Misrepresentative Men

Harry Graham

Misrepresentative Men

Foreword

ALL great biographers possess,Besides a thirst for information,That talent which commands success,I mean of course Imagination;Combining with excessive TactA total disregard for Fact.Boswell and Froude, and all the rest,With just sufficient grounds to go on,Could only tell the world, at best,What Great Men did, and thought – and so on.But I, of course, can speak to youAbout the things they didn't do.I don't rely on breadth of mind,On wit or pow'rs of observation;Carnegie's libraries I findA fruitful source of inspiration;The new Encyclopædia Brit.Has helped me, too, a little bit.In any case I cannot fail,With such a range of mental vision,So deep a passion for detail,And such meticulous precision.I pity men like Sidney Lee;How jealous they must be of me!'Tis easy work to be exact,(I have no fear of contradiction),Since it has been allowed that FactIs stranger far than any Fiction;But what demands the truest witIs knowing what one should omit.Carlyle, for instance, finds no placeAmong my list of lucubrations;Because I have no wish to faceThe righteous wrath of his relations.Whatever feud they have with Froude,No one can say that I was rude.This work is written to supplyA long-felt want among Beginners;A handbook where the student's eyeMay read the lives of saints and sinners,And learn, without undue expense,The fruits of their experience.A book to buy and give away,To fill the youthful with ambition,For even they may hope, some day,To share the Author's erudition;So not in vain, nor void of gain,The work of his colossal brain.

Theodore Roosevelt

ALERT as bird or early worm,Yet gifted with those courtly waysWhich connoisseurs correctly termThe tout-c'qu'-il-y-a de Louis seize;He reigns, by popular assent,The People's peerless President!Behold him! Squarely built and small;With hands that would resemble Liszt's,Did they not forcibly recallThe contour of Fitzsimmons' fists;Beneath whose velvet gloves you feelThe politician's grip of steel.Accomplished as a King should be,And autocratic as a Czar,To him all classes bow the knee,In spotless Washington afar;And while his jealous rivals scoff,He wears the smile-that-won't-come-off.In him combined we critics findThe diplomatic skill of Choate,Elijah Dowie's breadth of mind,And Chauncey's fund of anecdote;He joins the morals of SusannahTo Dr. Munyon's bedside manner.The rugged virtues of his raceHe softens with a Dewey's tact,Combining Shafter's easy graceWith all Bourke Cockran's love of fact;To Dooley's pow'rs of observationHe adds the charms of Carrie Nation.In him we see a devoteeOf what is called the "simpler life"(To tell the naked Truth, and beContented with a single wife).Luxurious living he abhors,And takes his pleasures out of doors.And, since his sole delight and prideAre exercise and open air,His spirit chafes at being tiedAll day to an official chair;The bell-boys (in the room beneath)Can hear him gnash his serried teeth.In summertime he can't resistA country gallop on his cob,So, like a thorough altruist,He lets another do his job;In winter he will work all day,But when the sun shines he makes Hay.And thus, in spite of office ties,He manages to take a lotOf healthy outdoor exercise,Where other Presidents have not;As I can prove by drawing yourAttention to his carte du jour.At 6 a.m. he shoots a bear,At 8 he schools a restive horse,From 10 to 4 he takes the air, —(He doesn't take it all, of course);And then at 5 o'clock, maybe,Some colored man drops in to tea.At intervals throughout the dayHe sprints around the house, or ifHis residence is Oyster Bay,He races up and down the cliff;While seagulls scream about his legs,Or hasten home to hide their eggs.A man of deeds, not words, is he,Who never stooped to roll a log;Agile as fond gazelle or flea,Sagacious as an indoor dog;In him we find a spacious mind,"Uncribb'd, uncabin'd, unconfin'd."In martial exploits he delights,And has no fear of War's alarms;The hero of a hundred fights,Since first he was a child (in arms);Like battle-horse, when bugles bray,He champs his bit and tries to neigh.And if the Army of the StateIs always in such perfect trim,Well-organized and up to date,This grand result is due to him;For while his country reaped the fruit,'Twas he alone could reach the Root.And spite of jeers that foes have hurled,No problems can his soul perplex;He lectures women of the worldUpon the duties of their sex,And with unfailing courage thrustsHis spoke within the wheels of trusts.No private ends has he to serve,No dirty linen needs to wash;A man of quite colossal nerve,Who lives sans peur et sans reproche;In modo suaviter maybe,But then how fortiter in re!A lion is his crest, you know,Columbia stooping to caress it,With vi et armis writ below,Nemo impune me lacessit;His motto, as you've read already,Semper paratus– always Teddy!

