Part 2

The briny tears unbidden start, At mention of my hero's name! Was ever set so huge a heart Within so small a frame? So much of tenderness and grace Confined in such a slender space?

(O tiniest of tiny men! So wise, so whimsical, so witty! Whose magic little fairy-pen Is steeped in human pity; Whose humour plays so quaint a tune, From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)

So wide a sympathy has he, Such kindliness without an end, That children clamber on his knee, And claim him as a friend; They somehow know he understands, And doesn't mind their sticky hands.

And so they swarm about his neck, With energy that nothing wearies, Assured that he will never check Their ceaseless flow of queries, And grateful, with a warm affection, For his avuncular protection.

And when his watch he opens wide, Or beats them all at blowing bubbles, They tell him how the dormouse died, And all their tiny troubles; And drag him, if he seems deprest, To see the baby squirrel's nest.

For hidden treasure he can dig, Pursue the Indians in the wood, Feed the prolific guinea-pig With inappropriate food; Do all the things that mattered so In happy days of long ago.

All this he can achieve, and more! For, 'neath the magic of his brain, The young are younger than before, The old grow young again, To dream of Beauty and of Truth For hearts that win eternal youth.

Fat apoplectic men I know, With well-developed Little Marys, Look almost human when they show Their faith in Barrie's fairies; Their blank lethargic faces lighten In admiration of his Crichton.

To lovers who, with fingers cold, Attempt to fan some dying ember, He brings the happy days of old, And bids their hearts remember; Recalling in romantic fashion The tenderness of earlier passion.

And modern matrons who can find So little leisure for the Nurs'ry, Whose interest in babykind Is eminently curs'ry, New views on Motherhood acquire From Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!

While men of every sort and kind, At times of sunshine or of trouble, In Sentimental Tommy find Their own amazing double; To each in turn the mem'ry comes Of some belov'd forgotten Thrums.

To Barrie's literary art That strong poetic sense is clinging Which hears, in ev'ry human heart, A "late lark" faintly singing, A bird that bears upon its wing The promise of perpetual Spring.

Materialists may labour much At problems for the modern stage; His simpler methods reach and touch The Young of ev'ry age; And first and second childhood meet On common ground at Barrie's feet!

_Omar Khayyam_

Though many a great Philosopher Has earned the Epicure's diploma, Not one of them, as I aver, So much deserved the prize as Omar; For he, without the least misgiving, Combined High Thinking and High Living.

He lived in Persia, long ago, Upon a somewhat slender pittance; And Persia is, as you may know, The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens, (A quite consistent _habitat_, Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")

He lived--as I was saying, when You interrupted, impolitely-- Not loosely, like his fellow-men, But, _vice versa_, rather tightly; And drank his share, so runs the story, And other people's, _con amore_.

A great Astronomer, no doubt, He often found some Constellation Which others could not see without Profuse internal irrigation; And snakes he saw, and crimson mice, Until his colleagues rang for ice.

Omar, who owned a length of throat As dry as the proverbial "drummer," And quite believed that (let me quote) "One swallow does not make a summer," Supplied a model to society Of frank, persistent insobriety. * * * * * Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet, Until, when indisposed for more, Your puzzled, inadhesive feet Elude the smooth revolving floor. What matter doubts, despair or sorrow? To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!

Oblivion in the bottle win, Let finger-bowls with vodka foam, And seek the Open Port within Some dignified Inebriates' Home; Assuming there, with kingly air, A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!

A book of verse (my own, for choice), A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda, A lady with a tuneful voice, Beside me in some dim pagoda! A cellar--if I had the key,-- Would be a Paradise to me!

In cosy seat, with lots to eat, And bottles of Lafitte to fracture (And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet Recalls the mode of manufacture)-- I contemplate, at easy distance, The troublous problems of existence.

For even if it could be mine To change Creation's partial scheme, To mould it to a fresh design, More nearly that of which I dream, Most probably, my weak endeavour Would make more mess of it than ever!

So let us stock our cellar shelves With balm to lubricate the throttle; For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves," So help yourself, and pass the bottle! . . . . . . What! Would you quarrel with my moral? (Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)

_Andrew Carnegie_

In Caledonia, stern and wild, Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung, Where ev'ry little barefoot child Correctly lisps his mother-tongue, And lingual solecisms betoken That Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken, There dwells a man of iron nerve, A millionaire without a peer, Possessing that supreme reserve Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, And marks him out to human ken As one of Nature's noblemen.

Like other self-made persons, he Is surely much to be excused, Since they have had no choice, you see, Of the material to be used; But when his noiseless fabric grew, He builded better than he knew.

A democrat, whose views are frank, To him Success alone is vital; He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank" As good as any other title; To him the post of postman betters The trade of other Men of Letters.

The relative who seeks to wed Some nice but indigent patrician, He urges to select instead A coachman of assured position, Since safety-matches, you'll agree, Strike only on the box, says he.

At Skibo Castle, by the sea, A splendid palace he has built, Equipped with all the luxury Of plush, of looking-glass, and gilt; A style which Ruskin much enjoyed, And christened "Early German Lloyd."

