Misrepresentative Women Part 1

Misrepresentative Women.

by Harry Graham.

_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 perfect _lady_ too!

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 trifle _under_dressed, indeed, And never visited a play In headgear known as "matinee."

Possessing but a single _beau_, With only one _affaire de c[oe]ur_, She promptly married, as we know, The man who first proposed to her; Not for his t.i.tle 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 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 cla.s.s, 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 intensely _human_!

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 pa.s.s'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 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!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Her wardrobe, though extremely small, sufficed a somewhat simple need_"

_Lady G.o.diva_

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 implored To remit this extortionate "duty"; But he answered: "My dear, pray reflect at your leisure, What _you_ deem a 'duty,' to _me_ is 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 perform Any task that you like to be naming!"

"Well, if that be the case," said the n.o.bleman, "I've a Good mind just to test you, my Lady G.o.diva!

"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 G.o.diva.

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 one A cataract nearly as large as the Nile one!)

Then G.o.diva 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 sacrifice _all_ to obtain it.

You should _try_ to avoid unconventional capers, And be sure you don't write for Society papers.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm_"

_Miss Marie Corelli_

A very Woman among Men!

Her paeans, 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-tongue Is (ungrammatically) spoken: In that supremely simple set Which loves the penny novelette.

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, un.o.btrusive 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 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!)

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 wives _are_ faithful, now and then.

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 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.