The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMisrepresentative WomenThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Misrepresentative WomenAuthor: Harry GrahamIllustrator: Dan Sayre GroesbeckRelease date: March 24, 2013 [eBook #42407]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMEN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Misrepresentative WomenAuthor: Harry GrahamIllustrator: Dan Sayre GroesbeckRelease date: March 24, 2013 [eBook #42407]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)
Title: Misrepresentative Women
Author: Harry GrahamIllustrator: Dan Sayre Groesbeck
Author: Harry Graham
Illustrator: Dan Sayre Groesbeck
Release date: March 24, 2013 [eBook #42407]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Matthew Wheaton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMEN ***
MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMENBy HARRY GRAHAM
MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMENBy HARRY GRAHAM
Misrepresentative Women
“For long with horror she has viewedThe naked Truth for being nude”
“For long with horror she has viewedThe naked Truth for being nude”
ByHarry GrahamAuthor of “Misrepresentative Men”and “More Misrepresentative Men”
ILLUSTRATED BYDan Sayre Groesbeck
NEW YORKDuffield & CompanyMCMVI
Copyrght, 1906, byDUFFIELD & COMPANYPublished, September, 1906
THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK
NOTICENO ADMITTANCEEXCEPT ONPLEASURE
NOTICENO ADMITTANCEEXCEPT ONPLEASURE
PAGEPublishers’ Preface7Eve13Lady Godiva19Miss Marie Corelli27Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy35Mrs. Grundy41Mrs. Christopher Columbus49Dame Rumor57The Cry of the Children63The Cry of the Elders71An Epithalamium79The Self-Made Father to His Ready-Made Son85The Author to His Hostess91On the Decline of Gentility Among the Young97“Lochinvar”103Abbreviation’s Artful Aid111Author’s Aftword117
“Far long with horror she has viewedThe naked Truth for being nude”FRONTISPIECEFACING PAGE“Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited”10“Her wardrobe, though extremely small, sufficed a somewhat simple need”14“At the Heart of her spouse she continued to storm”20“Were she to mingle with her ink a little milk of human kindness”28“And so be daily left her side to travel o’er the ocean far”50“Where the spinsters at tea are collected, her arrival is bailed with delight”58“He is yearning for the chance of reading Gibbon”64“How glad the happy pair must be that Hymen’s bonds have set them free”80“I wonder why they look such frights”92“Small wonder she receives a shock each time she views thy billycock”98“‘She is mine!’ he announces, adjourning to the distant horizon afar”104
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 adéjeunerat 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 ofourpoetAre 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!
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 adéjeunerat least,Once again your toleration is rewardedBy a literary feast!
Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited
For such viands as your poet can provide,
(Which, as critics have occasionally stated,
Must be trying to a delicate inside,)
Once again are opportunities afforded
Of a banquet, or adéjeunerat least,
Once again your toleration is rewarded
By 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!
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 writer
Of 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 ofourpoetAre admittedly unique!
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 ofourpoet
Are 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!
Tho’ he shows no sort of penitence at breaking
Ev’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 seductive
In 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!
Gentle Reader, some apologies are needed
For depositing this volume on your desk,
Since the author has undoubtedly exceeded
All the limits of legitimate burlesque,
And we look with very genuine affection
To a Public who, for better or for worse,
Will relieve us of this villainous collection
Of abominable verse!
“Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited”
“Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited”
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 perfectladytoo!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 trifleunderdressed, indeed,And never visited a playIn headgear known as “matinée.”Possessing but a singlebeau,With only oneaffaire 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 intenselyhuman!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!
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 perfectladytoo!
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 perfectladytoo!
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.
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 share
With those who happened to be there.
Her wardrobe, though extremely small,Sufficed a somewhat simple need;She was, if anything at all,A trifleunderdressed, indeed,And never visited a playIn headgear known as “matinée.”
Her wardrobe, though extremely small,
Sufficed a somewhat simple need;
She was, if anything at all,
A trifleunderdressed, indeed,
And never visited a play
In headgear known as “matinée.”
Possessing but a singlebeau,With only oneaffaire 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.
Possessing but a singlebeau,
With only oneaffaire 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.
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.
Their wedding was a trifle tame—
A purely family affair—
No guests were asked, no pressmen came
To 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 intenselyhuman!
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 woman
So truly, so intenselyhuman!
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.
And, hand in hand, from day to day,
They lived and labored, man and wife;
Together hewed their common way
Along 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.
