Misrepresentative Men

ALL great biographers possess,
Besides a thirst for information,
That talent which commands success,
I mean of course Imagination;
Combining with excessive Tact
A 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 you
About 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 find
A 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 Fact
Is stranger far than any Fiction;
But what demands the truest wit
Is knowing what one should omit.

Carlyle, for instance, finds no place
Among my list of lucubrations;
Because I have no wish to face
The righteous wrath of his relations.
Whatever feud they have with Froude,
No one can say that I was rude.

This work is written to supply
A long-felt want among Beginners;
A handbook where the student's eye
May 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.

ALERT as bird or early worm,
Yet gifted with those courtly ways
Which connoisseurs correctly term
The 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 recall
The contour of Fitzsimmons' fists;
Beneath whose velvet gloves you feel
The 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 far Elizabethan days
(Ho! By my Halidome! Gadzooks!)
Lord Bacon wrote his own essays,
And lots of other people's books;
Annexing as a pseudonym
Each author's name that suited him.

All notoriety he'd shirk,
Nor sought for literary credit,
Although the best of Shakespeare's work
Was 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 man
To style himself the Bard of Avon;
Altho' 'twas he and not this fellow
Who wrote "The Tempest" and "Othello."

For right throughout his works there is
A cipher hid, which makes it certain
That all Pope's "Iliad" is his,
And the "Anatomy" of Burton;
There's not a volume you can name
To 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 mean
That 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 is
That all these volumes may belong
To someone else, and not to Francis.
I think,—tho' I may be mistaken,—
That Shakespeare wrote the works of Bacon.

IN History he holds a place
Unique, 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 enjoy
He never had, so never missed;
Appliances that we employ
For 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 becos
He 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 lay
Across 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!

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 Lorraine
Had thoughts for nothing but Romance,
And longed to see a king again
Upon 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 men
Caught 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 viewed
As other than extremely rude.)

Poor Joan of Arc, of course, was bound
To 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 mind
As thoughtless, not to say unkind.)

But tho' he died, his deathless name
In Hist'ry holds a noble place,
And brings the blush of conscious shame
To any Anglo-Saxon face.
Perfidious truly was the nation
Which 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 library
Which 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 pain
To 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.

WHILE other men of "note" have had
A 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 in
The game of Arctic exploration,
Can ever really hope to win
More pleasures of anticipation
Than he who fixes as his goal
So 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's
Should 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 eye
Of dullest dude or quaintest Quaker;
The instrument he plays is by
The very best piano-maker,
Whose name, I hope you won't forget,
Is—
(Once again, this space To Let.)

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 well
To 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 miss
A target, howsoever narrow;
His archery could well defy
The needle or the camel's eye.

And when the hated Austrian
Invaded his belovéd country,
This simple man at once began
To 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, where
A 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 word
From 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 conferred
Two 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 Will
With fiscal problems had to grapple,
He called to mind his offspring's skill
At balancing the homely apple,
And made him use his level head
At balancing accounts instead.

HE stopped inside a tub, from choice,
But otherwise was well-conducted,
Altho' he raised a rasping voice
To persons who his view obstructed,
And threw a boot at anyone
Who robbed him of his patch of sun.

And thus he lived, without expense,
Arrayed in somewhat scant apparel,
His customary residence
The limits of an empty barrel;
(His spirits would perforce be good,
Maturing slowly "in the wood.")

With lamp alight he sought at night
For 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.

OF all the sportsmen now afloat
Upon the waters of this planet,
No better ever manned a boat,
(Or paid another man to man it,)
And won a kindly public's heart
Like 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 smiled
Upon his spices and his pickle;
And all the world rejoiced to see
Plain Thomas Lipton made "Sir Tea."

He won the trade, his name was made;
In country-house or London gutter,
All classes found his marmalade
A 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 cup
That cheers without inebriation,
He saw an op'ning if he took
His lifting pow'rs to Sandy Hook.

And there his hospitality
Was always welcome to the masses;
As on the good ship "Erin" he
Provided luncheons for all classes;
Where poets, publicans and peers,
Retained his spoons as souvenirs.

But tho' each boat of his that sailed
Was 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 got
The proper breed of modern Yachtsmen!
If only I had hired a lot
Of Swedes, Norwegians and Scotsmen,
I might have met, with calm defiance,
The crew on which She placed Reliance.

"But, as the matter stands, instead
Of knowing what a well-fought fight is,
I'm fêted, dined and banqueted,
Until I get appendicitis!
And probably shall end my life
By 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 content
With such a good advertisement."

IT is impossible to do
Three diff'rent kinds of things at once;
A fact that must be patent to
The 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 be
In 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.