With milking-stools and ribbon'd screens The floor is covered, well I know; The walls are thick with tambourines, Hand-painted many years ago; Ah, how much taste our forbears had! And nearly all of it was bad.

Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite, Each "cosy corner" set apart, Was modelled in the Regent Street Emporium of suburban art. "O Liberty!" (I quote with shame) "The crimes committed in thy name!"

But tho' his mansion now contains A swimming-bath, a barrel-organ, Electric light, and even drains, As good as those of Mr. Morgan, There was a time when Andrew C. Was not obsessed by l. s. d.

Across the seas he made his pile, In Pittsburg, where, I've understood, You have to exercise some guile To do the very slightest good; But he kept doing good by stealth, And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.

And now his private hobby 'tis To meet a starving people's need By making gifts of libraries To those who never learnt to read; Rich mental banquets he provides For folks with famishing insides.

In Education's hallowed name He pours his opulent libations; His vast deserted Halls of Fame Increase the gaiety of nations. But still the slums are plague-infested, The hospitals remain congested. . . . . . . Carnegie, should your kindly eye This foolish book of verses meet, Please order an immense supply, To make your libraries complete, And register its author's name Within your princely Halls of Fame!

_King Cophetua_

To sing of King Cophetua I am indeed unwilling, For none of his adventures are Particularly thrilling; Nor, as I hardly need to mention, Am I addicted to invention.

The story of his roving eye, You must already know it, Since it has been narrated by Lord Tennyson, the poet; I could a moving tale unfold, But it has been so often told.

But since I wish my friends to see My early education, If Tennyson will pardon me A somewhat free translation, I'll try if something can't be sung In someone else's mother-tongue.

"Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!" So runs the story's title (An explanation, I'm afraid, Is absolutely vital), Express'd, as I need hardly mench: In 4 a.m. (or early) French:--

_Les bras poses sur la poitrine Lui fait l'apparence divine,-- Enfin elle a tres bonne mine,-- Elle arrive, ne portant pas De sabots, ni meme de bas, Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua._

_Le roi lors, couronne sur tete, Vetu de ses robes de fete, Va la rencontrer, et l'arrete. On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!" "Je ferais ca si c'etait moi!" Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!_

_Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux, Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux, Quand meme ses habits soient vieux. En voila un qui loue ses yeux, Un autre admire ses cheveux, Et tout le monde est amoureux._

_Car on n'a jamais vu la-bas Un charme tel que celui-la Alors le bon Cophetua Jure, "La pauvre mendiante, Si seduisante, si charmante, Sera ma femme,--ou bien ma tante!"_

_Joseph F. Smith_

Though, to the ordinary mind, The weight of marriage ties is such That many mere, male, mortals find One wife enough,--if not too much; I see no no reason to abuse A person holding other views.

Though most of us, at any rate, Have not acquired the plural habits, Which we are apt to delegate To Eastern potentates,--or rabbits; We should regard with open mind The more uxoriously inclined.

In Salt Lake City dwells a man Who deems monogamy a myth; (One of that too prolific clan Which glories in the name of Smith); A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator," With the appearance of a waiter.

This hoary patriarch contrives To thrive in manner most bewild'rin', With close on half a dozen wives, And nearly half a hundred children; And views with unaffrighted eyes The burden of domestic ties.

To him all spouses seem the same-- Each one a model of the Graces; He knows his children all by name, But cannot recollect their faces; A minor point, since, I suppose, Each one has got its popper's nose!

They are denied to me and you: Such old-world luxuries as his, When, after work, he hastens to The bosoms of his families (Each offspring joining with the others In, "What is Home without five Mothers?").

Such strange surroundings would retard Most ordinary men's digestions; Five ladies all conversing hard, And fifty children asking questions! Besides (the tragic final straw), Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law!

What difficulties there must be To find a telescopic mansion; For each successive family The space sufficient for expansion. ("But that," said Kipling, in his glory-- "But that is quite another storey!")

The sailor who, from lack of thought, Or else a too diffuse affection, Has, for a wife in ev'ry port, An unappeasing predilection, Would designate as "simply great!" The mode of life in Utah State.

The gay Lothario, too, who makes His mad but meaningless advances To more than one fair maid, and takes A large variety of chances, Need have no fear, in such a place, Of any breach-of-promise case.

With Mormons of the latter-day I have no slightest cause for quarrel; Nor do I doubt at all that they Are quite exceptionally moral; Their President has told us so, And he, if anyone, should know.

But tho' of folks in Utah State, But 2 percent lead plural lives, Perhaps the other 98 Are just--their children and their wives! O stern, ascetic congregation, Resisting all--except temptation!

Well, I, for one, can see no harm, Unless for trouble one were looking, In having wives on either arm, And one downstairs--to do the cooking. A touching scene; with nought to dim it. But fifty children!--That's the limit!

Some middle course would I explore; Incur a merely dual bond; One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor, And one for outdoor use, a blonde; Thus happily could I exist, A moral Mormonogamist!