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!
And if they ever chanced to grieve,
Enduring loss, or suff’ring pain,
You may be certain it was Eve
Brought comfort to their hearts again;
If they were happy, well I know,
It was the Woman made them so.
······
And though the anthropologist
May mention, in his tactless way,
That Adam’s weaknesses exist
Among our modern Men to-day,
In Women we may still perceive
The virtues of their Mother Eve!
“Her wardrobe, though extremely small, sufficed a somewhat simple need”
“Her wardrobe, though extremely small, sufficed a somewhat simple need”
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,Whatyoudeem a ‘duty,’ tomeis 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 sacrificeallto obtain it.You shouldtryto avoid unconventional capers,And be sure you don’t write for Society papers.
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.
In the old town of Coventry, so people say,
Dwelt a Peer who was utterly lacking in pity;
Universally loathed for the rigorous way
That 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,Whatyoudeem a ‘duty,’ tomeis a pleasure!”
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 implored
To remit this extortionate “duty”;
But he answered: “My dear, pray reflect at your leisure,
Whatyoudeem a ‘duty,’ tomeis 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!
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 perform
Any task that you like to be naming!”
“Well, if that be the case,” said the nobleman, “I’ve a
Good 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.
“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 dress
That you wear in your bath of a morning!”
“Very well!” she replied. “Be it so! Though you drive a
Hard 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!
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!”
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!)
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 one
A 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.
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 sacrificeallto obtain it.You shouldtryto avoid unconventional capers,And be sure you don’t write for Society papers.
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 sacrificeallto obtain it.
You shouldtryto avoid unconventional capers,
And be sure you don’t write for Society papers.
“At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm”
“At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm”
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 wivesarefaithful, 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!
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.
A very Woman among Men!
Her pæans, sung in ev’ry quarter,
Almost persuade Le Gallienne
To go and get his hair cut shorter;
When Kipling hears her trumpet-note
He 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.
Her praise is sung by old or young,
From Happy Hampstead to Hoboken,
Where’er old England’s mother-tongue
Is (ungrammatically) spoken:
In that supremely simple set
Which 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.
When Anglo-Saxon peoples kneel
Before their literary idol,
It makes all rival authors feel
Depressed and almost suicidal;
They cannot reach within a mile
Of 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.
Her modest, unobtrusive ways,
In sunny Stratford’s guide-books graven,
Her brilliance, lighting with its rays
The birthplace of the Swan of Avon,
Must cause the Bard as deep a pain
As 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?
Mere ordinary mortals ask,
With no desire for picking quarrels,
Who gave her the congenial task
Of judging other people’s morals?
Who bade her flay her fellow-men
With 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!)
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.
For tho’, like her, they feel the sway
Of claptrap sentimental glamour,
And frequently, like her, give way
To lapses from our English grammar,
The victims of her diatribes
Are 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 wivesarefaithful, now and then.
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 wivesarefaithful, 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.
Were she to mingle with her ink
A little milk of human kindness,
She would not join, I dare to think,
To chronic social color-blindness
An outlook bigoted and narrow
As 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.
But still, perhaps, it might affect
Her literary circulation,
If she were tempted to neglect
Her talent for vituperation;
Since work of this peculiar kind
Delights 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!
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.
Yet even bumpkins, by and by,
(Such is the spread of education)
May view with cold, phlegmatic eye
The fruits of her imagination,
And learn to temper their devotion
With slight, if adequate, emotion.
·····
Dear Miss Corelli:—Should your eyes
Peruse this page (’tis my ambition!),
Be sure that I apologize
In any suitable position
For having weakly imitated
The 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!
I cannot fancy to attain
To heights of personal invective
Which you, with subtler pen and brain,
Have learnt to render so effective;
I follow dimly in your trail;
Forgive me, therefore, if I fail!
“Were she to mingle with her inkA little milk of human kindness”
“Were she to mingle with her inkA little milk of human kindness”
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,Waslongerthan 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!
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.
Have you a pain all down your back?
A feeling of intense prostration?
Are you anæmic, for the lack
Of 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 Saint and Prophetess is she
Of what is known as Christian Science;
And you can lean on Mrs. E.
With absolute reliance;
For she will shortly make it plain
That 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!
The varied ailments on your list
Which cause you such extreme vexation
Are 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.
A friend of mine had not been taught
This 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.”
