Misrepresentative Women
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Publishers’ Preface
Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waitedFor such viands as your poet can provide,(Which, as critics have occasionally stated,Must be trying to a delicate inside,)Once again are opportunities affordedOf a banquet, or a déjeuner at least,Once again your toleration is rewardedBy a literary feast!You may think that Rudyard Kipling’s work is stronger,Or that Chaucer’s may be rather more mature;Byron’s lyrics are indubitably longer,Robert Browning’s just a trifle more obscure;But ’tis certain that no poems are politer,Or more fitted for perusal in the home,Than the verses of the unassuming writerOf this memorable tome!Austin Dobson is a daintier performer,Andrew Lang is far more scholarly and wise,Mr. Swinburne can, of course, be somewhat warmer,Alfred Austin more amusing, if he tries;But there’s no one in the world (and well you know it!)Who can emulate the bard of whom we speak,For the literary methods of our poetAre admittedly unique!Tho’ he shows no sort of penitence at breakingEv’ry rule of English grammar and of style,(Not a rhyme is too atrocious for his making,Not a metre for his purpose is too vile!)Tho’ his treatment is essentially destructive,And his taste a thing that no one can admire,There is something incontestably seductiveIn the music of his lyre!Gentle Reader, some apologies are neededFor depositing this volume on your desk,Since the author has undoubtedly exceededAll the limits of legitimate burlesque,And we look with very genuine affectionTo a Public who, for better or for worse,Will relieve us of this villainous collectionOf abominable verse!Eve
I always love to picture Eve,Whatever captious critics say,As one who was, as I believe,The nicest woman of her day;Attractive to the outward view,And such a perfect lady too!Unselfish, – that one can’t dispute,Recalling her intense delight,When she acquired some novel fruit,In giving all her friends a bite;Her very troubles she would shareWith those who happened to be there.Her wardrobe, though extremely small,Sufficed a somewhat simple need;She was, if anything at all,A trifle underdressed, indeed,And never visited a playIn headgear known as “matinée.”Possessing but a single beau,With only one affaire de cœur,She promptly married, as we know,The man who first proposed to her;Not for his title or his pelf,But simply for his own sweet self.He loved her madly, at first sight;His callow heart was quite upset;He thought her nearly, if not quite,The sweetest soul he’d ever met;She found him charming – for a man,And so their young romance began.Their wedding was a trifle tame —A purely family affair —No guests were asked, no pressmen cameTo interview the happy pair;No crowds of curious strangers bored them,The “Eden Journal” quite ignored them.They had the failings of their class,The faults and foibles of the youthful;She was inquisitive, alas!And he was – not exactly truthful;But never was there man or womanSo truly, so intensely human!And, hand in hand, from day to day,They lived and labored, man and wife;Together hewed their common wayAlong the rugged path of Life;Remaining, though the seasons pass’d,Friends, lovers, to the very last.So, side by side, they shared, these two,The sorrow and the joys of living;The Man, devoted, tender, true,The Woman, patient and forgiving;Their common toil, their common weather,But drew them closelier still together.And if they ever chanced to grieve,Enduring loss, or suff’ring pain,You may be certain it was EveBrought comfort to their hearts again;If they were happy, well I know,It was the Woman made them so.······And though the anthropologistMay mention, in his tactless way,That Adam’s weaknesses existAmong our modern Men to-day,In Women we may still perceiveThe virtues of their Mother Eve!Lady Godiva
In the old town of Coventry, so people say,Dwelt a Peer who was utterly lacking in pity;Universally loathed for the rigorous wayThat he burdened the rates of the City.By his merciless methods of petty taxation,The poor were reduced to the verge of starvation.But the Earl had a wife, whom the people adored,For her kindness of heart even more than her beauty,And her pitiless lord she besought and imploredTo remit this extortionate “duty”;But he answered: “My dear, pray reflect at your leisure,What you deem a ‘duty,’ to me is a pleasure!”At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm,And she closed her entreaties, one day, by exclaiming: —“If you take off the tax, I will gladly performAny task that you like to be naming!”“Well, if that be the case,” said the nobleman, “I’ve aGood mind just to test you, my Lady Godiva!“To your wishes, my dear, I will straight acquiesce,On the single condition – I give you fair warning —That you ride through the City, at noon, in the dressThat you wear in your bath of a morning!”