Bacon

IN far Elizabethan days(Ho! By my Halidome! Gadzooks!)Lord Bacon wrote his own essays,And lots of other people's books;Annexing as a pseudonymEach author's name that suited him.All notoriety he'd shirk,Nor sought for literary credit,Although the best of Shakespeare's workWas his. (For Mrs. Gallup said it,And she, poor lady, I suppose,Has read the whole of it, and knows.)Such was his kind, unselfish plan,That he allowed a rude, unshaven,Ill-educated actor manTo style himself the Bard of Avon;Altho' 'twas he and not this fellowWho wrote "The Tempest" and "Othello."For right throughout his works there isA cipher hid, which makes it certainThat all Pope's "Iliad" is his,And the "Anatomy" of Burton;There's not a volume you can nameTo which he has not laid a claim.He is responsible, I wot,For Euclid's lucid demonstrations,The early works of Walter Scott,And the Aurelian "Meditations";Also "The House with Seven Gables"And most of Æsop's (so-called) Fables.And once, when he annoyed the Queen,And wished to gain the royal pardon,He wrote his masterpiece; I meanThat work about her German Garden;And published, just before his death,The "Visits of Elizabeth."Yet peradventure we are wrong,For just as probable the chance isThat all these volumes may belongTo someone else, and not to Francis.I think, – tho' I may be mistaken, —That Shakespeare wrote the works of Bacon.MORALIf you approach the Mosque of Fame,And seek to climb its tallest steeple,Just lodge a literary claimAgainst the works of other people.And though the Press may not receive it,A few old ladies will believe it.For instance, I of proof could bringSufficient to convince the laymanThat I had written ev'rythingAttributed to Stanley Weyman.In common justice I should pocketThe royalties of S. R. Crockett.And anyone can plainly see,Without the wit of Machiavelli,That "Hall Caines look alike to me,"Since I am Ouida and Corelli.Yes, I am Rudyard Kipling, truly,And the immortal Mr. Dooley.

Adam

IN History he holds a placeUnique, unparalleled, sublime;"The First of all the Human Race!"Yes, that was Adam, all the time.It didn't matter if he burst,He simply had to get there first.A simple Child of Nature he,Whose life was primitive and rude;His wants were few, his manners free,All kinds of clothing he eschewed, —He might be seen in any weather,In what is called "the Altogether!"The luxuries that we enjoyHe never had, so never missed;Appliances that we employFor saving work did not exist;He would have found them useless too,Not having any work to do.He never wrote a business note;He had no creditors to pay;He was not pestered for his vote,Not having one to give away;And, living utterly alone,He did not need a telephone.The joys of indolence he knew,In his remote and peaceful clime,He did just what he wanted to,Nor ever said he "hadn't time!"(And this was natural becosHe had whatever time there was.)His pulse was strong, his health was good,He had no fads of meat or drink,Of tonic waters, Breakfast Food,Or Pills for Persons who are Pink;No cloud of indigestion layAcross the sunshine of his day.And, when he went to bed each night,He made his couch upon the soil;The glow-worms gave him all his light,(He hadn't heard of Standard Oil); —At dawn he woke, – then slept again,He never had to catch a train!A happy, solitary life!But soon he found it dull, I ween,So thought that he would like a wife, —When Eve appeared upon the scene.∗ ∗ ∗And we will draw a kindly veilOver the sequel to this tale.MORALYe Bachelors, contented beWith what the future holds for you;Pity the married man, for heHas nothing to look forward to, —To hunger for with bated breath! —∗ ∗ ∗(Nothing, that is to say, but Death!)

Joan of Arc

FROM Pimlico to Central Park,From Timbuctoo to Rotten Row,Who has not heard of Joan of Arc,His tragic tale who does not know?And how he put his life to stake,For Principle and Country's sake?This simple person of LorraineHad thoughts for nothing but Romance,And longed to see a king againUpon the battered throne of France;(With Charles the Seventh crowned at Rheims,He realized his fondest dreams.)Then came the fight at Compiègne,Where he was captured by the foe,And lots of vulgar foreign menCaught hold and wouldn't let him go."Please don't!" he begged them, in despair,"You're disarranging all my hair."Unmoved by grace of form or face,These brutes, whose hearts were quite opaque,At Rouen, in the market-place,Secured him tightly to a stake;(Behaviour which cannot be viewedAs other than extremely rude.)Poor Joan of Arc, of course, was boundTo be the centre of the show,When, having piled the faggots round,They lit him up and let him go.(Which surely strikes the modern mindAs thoughtless, not to say unkind.)But tho' he died, his deathless nameIn Hist'ry holds a noble place,And brings the blush of conscious shameTo any Anglo-Saxon face.Perfidious truly was the nationWhich caused his premature cremation!∗ ∗ ∗I showed these verses to a friend,Inviting him to criticise;He read them slowly to the end,Then asked me, with a mild surprise,"What was your object," he began,"In making Joan of Arc a man?"I hastened to the libraryWhich kind Carnegie gave the town,Searched Section B. (Biography.)And took six bulky volumes down;Then studied all one livelong night,And found (alas!) my friend was right.I'm sorry; for it gives me painTo think of such a waste of rhyme.I'd write the poem all again,Only I can't afford the time;It's rather late to change it now, —I can't be bothered anyhow.

