Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many

Graham Harry

Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many

Dedicated to

Helen Whitney

Do you recall those bygone days,When you received with kindly praiseMy bantling book of Rhyme?Praise undeserved, alas! and yetHow sweet! For, tho' we had not met,(Ah! what a waste of time!)I could the more enjoy such merciesSince I delighted in your verses.And when a Poet stoops to smileOn some one of the rank and file,(Inglorious – if not mute,)Some groundling bard who craves to climb,Like me, the dizzy rungs of Rhyme,To reach the Golden Fruit;For one in such a situationThe faintest praise is no damnation.Parnassus heights must surely pall;For simpler diet do you call,Of nectar growing tired?These verses to your feet I bring,Drawn from an unassuming spring,Well-meant – if not inspired;O charming Poet's charming daughter,Descend and taste my toast and water!For you alone these lines I write,That, reading them, your brow may lightBeneath its crown of bays;Your eyes may sparkle like a star,With friendship, that is dearer farThan any breath of praise;The which a lucky man possessingCan ask no higher human blessing.And, though the "salt estranging sea"Be widely spread 'twixt you and me,We have what makes amends;And since I am so glad of you,Be glad of me a little, too,Because of being friends.And, if I earn your approbation,Accept my humble dedication.H. G.

Foreword

The Press may pass my Verses byWith sentiments of indignation,And say, like Greeks of old, that ICorrupt the Youthful Generation;I am unmoved by taunts like these —(And so, I think, was Socrates).Howe'er the Critics may revile,I pick no journalistic quarrels,Quite realizing that my StyleMakes up for any lack of Morals;For which I feel no shred of shame —(And Byron would have felt the same).I don't intend a Child to readThese lines, which are not for the Young;For, if I did, I should indeedFeel fully worthy to be hung.(Is "hanged" the perfect tense of "hang"?Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime,By you these Verses may be seen!Accept the Moral with the Rhyme,And try to gather what I mean.But, if you can't, it won't hurt me!(And Browning would, I know, agree.)Be reassured, I have not gotThe style of Stephen Phillips' heroes,Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot,Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's!(If so, I should not waste my timeIn writing you this sort of rhyme.)I strive to paint things as they Are,Of Realism the true Apostle;All flow'ry metaphors I bar,Nor call the homely thrush a "throstle."Such synonyms would make me smile.(And so they would have made Carlyle.)My Style may be at times, I own,A trifle cryptic or abstruse;In this I do not stand alone,And need but mention, in excuse,A thousand world-familiar names,From Meredith to Henry James.From these my fruitless fancy roamsTo seek the Ade of Modern Fable,From Doyle's or Hemans' "Stately Ho(l)mes,"To t'other of The Breakfast Table;Like Galahad, I wish (in vain)"My wit were as the wit of Twain!"Had I but Whitman's rugged skill,(And managed to escape the Censor),The Accuracy of a Mill,The Reason of a Herbert Spencer,The literary talents evenOf Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen.The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen,Or Watson's gift of execration,The sugar of Le Gallienne,Or Algernon's Alliteration.One post there is I'd not be lost in,– Tho' I might find it most ex-austin'!Some day, if I but study hard,The public, vanquished by my pen'llAcclaim me as a Minor Bard,Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell,And listen to my lyre a-ripplingImperial banjo-spasms like Kipling.Were I a syndicate like K.Or flippant scholar like Augustine;Had I the style of Pater, say,Which ev'ryone would put their trust in,I'd love (as busy as a squirrel)To pate, to kipple, and to birrel.So don't ignore me. If you should,'Twill touch me to the very heart oh!To be as much misunderstoodAs once was Andrea del Sarto;Unrecognized to toil away,Like Millet – not, of course, Millais.And, pray, for Morals do not lookIn this unique agglomeration,– This unpretentious little bookOf Infelicitous Quotation.I deem you foolish if you do,(And Mr. Russell thinks so, too).

"Virtue is Its Own Reward"

Virtue its own reward? Alas!And what a poor one as a rule!Be Virtuous and Life will passLike one long term of Sunday-School.(No prospect, truly, could one findMore unalluring to the mind.)You may imagine that it paysTo practise Goodness. Not a bit!You cease receiving any praiseWhen people have got used to it;'Tis generally understoodYou find it easy to be good.The Model Child has got to keepHis fingers and his garments white;In church he may not go to sleep,Nor ask to stop up late at night.In fact he must not ever doA single thing he wishes to.He may not paddle in his boots,Like naughty children, at the Sea;The sweetness of Forbidden FruitsIs not, alas! for such as he.He watches, with pathetic eyes,His weaker brethren make mud-pies.He must not answer back, oh no!However rude grown-ups may be,But keep politely silent, tho'He brim with scathing repartee;For nothing is considered worseThan scoring off Mamma or Nurse.He must not eat too much at meals,Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;However vacuous he feels,He may not pass his plate for more;– Not tho' his ev'ry organ acheFor further slabs of Christmas cake.He is enjoined to choose his foodFrom what is easy to digest;A choice which in itself is good,But never what he likes the best.(At times how madly he must wishFor just one real unwholesome dish!)And, when the wretched urchin playsWith other little girls and boys,He has to show unselfish waysBy giving them his choicest toys;His ears he lets them freely box,Or pull his lubricated locks.His face is always being washed,His hair perpetually brushed,And thus his brighter side is squashed,His human instincts warped and crushed;Small wonder that his early yearsAre filled with "thoughts too deep for tears."He is commanded not to wasteThe fleeting hours of childhood's daysBy giving way to any tasteFor circuses or matinées;For him the entertainments plannedAre "Lectures on the Holy Land."He never reads a story bookBy Rider H. or Winston C.,In vain upon his desk you'd lookFor tales by Richard Harding D.;

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