“Very well!” she replied. “Be it so! Though you drive aHard bargain, my lord,” said the Lady Godiva.So she slipped off her gown, and her shoulders lay bare,Gleaming white like the moon on Aonian fountains;When about them she loosened her curtain of hair,’Twas like Night coming over the mountains!And she blushed, ’neath the veil of her wonderful tresses,As blushes the Morn ’neath the Sun’s first caresses!Then she went to the stable and saddled her steed,Who erected his ears, till he looked like a rabbit,He was somewhat surprised, as he might be, indeed,At the lady’s unusual “habit”;But allowed her to mount in the masculine way,For he couldn’t say “No,” and he wouldn’t say “Neigh!”So she rode through the town, in the heat of the sun,For the weather was (luckily) warm as the Tropics,And the people all drew down their blinds – except one,On the staff of the local “Town Topics.”(Such misconduct produced in the eyes of this vile oneA cataract nearly as large as the Nile one!)Then Godiva returned, and the Earl had to yield,(And the paralyzed pressman dictated his cable;)The tax was remitted, the bells were repealed,And the horse was returned to the stable;While banners were waved from each possible quarter,Except from the flat of the stricken reporter.Now the Moral is this – if I’ve fathomed the tale(Though it needs a more delicate pen to explain it): —You can get whatsoever you want, without fail,If you’ll sacrifice all to obtain it.You should try to avoid unconventional capers,And be sure you don’t write for Society papers.Miss Marie Corelli
A very Woman among Men!Her pæans, sung in ev’ry quarter,Almost persuade Le GallienneTo go and get his hair cut shorter;When Kipling hears her trumpet-noteHe longs to don a petticoat.Her praise is sung by old or young,From Happy Hampstead to Hoboken,Where’er old England’s mother-tongueIs (ungrammatically) spoken:In that supremely simple setWhich loves the penny novelette.When Anglo-Saxon peoples kneelBefore their literary idol,It makes all rival authors feelDepressed and almost suicidal;They cannot reach within a mileOf her sublime suburban style.Her modest, unobtrusive ways,In sunny Stratford’s guide-books graven,Her brilliance, lighting with its raysThe birthplace of the Swan of Avon,Must cause the Bard as deep a painAs his resemblance to Hall Caine.Mere ordinary mortals ask,With no desire for picking quarrels,Who gave her the congenial taskOf judging other people’s morals?Who bade her flay her fellow-menWith such a frankly feline pen?And one may seek, and seek in vain.The social set she loves to mention,Those offspring of her fertile brain,Those creatures of her fond invention.(She is, or so it would appear,Unlucky in her friends, poor dear!)For tho’, like her, they feel the swayOf claptrap sentimental glamour,And frequently, like her, give wayTo lapses from our English grammar,The victims of her diatribesAre not the least as she describes.To restaurants they seldom go,Just for the sake of over-eating;While ladies don’t play bridge, you know,Entirely for the sake of cheating;And husbands can be quite nice men,And wives are faithful, now and then.Were she to mingle with her inkA little milk of human kindness,She would not join, I dare to think,To chronic social color-blindnessAn outlook bigoted and narrowAs that of some provincial sparrow.But still, perhaps, it might affectHer literary circulation,If she were tempted to neglectHer talent for vituperation;Since work of this peculiar kindDelights the groundling’s curious mind.For while, of course, from day to day,Her popularity increases,As, in an artless sort of way,She tears Society to pieces,Her sense of humor, so they tell us,Makes even Alfred Austin jealous!Yet even bumpkins, by and by,(Such is the spread of education)May view with cold, phlegmatic eyeThe fruits of her imagination,And learn to temper their devotionWith slight, if adequate, emotion.·····Dear Miss Corelli: – Should your eyesPeruse this page (’tis my ambition!),Be sure that I apologizeIn any suitable positionFor having weakly imitatedThe style that you yourself created.I cannot fancy to attainTo heights of personal invectiveWhich you, with subtler pen and brain,Have learnt to render so effective;I follow dimly in your trail;Forgive me, therefore, if I fail!Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy
Have you a pain all down your back?A feeling of intense prostration?Are you anæmic, for the lackOf proper circulation?With bloodshot eye and hand unsteady?Pray send at once for Mrs. Eddy.The Saint and Prophetess is sheOf what is known as Christian Science;And you can lean on Mrs. E.With absolute reliance;For she will shortly make it plainThat there is no such thing as pain.The varied ailments on your listWhich cause you such extreme vexationAre nothing more, she will insist,Than mere imagination.’Tis so with illness or disease;Nothing exists … except her fees!A friend of mine had not been taughtThis doctrine, I regret to say.He fell downstairs, or so he thought,And broke his neck, one day.Had Mrs. Eddy come along,She could have shown him he was wrong.She could have told him (or his wraith)That stairs and necks have no existence,That persons with sufficient faithCan fall from any distance,And that he wasn’t in the leastWhat local papers called “deceased.”Of ills to which the flesh is heirShe is decidedly disdainful;But once, or so her friends