Paderewski

WHILE other men of "note" have hadA certain local reputation,They never could compare with Pad, —(Forgive this terse abbreviation), —Loot: Orpheus may have been All Right;Cap: Paderewski's Out of Sight!No lunatic, competing inThe game of Arctic exploration,Can ever really hope to winMore pleasures of anticipationThan he who fixes as his goalSo satisfactory a Pole.The grand piano is his forte,And when he treads upon its pedals,Weak women weep, and strong men snort,While Cuban veterans (with medals)Grow kind of bleary-eyed and soppy;And journalists forget their "copy."And as he makes the key-board smart,Or softly on its surface lingers,He plays upon the public's heart,And holds it there beneath his fingers;Caresses, teases, pokes or squeezes, —Does just exactly as he pleases.And oh! the hair upon his head!Hay-coloured, with a touch of Titian!He's under contract, so 'tis said,To keep it in this wild condition;All those who wish for thatch like Pad'sShould buy —(This space To Let for Ads.)On concert platforms he performs,Where ladies, (matrons, maids or misses),Surround his feet in perfect swarms,And try to waft him fat damp kisses;Till he takes refuge in his hair,And sits serenely smiling there.He draws the tear-drop to the eyeOf dullest dude or quaintest Quaker;The instrument he plays is byThe very best piano-maker,Whose name, I hope you won't forget,Is —(Once again, this space To Let.)Before the style of his technique,The science of his execution,The blackest criminal grows weakAnd makes a moral resolution;Requiring all his strength of willBefore he even robs a till.Rough soldiers, from the seat of war, —(I never understood what "seat" meant) —Have ceased to swear or hit the jarAfter a course of Rooski's treatment.'Tis more persuasive and as sureAs (shall we say?) the Water-cure!Thus on triumphantly he goes, —A long succession of successes, —And nobody exactly knowsJust how much income he possesses;He makes sufficient (if not more)To keep the wolf from the stage-door.And when he plays a "Polonaise,"(His own unrivalled composition),The entertainment well repaysThe prices charged one for admission;But still, as ladies all declare,His crowning glory is his hair!

William Tell

ALL persons who, by way of joke,Point loaded guns at one another,(A state of things which ends in smoke,And murder of an aunt or brother,)Will find that it repays them wellTo note the tale of William Tell.He was a patriotic Swiss,Whose skill was such with bow and arrow,He never had been known to missA target, howsoever narrow;His archery could well defyThe needle or the camel's eye.And when the hated AustrianInvaded his belovéd country,This simple man at once beganTo treat the foe with calm effront'ry,And gave a sporting exhibition,To which he charged ten cents admission.He set his son against a tree,Upon his head an apple placing,Next measured paces thirty-three,And turned about, his offspring facing,Then chose an arrow, drew his bow, —(And all the people murmured "Oh!")No sound disturbed the morning air,(You could have heard a tea-tray falling,)Save in the virgin forest, whereA chipmunk to his mate was calling,Where sang the giddy martingale,Or snaffle woo'd the genial quail.But, drowning cry of beast or bird,There rose the hush of expectation;No whispered converse, not a wordFrom the surrounding population;A tactful silence, as of death,While people held each other's breath.The bow rang out, the arrow sped!Before a man could turn completely,All scatheless shone the offspring's head,The apple lay divided neatly!The ten-cent public gave a roar,And appleplectic shrieked "En-core."They kissed the hero, clasped his hand,In search of autographs pursued him,Escorted with the local band,Cheered, banqueted and interviewed him,Demanding how he shot so well;But simple William would not Tell.The Austrians, without a word,Retired at once across the border,And thence on William they conferredTwo medals and a foreign order,(And tactfully addressed the bill"Hereditary Arch-Duke Will.")And, in the piping times of peace,Such luxury his life was wrapt in,He got the chief-ship of police,(And made his son a Precinct Captain),Wore celluloid white cuffs and collars,And absolutely rolled in dollars.Still, to the end, whenever WillWith fiscal problems had to grapple,He called to mind his offspring's skillAt balancing the homely apple,And made him use his level headAt balancing accounts instead.

