Misrepresentative Women

The Self-Made Father to His Ready-Made Son

(AN OPEN LETTER)

My Offspring: – Ere you raise the glass,To irrigate your ardent throttle;Ere once again you gladly passThe bottle;Take heed that your prevailing passionBe not completely out of fashion.No longer does the ProdigalExpend his nights in drunken frolic;Or pass his days in revels al-Coholic;For, nowadays, a glass de tropIs not considered comme il faut.No longer do the youthful fall,Like leaf or partridge in October;For they, if anything at all,Are sober.(I mean the boys, – don’t be absurd!And not the foliage or the bird.)No longer arm-in-arm they roam,Despite constabulary warning,Declaring that they won’t go homeTill morning!With bursts of bacchanalian song,And jokes as broad as they are long.No more they wander to-and-fro,Exchanging incoherent greetings —The kind in vogue at Caledo--Nian Meetings(Behavior that we all condemn,Especially at 3 a. m.).Yes; fashions change – and well they may!No longer, at the dinner-table,Do persons drink as much as theyAre able;And seek the hospitable floor,When they have drunk a trifle more.My nasal hue, incarnadine,Shall not, perhaps, be wholly wasted,If sons of mine but leave their wineUntasted;And vanquish, with deserving merit,The varied vices they inherit.Yes, Offspring, I rejoice to thinkThat, shunning my example truly,You never may be led to drinkUnduly.It is indeed a blessèd thought!Now, will you kindly pass the port?

The Author to His Hostess

(AN OPEN LETTER)

[Very few English men of letters enjoy a desirable social position. To be sure, they are frequently invited to functions, where they are treated with insistent affability by persons belonging to the higher classes; but the sort of position to be obtained in this way is insecure, and unpleasant to any save those of adamantine cheek. —Current Magazine.]

Dear Lady, – When you bade me comeTo grace your crowded “Kettledrum,”And mingle in the best society;When Melba sang, and Elman played,And waiters handed lemonade(Tempering music with sobriety),I never had the least suspicionOf my precarious position.But now, with opened eyes, I leapTo this conclusion, shrewd and deep,(What cerebral agility!):Your compliments were insincere,Your hospitality was mere“Insistent affability!”And I, a foolish man of letters,Who thought to mingle with his betters!Ah me! How pride precedes a fall!That one who haunted “rout” or ball,When invitations were acquirable,Should see himself as others see,Becoming suddenly, like me,A social “undesirable”;Invading the selectest cliqueWith truly adamantine cheek!How proud an air I used to wear!When titled persons turned to stare,I blushed like a geranium.When lovely ladies softly said:“Oh, Duchess, did you see his head?”“What a capacious cranium!”“Yes; isn’t that the man who writes?”“I wonder why they look such frights!”I used to bridle coyly whenSome schoolmate, of the Upper Ten(They were not over-numerous!),Would slap my back, and shout “By Jove!“Ain’t you a literary cove?”(As tho’ ’twere something humorous!)“Those books of yours are grand, you bet!What? No, I haven’t read them yet.”But now I realize my fate;A stranger at the social gate(Tho’ treated with civility);The choicest circles I frequentMust be the ones my brains invent,With fictional futility;The only Royalties I knowAre those my publisher can show!The garden-party, and the tea,Are surely not for men like me(O Vanity of Vanities!);Such entertainments are taboo,And might debase my talents toAdditional inanities.The Poet has no business there:Que ferait-il dans cette galère?Ah, lonely is the Author’s lot!Assuming, if he hath it not,A suitable humility.For when his daily work is done,He must inevitably shunThe homes of the Nobility,As, with dejected steps, he passesTo supper with the middle classes!

On the Decline of Gentility Among the Young

(SUGGESTED BY MR. MAX BEERBOHM)

O youth uncouth, who slouchest by,Along the crowded public street,An eyeglass in thy languid eye,Brown boots upon thy feet,A loose umbrella in thy grip,A toothpick pendent from thy lip.Much I deplore thy clumsy gait,Thy drab sartorial display,So wholly inappropriateTo this august highway;How can a man in such attireSet any spinster’s heart on fire?Thou art in dress no epicure,By weight of fashions overladen;Thy tawdry togs do not allureThe soul of every maiden;They sound no echoing color-noteTo her tempestuous petticoat.Her stylish skirt, her dainty blouse,Are crêpe-de-chine, or bombazine2;Compare the texture of thy trous:With their chromatic sheen;To what abysm of taste we reachBy the Observance of thy Breech!Think what she pays her modiste forThose hats of questionable shapes,Surmounted by a seagull orSome imitation grapes!Small wonder she receives a shockEach time she views thy “billycock”!Observe how like an autumn leafThe colors of the male canary,The garb of each New Zealand chiefWho woos his Little Maori;The savage mind has thus designedA dress to please its womankind.And tho’ I would not have thee goAs far as primal man or beast,To lovely woman thou should’st showSome deference at least,And give a thought of what to wearUpon the public thoroughfare.And should’st thou wish to walk aright,Let Mr. Beerbohm be thy mould;Sedate yet courtly, and politeAs any beau of old;Yea, plant thy footsteps in the tracksOf our inimitable Max!Enclose thy larynx in a stock(As though afflicted with the fever);And in the place of “billycock”Procure a bristling “beaver”;And practise, not I hope in vain,The “conduct of a clouded cane.”If thou consentest thus to act,In scorn of popular convention,Thy bearing shall indeed attractMuch feminine attention;As day by day, in brilliant hue,Thy figure fills Fifth Avenue.