declare,Her teeth became so painfulThat, tho’ she knew they couldn’t be,She had them taken out, to see.Afflictions of the lame or halt,Which other people view with terror,To her denote some moral fault,Some form of mental error.While doctors probe or amputate,She simply heals you while you wait.My brother, whom you may have seen,Possessed a limp, a very slight one;His leg, the left, had always beenMuch shorter than the right one;But Mrs. Eddy came his way,And … well, just look at him to-day!At healing she had grown so deftThat when she finished with my brother,His crippled leg, I mean the left,Was longer than the other!And now he’s praying, day and night,For faith to lengthen out the right.So let it be our chief concernTo set diseases at defiance,Contriving, as the truths we learnOf so-called Christian Science,To live from illnesses exempt, —Or else to die in the attempt!Mrs. Grundy
When lovely Woman stoops to smoke(A vice in which she often glories),Or sees the somewhat doubtful jokeIn after-dinner stories,Who is it to her bedroom rushesTo hide the fervor of her blushes?When Susan’s skirt’s a trifle short,Or Mary’s manner rather skittish,Who is it, with a fretful snort(So typically British),Emits prolonged and startled cries,Suggestive of a pained surprise?Who is it, tell me, in effect,Who loves to centre her attentionsOn all who wilfully neglectSociety’s conventions,And seems eternally imbuedWith saponaceous rectitude?’Tis Mrs. Grundy, deaf and blindTo anything the least romantic,Combining with a narrow mindA point of view pedantic,Since no one in the world can stop herFrom thinking ev’rything improper.The picture or the marble bustAt any public exhibitionEvokes her unconcealed disgustAnd rouses her suspicion,If human forms are shown to usIn puris naturalibus.The bare, in any sense or shape.She looks upon as wrong or faulty;Piano-legs she likes to drape,If they are too décoll’té;For long with horror she has viewedThe naked Truth, for being nude.On modern manners that effaceThe formal modes of introductionShe is at once prepared to placeThe very worst construction, —And frowns, suspicious and sardonic,On friendships that are termed Platonic.The English restaurants must closeAt twelve o’clock at night on Sunday,To suit (or so we may suppose)The taste of Mrs. Grundy;On week-days, thirty minutes later,Ejected guests revile the waiter.A sense of humor she would voteThe sign of mental dissipations;She scorns whatever might promoteThe gaiety of nations;Of lawful fun she seems no fonderThan of the noxious dooblontonder!And if you wish to make her blenchAnd snap her teeth together tightly,Say something in Parisian French,And close one optic slightly.“Rien ne va plus! Enfin, alors!”She leaves the room and slams the door!O Mrs. Grundy, do, I beg,To false conclusions cease from rushing,And learn to name the human legWithout profusely blushing!No longer be (don’t think me rude)That unalluring thing, the prude!No more patrol the world, I pray,In search of trifling social errors,Let “What will Mrs. Grundy say?”No longer have its terrors;Leave diatribe and objurgationTo Mrs. Chant and Carrie Nation!Mrs. Christopher Columbus
The bride grows pale beneath her veil,The matron, for the nonce, is dumb,Who listens to the tragic taleOf Mrs. Christopher Columb:Who lived and died (so says report)A widow of the herbal sort.Her husband upon canvas wingsWould brave the Ocean, tempest-tost;He had a cult for finding thingsWhich nobody had ever lost,And Mrs. C. grew almost franticWhen he discovered the Atlantic.But nothing she could do or sayWould keep her Christopher at home;Without delay he sailed awayAcross what poets call “the foam,”While neighbors murmured, “What a shame!”And wished their husbands did the same.He ventured on the highest C’sThat reared their heads above the bar,Knowing the compass and the quaysLike any operatic star;And funny friends who watched him do soWould call him “Robinson Caruso.”But Mrs. C. remained indoors,And poked the fire and wound the clocks,Amused the children, scrubbed the floors,Or darned her absent husband’s socks.(For she was far too sweet and wiseTo darn the great explorer’s eyes.)And when she chanced to look aroundAt all the couples she had known,And realized how few had foundA home as peaceful as her own,She saw how pleasant it may beTo wed a chronic absentee.Her husband’s absence she enjoyed,Nor ever asked him where he went,Thinking him harmlessly employedDiscovering some Continent.Had he been always in, no doubt,Some day she would have found him out.And so he daily left her sideTo travel o’er the ocean far,And she who, like the bard, had triedTo “hitch her wagon to a star,”Though she was harnessed to a comet,Got lots of satisfaction from it.To him returning from the WestShe proved a perfect anti-dote,Who loosed his Armour (beef compress’d)And sprayed his “automobile throat”;His health she kept a jealous eye on,And played PerUna to his lion!And when she got him home again,And so could wear the jewels rareWhich Isabella, Queen of Spain,Entrusted to her husband’s care,Her monetary wealth was “farBeyond the dreams of caviar!”·····A melancholy thing it isHow few have known or understoodThe manifold advantagesOf such herbaceous widowhood!(What is it ruins married livesBut husbands … not to mention wives?)O wedded couples of to-day,Pray take these principles to heart,And copy the Columbian wayOf living happily apart.And so, to you, at any rate,Shall marriage be a “blessèd state.”Dame Rumor