She could have told him (or his wraith)
That stairs and necks have no existence,
That persons with sufficient faith
Can fall from any distance,
And that he wasn’t in the least
What 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.
Of ills to which the flesh is heir
She is decidedly disdainful;
But once, or so her friends declare,
Her teeth became so painful
That, 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.
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!
My brother, whom you may have seen,
Possessed a limp, a very slight one;
His leg, the left, had always been
Much 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,Waslongerthan the other!And now he’s praying, day and night,For faith to lengthen out the right.
At healing she had grown so deft
That when she finished with my brother,
His crippled leg, I mean the left,
Waslongerthan 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!
So let it be our chief concern
To set diseases at defiance,
Contriving, as the truths we learn
Of so-called Christian Science,
To live from illnesses exempt,—
Or else to die in the attempt!
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 noxiousdooblontonder!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!
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 lovely Woman stoops to smoke
(A vice in which she often glories),
Or sees the somewhat doubtful joke
In after-dinner stories,
Who is it to her bedroom rushes
To 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?
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?
Who is it, tell me, in effect,
Who loves to centre her attentions
On all who wilfully neglect
Society’s conventions,
And seems eternally imbued
With 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.
’Tis Mrs. Grundy, deaf and blind
To anything the least romantic,
Combining with a narrow mind
A point of view pedantic,
Since no one in the world can stop her
From 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 picture or the marble bust
At any public exhibition
Evokes her unconcealed disgust
And rouses her suspicion,
If human forms are shown to us
In 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.
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 viewed
The 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.
On modern manners that efface
The formal modes of introduction
She is at once prepared to place
The 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.
The English restaurants must close
At 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 noxiousdooblontonder!
A sense of humor she would vote
The sign of mental dissipations;
She scorns whatever might promote
The gaiety of nations;
Of lawful fun she seems no fonder
Than of the noxiousdooblontonder!
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!
And if you wish to make her blench
And 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!
O Mrs. Grundy, do, I beg,
To false conclusions cease from rushing,
And learn to name the human leg
Without 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!
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 objurgation
To Mrs. Chant and Carrie Nation!
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.”
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.
The bride grows pale beneath her veil,
The matron, for the nonce, is dumb,
Who listens to the tragic tale
Of 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.
Her husband upon canvas wings
Would brave the Ocean, tempest-tost;
He had a cult for finding things
Which nobody had ever lost,
And Mrs. C. grew almost frantic
When 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.
But nothing she could do or say
Would keep her Christopher at home;
Without delay he sailed away
Across 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.”
He ventured on the highest C’s
That reared their heads above the bar,
Knowing the compass and the quays
Like any operatic star;
And funny friends who watched him do so
Would 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.)
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 wise
To 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.
And when she chanced to look around
At all the couples she had known,
And realized how few had found
A home as peaceful as her own,
She saw how pleasant it may be
To 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.
Her husband’s absence she enjoyed,
Nor ever asked him where he went,
Thinking him harmlessly employed
Discovering 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.
And so he daily left her side
To travel o’er the ocean far,
And she who, like the bard, had tried
To “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!
To him returning from the West
She 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?)
And when she got him home again,
And so could wear the jewels rare
Which Isabella, Queen of Spain,
Entrusted to her husband’s care,
Her monetary wealth was “far
Beyond the dreams of caviar!”
·····
A melancholy thing it is
How few have known or understood
The manifold advantages
Of such herbaceous widowhood!
(What is it ruins married lives
But 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.”
O wedded couples of to-day,
Pray take these principles to heart,
And copy the Columbian way
Of living happily apart.
And so, to you, at any rate,
Shall marriage be a “blessèd state.”
“And so he daily left her sideTo travel o’er the ocean far”
“And so he daily left her sideTo travel o’er the ocean far”
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 muchbetterthan 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, canneverbe stayed.
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 muchbetterthan hers!)
I should like to remark that Dame Rumor
Is 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 muchbetterthan 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!
Her appearance imbues one with loathing,
From her jaundiced, malevolent eyes
To 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 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!
She resembles the men who (’tis fabled)
Tumble into the Packingtown vats,
Who are boiled there, and bottled, and labelled
For 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.
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.
Where the spinsters at tea are collected,
Her arrival is hailed with delight;
She is welcomed, adored, and respected
In each newspaper office at night;
For her presence imprints an original seal
On 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.
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!”
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, canneverbe stayed.
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 jade
Who, if once she is started, canneverbe stayed.