THE RYMBEL FAMILY. FROM A RECENT PORTRAIT BY OLIVER HERFORDHOW THE RYMBELS BROKE INTO VERSE
THE RYMBEL FAMILY. FROM A RECENT PORTRAIT BY OLIVER HERFORD
THE RYMBEL FAMILY. FROM A RECENT PORTRAIT BY OLIVER HERFORD
THEabove portrait is the first authentic likeness of the eccentric Rymbels. It portrays them rymbling,chez eux. It is, in particular, a speaking, not to say ashouting, likeness of Mr. Rymbel.
This interesting, demented, and extremely misunderstood verse family was first discovered and laid bare to the public by Mr. Herford in the August issue of THECENTURY. As a result of his happy discovery, and because of his two remarkable rymbels in that issue, he has lately been appointed Rymbel Laureate of America. Since their successful début, public interest in the Rymbels has increased amazingly. In New York the fever is now at its height. Everybody’s rymbling it. Rude, ridiculous, and ribald rymbels are arriving by every post.
For those who are not already confirmed rymbelists it may be merciful to explain that, roughly speaking, a rymbel is any poem of two, four, or six stanzas, preferably of five lines each, in which the ultimate word in one verse must inevitably be a miscue for the subject-matter of the next. This miscue is due to three things: eccentricity, deafness, and dementia, all of them pronounced Rymbel family characteristics.
Whenever Mr. Rymbel embarks on the first verse, Mrs. Rymbel, because of her deafness and lightness of mind, seizes on the most unexpected meaning embodied in the last word of her husband’s verse, and proceeds properly to mangle it in the second, after which the children take up the tangled skein, and do a little mangling on their own.
In the masterly canvas at the head of this page, Mr. R. is seen inflated with an afflatus and embarking on his first verse. Mrs. R., with a tight hold on the baby, is feverishly awaiting her all important cue. Symbol, their beautiful daughter, is the seated lady shown at the right of Mr. R. The astute reader will already have guessed, because of the prevalence of flowering hay in her hair, that, mentally, Symbol is, to put it charitably, only sparking on one cylinder. Ramble, the eldest son, has, it will be seen, just rebuked Rondeau and Rhyme, the twins, who, after hearing parts of their father’s verse, have turned to their mother to mutter: “What’s the matter with his metre-motor, mater?”
Miss Carolyn Wells, who has for years been on the most intimate terms with the Rymbels, and who might almost be called a member of the family, has preserved, as souvenirs of a boy-and-girl affair with Master Ramble, two noteworthy examples of rymbelican verse. In the first of these the Rymbels have touchingly voiced their preferences for the nobler and loftier bards of our day. It is entitled:
A RYMBEL OF RHYMERS
DEAREdith Thomas! Oft do IFeel in my heart the call of her.Swift to my book-shelf then I fly,And, hovering ’twixt a laugh and cry,I read and re-read all of her.Oliver Herford! How can praiseAdd aught to his renown?His comic kits, his fetching fays,His books and works and healthful plays,Are known all over town.Charles Hanson Towne! his lyrics flowSoft as the dews of Harmon;His tastes are musical, and soTo please them he will often goTo “Lohengrin” or “Carmen.”Bliss Carman all our hearts must win;To higher thought he’d urge us;Divinely tall, divinely thin,Austere of mien, he should have beenA beadle or a burgess.G. Burgess, Super-Sulphide! yetPerhaps more saint than sinner.His rhymes cavort and pirouette,And as for that mad thing, Vivette,I almost wish I’d been her.Oh, Witter Bynner, oftener soundYour note of lyric joys!Come, poets, let us gather round,Lest our brave pipings yet be drownedBy some strange foreign Noyes!
DEAREdith Thomas! Oft do IFeel in my heart the call of her.Swift to my book-shelf then I fly,And, hovering ’twixt a laugh and cry,I read and re-read all of her.Oliver Herford! How can praiseAdd aught to his renown?His comic kits, his fetching fays,His books and works and healthful plays,Are known all over town.Charles Hanson Towne! his lyrics flowSoft as the dews of Harmon;His tastes are musical, and soTo please them he will often goTo “Lohengrin” or “Carmen.”Bliss Carman all our hearts must win;To higher thought he’d urge us;Divinely tall, divinely thin,Austere of mien, he should have beenA beadle or a burgess.G. Burgess, Super-Sulphide! yetPerhaps more saint than sinner.His rhymes cavort and pirouette,And as for that mad thing, Vivette,I almost wish I’d been her.Oh, Witter Bynner, oftener soundYour note of lyric joys!Come, poets, let us gather round,Lest our brave pipings yet be drownedBy some strange foreign Noyes!
DEAREdith Thomas! Oft do IFeel in my heart the call of her.Swift to my book-shelf then I fly,And, hovering ’twixt a laugh and cry,I read and re-read all of her.