“Lochinvar”

(WITH APOLOGIES TO SCOTT AND SWINBURNE)

When the shadow-shapes shone like a shaddock,Where the sunset had kissed them to flame,On his palfrey, the pick of the paddock,With his sword in its scabbard, he came!In the glamour of amorous passionHe would blaze like a seasoned cigar;And he fought in a similar fashion,Did Young Lochinvar!By the fences and fens unaffrighted,And unstopt by the stream in its spate,In a lather, at last, he alighted,And he knocked at the Netherbys’ gate.’Twas too late! (As he doubtless had dreaded.)He perceived his particular “star”To a blackguard about to be wedded,Did Young Lochinvar!But he passed through the portal so proudlyTo the room where the gifts were displayed,That old Netherby called to him loudly(For the bridegroom, poor fool, was afraid).“Is it blood you are bent upon shedding?With a murder this marriage to mar?Or to waltz do you wish at the wedding,My Young Lochinvar?”He replied, “Tho’ ’twere useless to smotherMy love for the maid at your side;Tho’ my Helen be bound to another,I shall trust to the turn of the tied.As I drink to her squint and her freckles,I’ll remark how few ladies there areWho would shrink from a share of the shekelsOf Young Lochinvar.”Then he pledged her in port, so politely(Tho’ her mother lamented his taste),And she smiled at him ever so slightly,As he settled his arm round her waist.When he drew her direct to the dancers,The Bohemian band struck a bar,And she found herself leading the LancersWith Young Lochinvar!Oh, the beauty and grace are so vividOf this perfectly parallel pair,That the parents grow purple and livid,And the bridegroom is tearing his hair;While the bridesmaids talk ten to the dozen,Saying: “Goodness, what gabies we are,Not to marry our exquisite cousinTo Young Lochinvar!”Then the girl by her partner is beckonedTo the door, where a charger they find;To the saddle he springs in a second,And he lifts her up lightly behind;“She is mine!” he announces, adjourningTo the distant horizon afar,“Till the cattle to roost are returning!”3Says Young Lochinvar.O the tumult! The tumbling of tables!O the stress of the scene that succeeds!O the stir on the stairs, – in the stables!O the stamping and saddling of steeds!But the bride has eluded them surely;In the room of some kind Registrar,She is now being wedded securelyTo Young Lochinvar!

Abbreviation’s Artful Aid

The Bard, at timesIs stumped for rhymes,Without the least excuse.He can defySuch moments byAbbreviation’s use,And gain the grat:Of friend or neighb:Without an at:Of extra lab:So simp: a ruleMay seem pecul:And make the crit: indig:What matter ifThe scans: is diff:The meaning too ambig:?The net result,Lacon: and punct:Is worth a mult:Of needless unct:We long for sile:From folks who pileTheir worldly Pel: on Oss:Extremely nox:And quite intox:By their exhub: verbos:We curse their imp:In manner dras:And fail to symp:With their loquac:In House of Rep:Applause is tep:For periphrastic Pol:Reviewers sniffAt auth: prolif:With semiannual vol:But we can pard:However peev:The minor bardWho will abbrev:With pen and inkIn close propinq:The Poet, lucky fell:!Avoiding troub:May give his pub:The cred: for some intell:And like an orph:In pose recumb:In arms of Morph:Securely slumb:Let corks explode:With brand: and sod:Ye wearers of the mot:!Decant the cham:(What matt: the dam:?)And empt: the flowing bott:!And ne’er surren:The Laureate’s palm,His haunch of ven:And butt of Malm:!

Author’s Aftword

How I have labored, night and day,Just like the hero of a novel,To drive the hungry wolf awayFrom my baronial hovel,To keep the bailiffs from my home,By finishing this bulky tome.To such a trying mental strainMy intellect is far from fitted,Tho’ if I had an ounce more brainI should be quite half-witted,And when I wander in my mindI am most difficult to find.The sort of life for which I careIs one combining Peace and PlentyWith laisser aller, laisser faire,And dolce far niente.(The heart of ev’ry Bridge-fiend jumps:Dolce … ’tis sweet to make “No Trumps.”)I shrink from work in any shape, —Too clearly do these pages show it, —But work is what one can’t escapeAnd be a Minor Poet;And critics I may well defyTo find a minor bard than I.I ought to live out ’Frisco way,Where working is considered silly,As Greeley (Horace) used to say, —Or was it Collier (Willie)? —“Go West, young man” (I understand),“Go West and blow up with the land!”Were I as full of zeal and funAs Balzac, who could drudge so gaily,Or diligent as Peter Dunne,I might accomplish dailyAn ode of Pleasure or of PassionIn Ella Wheeler Wilcox fashion;But, as it is, I sit and toil,Consuming time and ink and cursesAnd pints of precious midnight oilTo perpetrate these verses.If writing them be dull indeed,Alas! what must they be to read!

1

“As us” is not grammar. – Publishers’ Reader. “As we” is not verse. – H. G.

2

Impossible. – Publishers’ Reader.

These ones were. – H. G.

3

“Till the cows come home”: an old English saying, denoting eternity.