Diogenes

HE stopped inside a tub, from choice,But otherwise was well-conducted,Altho' he raised a rasping voiceTo persons who his view obstructed,And threw a boot at anyoneWho robbed him of his patch of sun.And thus he lived, without expense,Arrayed in somewhat scant apparel,His customary residenceThe limits of an empty barrel;(His spirits would perforce be good,Maturing slowly "in the wood.")With lamp alight he sought at nightFor honest men, his ruling passion;But either he was short of sight,Or honest men were out of fashion;He never found one, so he said; —They probably were all in bed.At last, when he was very old,He got abducted by a pirate,And to a man of Corinth sold,At an exorbitantly high rate;His owner called him "Sunny Jim,"And made an indoor pet of him.And soon, as one may well suppose,He learnt the very choicest manners,Could balance sugar on his nose,Or sit right up and smoke Havanas,Or swim into the pond for sticks, —There was no limit to his tricks.He never tasted wine nor meat,But ate, in full and plenteous measure,Grape-Nuts and Force and Shredded Wheat,Pretending that they gave him pleasure.At length, at eighty-nine, he died,Of a too strenuous inside.Had but this worthy cynic beenA member of our favoured nation,Niagara he might have seen,And realised a new sensation,If he had set himself the taskTo brave the Rapids in his cask.Or if his ghost once more began,With lighted lamp, his ancient mission,And searched the city for a manWhose honesty outsoared suspicion,We could provide him, in New York,A nice (if somewhat lengthy) walk.MORALTho' thumping tubs is easy work,With which no critic cares to quarrel,There may be charms about a Turk,Policemen even may be moral;And, tho' they never get found out,There are some honest men about.

Sir Thomas Lipton

OF all the sportsmen now afloatUpon the waters of this planet,No better ever manned a boat,(Or paid another man to man it,)And won a kindly public's heartLike dear Sir Thomas Lipton, Bart.Behind a counter, as a child,He woo'd Dame Fortune, fair but fickle,Until at last one day she smiledUpon his spices and his pickle;And all the world rejoiced to seePlain Thomas Lipton made "Sir Tea."He won the trade, his name was made;In country-house or London gutter,All classes found his marmaladeA perfect "substitute for butter."His jam in loudest praise was sung,His sauces were on ev'ry tongue.He built a yacht; that is to say,He paid another man to build it;With all the patents of the day,Regardless of the cost, he filled it;And hired, which was expensive too,At least three Captains and a crew.And, being properly brought up,A member of that sober nation,Which ever loves to raise the cupThat cheers without inebriation,He saw an op'ning if he tookHis lifting pow'rs to Sandy Hook.And there his hospitalityWas always welcome to the masses;As on the good ship "Erin" heProvided luncheons for all classes;Where poets, publicans and peers,Retained his spoons as souvenirs.But tho' each boat of his that sailedWas like the last one, only better,To lift the cup she always failed, —Because the Yankees wouldn't let her.(A state of things which was not quite,What Englishmen would term, polite!)His efforts were alas! in vain,He couldn't beat the pot defender,Again he tried, and yet again, —He might as well have sailed a tender!At last he cried "I give it up!America can keep her cup!""For She, and she alone, has gotThe proper breed of modern Yachtsmen!If only I had hired a lotOf Swedes, Norwegians and Scotsmen,I might have met, with calm defiance,The crew on which She placed Reliance."But, as the matter stands, insteadOf knowing what a well-fought fight is,I'm fêted, dined and banqueted,Until I get appendicitis!And probably shall end my lifeBy marrying a Yankee wife!"I felt it when the line was crost,I hold it true, whate'er befall,'Tis better to have luffed and lost,Than never to have luffed at all!My shareholders must be contentWith such a good advertisement."

Marat

IT is impossible to doThree diff'rent kinds of things at once;A fact that must be patent toThe brain-pan of the dullest dunce;Yet Marat somehow never knew it,And died in an attempt to do it.A Revolutionist was he;The People's Friend, – they called him so, —And many such there used to beIn France, a hundred years ago.(For further notice see Carlyle, —If you can grapple with his style.)His manners were so debonnair,He took a hip-bath ev'ry day;Would sit and write his letters there,In quite an unselfconscious way;And, if you wished to interview him,His housekeeper would take you to him.But Charlotte Corday came along,A Norman noble's nobler daughter,Intent to Right her Country's Wrong,And put an end to ceaseless slaughter;In Marat she descried a victim, —So bought a knife and promptly pricked him!Poor Marat, who (as was his wont)Was planning further Revolutions,The while he washed, exclaimed, "Oh, don't!"You're interrupting my ablutions!"I can't escape; it isn't fair!"A sponge is all I have to wear!"But Charlotte firmly answered "Bosh!"(How could she so forget good breeding?)"While you sit there and calmly wash,The noblest hearts in France are bleeding!"Then jabbed him in those vital placesWhere ordinary men wear braces!So perished Marat. In his wayTo prove a lesson, apt and scathing,From which young people of to-dayMay learn the dangers of mixed bathing,And shun the thankless operationOf sponging on a rich relation.MORALYe democrats, who plan and plotSchemes to decapitate your betters,Remember that a bath is notThe proper place for writing letters;Nor one which Providence intendsFor interviews with lady-friends.