DEAREdith Thomas! Oft do I
Feel in my heart the call of her.
Swift to my book-shelf then I fly,
And, hovering ’twixt a laugh and cry,
I read and re-read all of her.
Oliver Herford! How can praiseAdd aught to his renown?His comic kits, his fetching fays,His books and works and healthful plays,Are known all over town.
Oliver Herford! How can praise
Add aught to his renown?
His comic kits, his fetching fays,
His books and works and healthful plays,
Are known all over town.
Charles Hanson Towne! his lyrics flowSoft as the dews of Harmon;His tastes are musical, and soTo please them he will often goTo “Lohengrin” or “Carmen.”
Charles Hanson Towne! his lyrics flow
Soft as the dews of Harmon;
His tastes are musical, and so
To please them he will often go
To “Lohengrin” or “Carmen.”
Bliss Carman all our hearts must win;To higher thought he’d urge us;Divinely tall, divinely thin,Austere of mien, he should have beenA beadle or a burgess.
Bliss Carman all our hearts must win;
To higher thought he’d urge us;
Divinely tall, divinely thin,
Austere of mien, he should have been
A beadle or a burgess.
G. Burgess, Super-Sulphide! yetPerhaps more saint than sinner.His rhymes cavort and pirouette,And as for that mad thing, Vivette,I almost wish I’d been her.
G. Burgess, Super-Sulphide! yet
Perhaps more saint than sinner.
His rhymes cavort and pirouette,
And as for that mad thing, Vivette,
I almost wish I’d been her.
Oh, Witter Bynner, oftener soundYour note of lyric joys!Come, poets, let us gather round,Lest our brave pipings yet be drownedBy some strange foreign Noyes!
Oh, Witter Bynner, oftener sound
Your note of lyric joys!
Come, poets, let us gather round,
Lest our brave pipings yet be drowned
By some strange foreign Noyes!
MR. L. FRANKTOOKERof Callao, Peru, insists that the rymbel is didactic, and that its highest form is found in Spanish South America, where it is used to inculcate the prudence and self-restraint for which that region is preëminent. In illustration of this contention, he sends this from Callao:
THE PRUDENT LOVER
ITHINKwhen I behold her face,It is so varee fair,’Tis best to get acquaint’, you know,And so I gazesimpatico:That’s how you call to stare.Ah, she was pausing on that stairSo timid like the fawn;And fawn-like were her eyes, her lipsWere like the flowers the slow bee sipsUpon the dewy lawn.But,hola! shewas not in lawn;For as she turned to go,I saw the pearls glow at her throat,The satin gown about her float,Though timid like the doe.Caramba!I have not the doughFor such expensiveness.The eyes, the lips, the timid air,That’s varee nice; but, oh, bewareThat C. O. D. express!
ITHINKwhen I behold her face,It is so varee fair,’Tis best to get acquaint’, you know,And so I gazesimpatico:That’s how you call to stare.Ah, she was pausing on that stairSo timid like the fawn;And fawn-like were her eyes, her lipsWere like the flowers the slow bee sipsUpon the dewy lawn.But,hola! shewas not in lawn;For as she turned to go,I saw the pearls glow at her throat,The satin gown about her float,Though timid like the doe.Caramba!I have not the doughFor such expensiveness.The eyes, the lips, the timid air,That’s varee nice; but, oh, bewareThat C. O. D. express!
ITHINKwhen I behold her face,It is so varee fair,’Tis best to get acquaint’, you know,And so I gazesimpatico:That’s how you call to stare.
ITHINKwhen I behold her face,
It is so varee fair,
’Tis best to get acquaint’, you know,
And so I gazesimpatico:
That’s how you call to stare.
Ah, she was pausing on that stairSo timid like the fawn;And fawn-like were her eyes, her lipsWere like the flowers the slow bee sipsUpon the dewy lawn.
Ah, she was pausing on that stair
So timid like the fawn;
And fawn-like were her eyes, her lips
Were like the flowers the slow bee sips
Upon the dewy lawn.
But,hola! shewas not in lawn;For as she turned to go,I saw the pearls glow at her throat,The satin gown about her float,Though timid like the doe.
But,hola! shewas not in lawn;
For as she turned to go,
I saw the pearls glow at her throat,
The satin gown about her float,
Though timid like the doe.
Caramba!I have not the doughFor such expensiveness.The eyes, the lips, the timid air,That’s varee nice; but, oh, bewareThat C. O. D. express!
Caramba!I have not the dough
For such expensiveness.
The eyes, the lips, the timid air,
That’s varee nice; but, oh, beware
That C. O. D. express!
AGAINthe low rymbling sound of Miss Carolyn Wells!! This time ART is her impassioned theme. She writes from Hansontown, Herfordshire.
