs, drive crows away, Or teach the bantams how to lay.
This sprightly lad, his parents' pet, With tastes essentially bucolic, Eschewed the straightcut cigarette, And shunned refreshments alcoholic; His simple pleasure 'twas to plumb The deep-laid joys of chewing gum.
As local pedagogue he next Attained to years of indiscretion, To preach the Solomonian text So popular with that profession, Which honours whom (and what) it teaches More in th' observance than the breeches.
The sprightly Parker soon one sees, Head of a legal institution, Enjoying huge retaining fees As counsel for the prosecution. (Advice to lawyers, _meum non est_,-- Get on, get honour, then get honest!)
Behold him, then, like comet, shoot Beyond the bounds of birth or station, And gain, as jurist of repute, A continental reputation. (Don't mix him with that "Triple Star" Which lights a more unworthy "bar.")
A proud position now is his, A judge, arrayed in moral ermine, As from the Bench he sentences His fellow-man, and other vermin, And does his duty to his neighbour, By giving him six months' hard labour.
On knotty questions of finance He bears aloft the golden standard, For he whose motto is "Advance!" To baser coin has never pandered. No eulogist of War is he, "Retrenchment!" is his _dernier cri_.
But tho', to his convictions true, With strength like concentrated Eno, He did his very utmost to Emancipate the Filipino, A fickle public chose Another, Who called the Coloured Coon his Brother.
_Euclid_
When Egypt was a first-class Pow'r-- When Ptolemy was King, that is, Whose benefices used to show'r On all the local charities, And by his liberal subscriptions Was always spoiling the Egyptians--
The Alexandrine School enjoyed A proud and primary position For training scholars not devoid Of geometric erudition; Where arithmetical fanatics Could even _live_ in (mathem)-attics.
The best informed Historians name This Institution the possessor Of one who occupied with fame The post of principal Professor, Who had a more expansive brain Than any man--before Hall Caine.
No complex sums of huge amounts Perplexed his algebraic knowledge; With ease he balanced the accounts Of his (at times insolvent) College; He was, without the least romance, A very Blondin of Finance.
In pencil, on his shirt-cuff, he, Without a moment's hesitation, Elucidated easily The most elab'rate calculation (His washing got, I needn't mention, The local laundry's best attention).
Behind a manner mild as mouse, Blue-spectacled and inoffensive, He hid a judgment and a _nous_ As overwhelming as extensive, And cloaked a soul immune from wrong Beneath an ample ong-bong-pong.
To rows of conscientious youths, Whom 'twas his duty to take care of, He loved to prove the truth of truths Which they already were aware of; They learnt to look politely bored, Where modern students would have snored.
To show that Two and Two make Four, That All is greater than a Portion, Requires no dialectic lore, Nor any cerebral contortion; The public's faith in facts was steady, Before the days of Mrs. Eddy.
But what was hard to overlook (From which Society still suffers) Was all the trouble Euclid took To teach the game of Bridge to duffers. Insisting, when he got a quorum, On "_Pons_" (he called it) "_Asinorum_."
The guileless methods of his game Provoked his partner's strongest strictures; He hardly knew the cards by name, But realised that some had pictures; Exhausting ev'rybody's patience By his perpetual revocations.
For weary hours, in deep concern, O'er dummy's hand he loved to linger, Denoting ev'ry card in turn, With timid indecisive finger; And stopped to say, at each delay, "I really don't know _what_ to play!"
He sought, at any cost, to win His ev'ry suit in turn unguarding; He trumped his partner's "best card in," His own egregiously discarding; Remarking sadly, when in doubt, "I quite forgot the King was out!"
Alert opponents always knew, By what the look upon his face was, When safety lay in leading through, And where, of course, the fatal ace was; Assuring the complete successes Of bold but hazardous "finesses."
But nowadays we find no trace, From distant Assouan to Cairo, To mark the place where dwelt a race Mistaught by so absurd a tyro; And nothing but occult inscriptions Recall the sports of past Egyptians.
Yes, "_autre temps_" and "_autre moeurs_," "_Ou sont_ indeed _les neiges d'antan_?" The modern native much prefers Debauching in some _cafe chantant_, Nor ever shows the least ambition To solve a single Proposition.
O Euclid, luckiest of men! You knew no English interloper; For Allah's Garden was not then The pleasure-ground of Alleh Sloper, Nor (broth-like) had your country's looks Been spoilt by an excess of "Cooks."
The Nile to your untutored ears Discoursed in dull but tender tones; Not yours the modern Dahabeahs, Supplied with strident gramophones, Imploring, in a loud refrain, Bill Bailey to come home again.
Your cars, the older-fashioned sort, And drawn, perhaps, by alligators, Were not the modern Juggernaut- Child-dog-and-space-obliterators, Those "stormy petrols" of the land Which deal decease on either hand.
No European tourist wags Defiled the desert's dusky face With orange peel and paper bags, Those emblems of a cultured race; Or cut the noble name of Jones, On tombs which held a monarch's bones.
O Euclid! Could you see to-day The sunny clime you once frequented, And note the way we moderns play The game you thoughtfully invented, The knowledge of your guilt would force yer To feelings of internal nausea!
_J. M. Barrie_