I should like to remark that Dame RumorIs the most unalluring of jades.She has little or no sense of humor,And her fables are worse than George Ade’s.(Or rather, I mean, if the reader prefers,That the fables of Ade are much better than hers!)Her appearance imbues one with loathing,From her jaundiced, malevolent eyesTo the tinsel she cares to call clothing,Which is merely a patchwork of lies.For her garments are such that a child could see through,And her blouse (need I add?) is the famed Peek-a-boo!She is wholly devoid of discretion,She is utterly wanting in tact,She’s a gossip by trade and profession,And she much prefers fiction to fact.She is seldom veracious, and always unkind,And she moves to and fro with the speed of the wind.She resembles the men who (’tis fabled)Tumble into the Packingtown vats,Who are boiled there, and bottled, and labelledFor the tables of true democrats:Pickled souls who are canned for the public to buy,And (like her) have a finger in every pie!With a step that is silent and stealthy,Or an earsplitting clamor and noise,She disturbs the repose of the wealthy,Or the peace which the pauper enjoys.And, however securely the doors may be shut,She can always gain access to palace or hut.Where the spinsters at tea are collected,Her arrival is hailed with delight;She is welcomed, adored, and respectedIn each newspaper office at night;For her presence imprints an original sealOn an otherwise commonplace journal or meal.She has nothing in common with Virtue,And with Truth she was never allied;If she hasn’t yet managed to hurt you,It can’t be from not having tried!For the poison of adders is under her tongue,And you’re lucky indeed, if you’ve never been stung.Are you statesman, or author, or artist,With a perfectly blameless career?Are your talents and wits of the smartest,And your conscience abnormally clear?“He’s a saint!” says Dame Rumor, and smiles like the Sphinx.“He’s a hero!” (She adds:) “What a pity he drinks!”Gentle Reader, keep clear of her clutches!O beware of her voice, I entreat!Be you journalist, dowager duchess,Or just merely the Man in the Street.And I beg of you not to encourage a jadeWho, if once she is started, can never be stayed.The Cry of the Children
[On the subject of infant education it has been suggested that more advantageous results might be obtained if, instead of filling children’s minds with such nonsense as fairy-tales, stories were read to them about Julius Cæsar.]
O my Brothers, do you hear the children weeping?Do you note the teardrops tumbling from their eyes?To the school-house they reluctantly are creeping,Discontented with the teaching it supplies.At the quality of modern educationLittle urchins may with justice look askance,Since it panders to a child’s imagination,And encourages romance.Do you see that toddling baby with a bib on,How his eyes with silent misery are dim?He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon;But his teachers give him nothing else but Grimm!What a handicap to infantile ambition!’Tis enough to make the brightest bantling fume,To be gammoned with an Andrew Lang edition,When he longs for Hume, sweet Hume!See that tiny one, what boredom he expresses!What intolerance his frequent yawns evinceOf the fairy-tales where beautiful princessesAre delivered from a dragon by a prince!How he curses the pedantic institutionWhere he can’t obtain such volumes as “Le Cid,”Or that masterpiece on “Social Evolution”By another kind of Kidd!Do you hear the children weeping, O my Brothers?They are crying for Max Müller and Carlyle.Tho’ Hans Andersen may satisfy their mothers,They are weary of so immature a style.And their time is far too brief to be expendedOn such nonsense as their “rude forefathers” read;For they know the days of sentiment are ended,And that Chivalry is dead!Oh remember that the pillars of the nationAre the children that we discipline to-day;That to give them a becoming educationYou must rear them in a reasonable way!Let us guard them from the glamour of the mystics,Who would throw a ray of sunshine on their lives!Let us feed each helpless atom on statistics,And pray Heaven he survives!Let us cast away the out-of-date traditions,Which our poets and romanticists have sung!Let us sacrifice the senseless superstitionsThat illuminate the fancies of the young!If we limit our instruction to the “reals,”We may prove to ev’ry baby from the start,The futility of cherishing idealsIn his golden little heart!The Cry of the Elders
[With steady but increasing pace the world is approaching a point at which the cleverness of the young will amount to a social problem. Already things are getting uncomfortable for persons of age and sobriety, whose notion of happiness is to ruminate a few solid and simple ideas in freedom from disturbance. —Macmillan’s Magazine.]