_Sherlock Holmes_

The French "filou" may raise his "bock," The "Green-goods man" his cocktail, when He toast Gaboriau's Le Coq, Or Pinkerton's discreet young men; But beer in British bumpers foams Around the name of Sherlock Holmes!

Come, boon companions, all of you Who (woodcock-like) exist by suction, Uplift your teeming tankards to The great Professor of Deduction! Who is he? You shall shortly see If (Watson-like) you "follow me."

In London (on the left-hand side As you go in), stands Baker Street, Exhibited with proper pride By all policemen on the beat, As housing one whose predilection Is private criminal detection.

The malefactor's apt disguise Presents to him an easy task; His placid, penetrating eyes Can pierce the most secretive mask; And felons ask a deal too much Who fancy to elude his clutch.

No slender or exiguous clew Too paltry for his needs is found; No knot too stubborn to undo, No prey too swift to run to ground; No road too difficult to travel, No skein too tangled to unravel.

For Holmes the ash of a cigar, A gnat impinging on his eye, Possess a meaning subtler far Than humbler mortals can descry. A primrose at the river's brim No simple primrose is to him!

To Holmes a battered Brahma key, Combined with blurred articulation, Displays a man's capacity For infinite ingurgitation; Obliquity of moral vision Betrays the civic politician.

I had an uncle, who possessed A marked resemblance to a bloater, Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessed To be the victim of a motor; Whereas, his wife (or so he swore) Had merely shut him in the door!

My brother's nose, whose hectic hue Recalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf, Though friends attributed it to Some secret or domestic grief, Revealed to Holmes his deep potations, And _not_ the loss of loved relations!

I had a poodle, short and fat, Who proved a conjugal deceiver; Her offspring were a Maltese Cat, Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever! Her husband was a pure-bred Skye; And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why!

When after-dinner speakers rise, To plunge in anecdotage deep, At once will Sherlock recognise Each welcome harbinger of sleep: That voice which torpid guests entrances, That immemorial voice of Chauncey's!

Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walk All unannounced into the room, To say, like pressmen of New York, "Er--Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?" By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail, Observing that he _had no tale_.

In vain, amid the lonely state Of Zion, dreariest of havens, Does bashful Dowie emulate The prophet who was fed by ravens; To Holmes such affluence betrays A prophet who is fed by _jays_! . . . . . . With Holmes there lived a foolish man, To whom I briefly must allude, Who gloried in possessing an Abnormal mental hebetude; One could describe the grossest _betise_ To this (forgive the rhyme) Achates.

'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole, Obtusely, painfully polite; Who played the unambitious role Of parasitic satellite; Inevitably bound to bore us, Like Aristophanes's Chorus. . . . . . . But London town is sad to-day, And preternaturally solemn; The fountains murmur "Let us spray" To Nelson on his lonely column; Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is, For Holmes has given up his practice.

No more in silence, as the snake, Will he his sinuous path pursue, Till, like the weasel (when awake), Or deft, resilient kangaroo, He leaps upon his quivering quarry, Before there's time to say you're sorry.

No more will criminals, at dawn, Effecting some burglarious entry, (While Sherlock, on the garden lawn, Enacts the thankless role of sentry), Discover, to their bitter cost, That felons who are found--are lost!

No more on Holmes shall Watson base The Chronicles he proudly fabled; The violin and morphia-case Are in the passage, packed and labelled; And Holmes himself is at the door, Departing--to return no more.

He bids farewell to Baker Street, Though Watson clings about his knees; He hastens to his country seat, To spend his dotage keeping bees; And one of them, depend upon it, Shall find a haven in his bonnet!

But though in grief our heads are bowed, And tears upon our cheeks are shining, We recognise that ev'ry cloud Conceals somewhere a silver lining; And hear with deep congratulation Of Watson's timely termination.

_Aftword_

Ye Critics, who with bilious eye Peruse my incoherent medley, Prepared to let your arrows fly, With cruel aim and purpose deadly, Desist a moment, ere you spoil The harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!

Remember, should you scent afar The crusted jokes of days gone by, What conscious plagiarists we are: Moliere and Seymour Hicks and I, For, as my bearded chestnuts prove, _Je prends mon bien ou je le trouve!_

My wealth of wit I never waste On Chestertonian paradox; My humour, in the best of taste, Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks; For sacred things my rev'rent awe Resembles that of Bernard Shaw.

Behold how tenderly I treat Each victim of my pen and brain, And should I tread upon his feet, How lightly I leap off again; Observe with what an airy grace I fling my inkpot in his face!

And those who seek at Christmas time, An inexpensive gift for Mother, Will fine this foolish book of rhyme As apposite as any other, And suitable for presentation To any poor or near relation.

To those whose intellect is small, This work should prove a priceless treasure; To persons who have none at all, A never-ending fount of pleasure; A mental stimulus or tonic To all whose idiocy is chronic.

And you, my Readers (never mind Which category you come under), Will, after due reflection, find My verse a constant source of wonder; 'Twill make you _think_, I dare to swear-- But _what_ you think I do not care!

End of Project Gutenberg's More Misrepresentative Men, by Harry Graham