Ananias

WHEN Golf was in its childhood still,And not the sport that now it is;When no-one knew of Bunker Hill,Or spoke of Boston tee-parties;One man there was who played the game,And Ananias was his name.But little else of him we know,Save that his grasp of facts was slack,And yet, as circumstances show,He was a golfomaniac,And thus biographers relateThe story of his tragic fate: —He occupied his final scene,(In golfing parlance so 'tis said),In "practising upon the green,"And, after a "bad lie," "lay dead;"Then came Sapphira, – she, poor soul,After a worse "lie," "halved the hole."

Nero

THE portrait that I seek to paintIs of no ordinary hero,No customary plaster saint, —For nothing of the sort was Nero.(He was an Emperor, but thenHe had his faults like other men.)And first, (a foolish thing to do),He turned his hand to matricide,And straight his agéd mother slew,The poor old lady promptly died!('Tis surely wrong to kill one's mother,Since one can hardly get another.)He was a hearty feeder too,And onto his digestion thrustAll kinds of fatty foods, and grewRobust – with accent on the Bust.("Sweets are" – I quote from memory —"The Uses of Obesity!")He married twice; two ladies fairAgreed in turn to be his wife,To board his slender barque and shareHis fate upon the stream of Life.(Forgive me if I mention thisAs being true Canoebial bliss!)His talent on the violinHe was for ever proud of showing;The tone that he produced was thin,Nor could one loudly praise his "bowing;"But persons whom he played beforeWere almost sure to ask for more.For he decreed that any whoDid not encore him or applaud,Should be beheaded, cut in two,Hanged, flayed alive, and sent abroad.(So it was natural that theyWho "came to cough remained to pray.")He felt no sympathy for thoseWho had not lots to drink and eat,Who wore unfashionable clothes,And strove to make the two ends meet;(They drew no tears, "the short and sim-Ple flannels of the Poor," from him.)To Christians he was far from kind,They met with his disapprobation;The choicest tortures he designedFor folks of their denomination.(And all Historians insistThat he was no philanthropist.)To lamp-posts he would oft attachA Jew, immersed in paraffine,Apply a patent safety match,And smile as he surveyed the scene.('Twas possible in Rome at nightTo read a book by Israelight.)And when occurred the famous fire,Of which some say he was the starter,He roused the Corporation's ireBy playing Braga's "Serenata";('Tis said that, when he changed to Handel,The "play was hardly worth the scandal."1)He crowned his long career at lastBy one supreme and final action,Which, after such a lurid past,Gave universal satisfaction;And not one poor relation criedWhen he committed suicide.

Aftword

THE feast is ended! (As we've seen.)'Tis time the vacant board to quit.By "vacant bored" I do not meanMy host of readers, not a bit!For they, the mentally élite,Are stimulated and replete.The fare that I provide is light,But don't, I pray, look down upon it!Such verse is just as hard to writeAs any sentimental sonnet.It looks a simple task, maybe, —Well – try your hand at it, and see!Don't fancy too that I dispenseWith study, or eschew research;Sufficient books of referenceI have, to fill the highest church.I've no dislike of work, I swear, —It's doing it that I can't bear!Abuse or praise me, as you choose,There is no limit to my patience;My verse the London Daily NewsOnce styled "Mephitic exhalations"!I lived that down, – (don't ask me how,) —And nothing really hurts me now.For while my stricken soul survived,With wounded pride and dulled ambition,My humble book of verses thrivedAnd quite outgrew the old edition!So now I have exhaled some more, —Mephitically, as before!

Postlude

THE book is finished! With a sigh,My pen upon the desk I lay;The weary task is o'er, and IAm off upon a holiday,To Paris, lovely Paris, whereI have a little ventr'-à-terre.2And tho' my verses may be weak,And call for your severest strictures,The illustrations are unique, —I really never saw such pictures!(At times, in my unthinking way,I almost hope I never may.)