O my Children, do you hear your elders sighing?Do you wonder that senility should findYour encyclopædic knowledge somewhat tryingTo the ordinary mind?In the heyday of a former generation,Some respect for our intelligence was shown;And it’s hard for us to cottonTo the fact that you’ve forgottenMore than we have ever known!O my Children, do you hear your elders snoring,When the “chassis” of your motors you discuss?Do you wonder that your “shop” is rather boringTo such simple souls as us?1Do you marvel that your dreary conversationShould evoke the yawns that “lie too deep for tears,”When you lecture to your bettersAbout “tanks” and “carburettors,”About “sparking-plugs” and “gears”?O my Children, in the season of your nonage,(Which delightful days no longer now exist!)We could join with other fogeys of our own ageIn a quiet game of whist.Now, at bridge, our very experts are defeatedBy some beardless but impertinent young cub,Who converts our silent tableTo a very Tow’r of Babel,At the Knickerbocker Club!O my Children, we no longer are respected!’Tis a fact we older fellows must deplore,Whose opinions and whose judgments are neglected,As they never were before.We may tender good advice to our descendants;We may offer them our money, if we will;Lo, the one shall be forsaken,And the other shall be taken(Like the women at the mill!).O my Children, note the moral (like a kernel)I have hidden in the centre of my song!Do not contradict a relative maternal,If she happens to be wrong!Be indulgent to the author of your being;Never show him the contempt that you must feel;Treat him tolerantly, rather,Since a man who is your fatherCan’t be wholly imbecile!O my Children, we, the older generation,At whose feet you ought (in theory) to sit,Are bewildered by your mental penetration,We are dazzled by your wit!But we hopefully anticipate a futureWhen the airship shall replace the motor-’bus,And your children, when they meet you,Shall inevitably treat youJust as you are treating us!An Epithalamium
LONGWORTH – ROOSEVELT, February 17th, 1906
Hail, bride and bridegroom of the West!Your troth irrevocably plighted!Your act of Union doubly blest,Your single States United,With full approval and assentOf populace and President!Let Spangled Banners wave on high,To greet the maiden as she passes!See how the proud Proconsul’s eyeGrows dim behind his glasses!How fond the heart that beats beneathThose pleated Presidential teeth!The bishop has received his cheque,The final slipper has been thrown;With rice down each respective neck,The couple stand alone.To them, at last, the fates provideA privacy so long denied.Letters and wires, from near and far,Lie thickly piled on ev’ry table;The peaceful message from the Czar,The Kaiser’s kindly cable;The well-expressed congratulationsFrom Heads of all the Sister Nations.Rich gifts, as countless as the sandThat cloaks the desert of Sahara,From fish-slice to piano (grand),From toast-rack to tiara,Still overwhelm the lucky maid(With heavy duties to be paid!).See, hand-in-hand, the couple stand!(The guests their homeward journey take,Concealing their emotion – andSome lumps of wedding cake!)How glad the happy pair must beThat Hymen’s bonds have set them free!Free of the curious Yellow Press,Free of the public’s prying gaze,Of all the troubles that obsessThe path of fiancés!Alone at last, and safely screen’dFrom onslaughts of the kodak-fiend!The Bride, who bore without demurThe wiles of artists photographic,Of vulgar crowds that gaped at her,Congesting all the traffic,Can shop, once more, in perfect peace,Without the help of the police.Arrayed in stylish trav’lling dress,Behold, with blushes she departs!The free Republican PrincessA captive Queen of Hearts!(Captive to Cupid, need I say?But Queen in ev’ry other way!)And this must surely be the hourFor Anglo-Saxons, ev’rywhere,With cousinly regard, to show’rGood wishes on the pair;Borne on the bosom of the breeze,Our blessings speed across the seas!Hail, Bride and Bridegroom of the West!(Pray pardon my redundant lyre)May your united lives be blestWith all your hearts’ desire!Accept the warm felicitationsOf fond, if distant, blood-relations!