ON A PORTRAIT OF NANCY
FULLwinsome was her bonny face,And eke her golden hair.Her gown was weft of rarest lace;And high aloft, with gentle grace,A sunshade pink she bare.The She Bear from the forest came,Just why, I cannot state.The creature seemed to be quite tame;Methought, would I her favor claim,I must ingratiate.In gray she ate! The lunch was fair,—We had a window-seat.Her gray gown meek, yet debonair;—Demure,—yet with a regal air,—She looked imperial,—sweet.“Imperial suite? Yes,—I dare say’T would make our voyage gladder.”My wife is mad about display—(But when I mentioned what we’d pay,It only made Rose madder!)Rose madder,—’tis the tint I’d useTo paint my brain’s fair figment;A shape, half goddess and half muse,And all in misty, pinkish hues,The color scheme,—the pigment.The color scheme the pig meant? Ma’am,Thatwasa subtle fancy!In tints of dawning gooseb’ry jam,And those soft pinks of early ham,We painted little Nancy!
FULLwinsome was her bonny face,And eke her golden hair.Her gown was weft of rarest lace;And high aloft, with gentle grace,A sunshade pink she bare.The She Bear from the forest came,Just why, I cannot state.The creature seemed to be quite tame;Methought, would I her favor claim,I must ingratiate.In gray she ate! The lunch was fair,—We had a window-seat.Her gray gown meek, yet debonair;—Demure,—yet with a regal air,—She looked imperial,—sweet.“Imperial suite? Yes,—I dare say’T would make our voyage gladder.”My wife is mad about display—(But when I mentioned what we’d pay,It only made Rose madder!)Rose madder,—’tis the tint I’d useTo paint my brain’s fair figment;A shape, half goddess and half muse,And all in misty, pinkish hues,The color scheme,—the pigment.The color scheme the pig meant? Ma’am,Thatwasa subtle fancy!In tints of dawning gooseb’ry jam,And those soft pinks of early ham,We painted little Nancy!
FULLwinsome was her bonny face,And eke her golden hair.Her gown was weft of rarest lace;And high aloft, with gentle grace,A sunshade pink she bare.
FULLwinsome was her bonny face,
And eke her golden hair.
Her gown was weft of rarest lace;
And high aloft, with gentle grace,
A sunshade pink she bare.
The She Bear from the forest came,Just why, I cannot state.The creature seemed to be quite tame;Methought, would I her favor claim,I must ingratiate.
The She Bear from the forest came,
Just why, I cannot state.
The creature seemed to be quite tame;
Methought, would I her favor claim,
I must ingratiate.
In gray she ate! The lunch was fair,—We had a window-seat.Her gray gown meek, yet debonair;—Demure,—yet with a regal air,—She looked imperial,—sweet.
In gray she ate! The lunch was fair,—
We had a window-seat.
Her gray gown meek, yet debonair;—
Demure,—yet with a regal air,—
She looked imperial,—sweet.
“Imperial suite? Yes,—I dare say’T would make our voyage gladder.”My wife is mad about display—(But when I mentioned what we’d pay,It only made Rose madder!)
“Imperial suite? Yes,—I dare say
’T would make our voyage gladder.”
My wife is mad about display—
(But when I mentioned what we’d pay,
It only made Rose madder!)
Rose madder,—’tis the tint I’d useTo paint my brain’s fair figment;A shape, half goddess and half muse,And all in misty, pinkish hues,The color scheme,—the pigment.
Rose madder,—’tis the tint I’d use
To paint my brain’s fair figment;
A shape, half goddess and half muse,
And all in misty, pinkish hues,
The color scheme,—the pigment.
The color scheme the pig meant? Ma’am,Thatwasa subtle fancy!In tints of dawning gooseb’ry jam,And those soft pinks of early ham,We painted little Nancy!
The color scheme the pig meant? Ma’am,
Thatwasa subtle fancy!
In tints of dawning gooseb’ry jam,
And those soft pinks of early ham,
We painted little Nancy!
Drawing by BirchTHE “ELITE” BATHING DRESSNow so much in vogue at Newport
Drawing by Birch
THE “ELITE” BATHING DRESS
Now so much in vogue at Newport
WEhave been distressed to learn, from our great Metropolitan dailies, that the ladies of assured and ultramundane position at Newport have recently suffered severely from the unwarrantable intrusion on Bailey’s Beach of certain Sunday Supplement sketch artists, society editors, female policemen, independent kodakers, and foreign noblemen. As an indirect result of these intrusions the “Elite” bathing dress has been designed to assuage the sensibilities of the more modest and fastidious among the hostesses of Newport. Our illustration shows Mrs. Reginald Ochrepoint and Wu, her clever pet, ready for their morning dip.