More Misrepresentative Men Part 4

In Salt Lake City dwells a man Who deems monogamy a myth; (One of that too prolific clan Which glories in the name of Smith); A "Prophet, Seer, and Revelator,"

With the appearance of a waiter.

This h.o.a.ry patriarch contrives To thrive in manner most bewild'rin', With close on half a dozen wives, And nearly half a hundred children; And views with unaffrighted eyes The burden of domestic ties.

To him all spouses seem the same-- Each one a model of the Graces; He knows his children all by name, But cannot recollect their faces; A minor point, since, I suppose, Each one has got its popper's nose!

They are denied to me and you: Such old-world luxuries as his, When, after work, he hastens to The bosoms of his families (Each offspring joining with the others In, "What is Home without five Mothers?").

Such strange surroundings would r.e.t.a.r.d Most ordinary men's digestions; Five ladies all conversing hard, And fifty children asking questions!

Besides (the tragic final straw), Five se-pa-rate mamas-in-law!

What difficulties there must be To find a telescopic mansion; For each successive family The s.p.a.ce sufficient for expansion.

("But that," said Kipling, in his glory-- "But that is quite another storey!")

The sailor who, from lack of thought, Or else a too diffuse affection, Has, for a wife in ev'ry port, An unappeasing predilection, Would designate as "simply great!"

The mode of life in Utah State.

The gay Lothario, too, who makes His mad but meaningless advances To more than one fair maid, and takes A large variety of chances, Need have no fear, in such a place, Of any breach-of-promise case.

With Mormons of the latter-day I have no slightest cause for quarrel; Nor do I doubt at all that they Are quite exceptionally moral; Their President has told us so, And he, if anyone, should know.

But tho' of folks in Utah State, But 2 percent lead plural lives, Perhaps the other 98 Are just--their children and their wives!

O stern, ascetic congregation, Resisting all--except temptation!

Well, I, for one, can see no harm, Unless for trouble one were looking, In having wives on either arm, And one downstairs--to do the cooking.

A touching scene; with nought to dim it.

But fifty children!--That's the limit!

Some middle course would I explore; Incur a merely dual bond; One wife, brunette, to scrub the floor, And one for outdoor use, a blonde; Thus happily could I exist, A moral Mormonogamist!

_Sherlock Holmes_

The French "filou" may raise his "bock,"

The "Green-goods man" his c.o.c.ktail, when He toast Gaboriau's Le Coq, Or Pinkerton's discreet young men; But beer in British b.u.mpers foams Around the name of Sherlock Holmes!

Come, boon companions, all of you Who (woodc.o.c.k-like) exist by suction, Uplift your teeming tankards to The great Professor of Deduction!

Who is he? You shall shortly see If (Watson-like) you "follow me."

In London (on the left-hand side As you go in), stands Baker Street, Exhibited with proper pride By all policemen on the beat, As housing one whose predilection Is private criminal detection.

The malefactor's apt disguise Presents to him an easy task; His placid, penetrating eyes Can pierce the most secretive mask; And felons ask a deal too much Who fancy to elude his clutch.

No slender or exiguous clew Too paltry for his needs is found; No knot too stubborn to undo, No prey too swift to run to ground; No road too difficult to travel, No skein too tangled to unravel.

For Holmes the ash of a cigar, A gnat impinging on his eye, Possess a meaning subtler far Than humbler mortals can descry.

A primrose at the river's brim No simple primrose is to him!

To Holmes a battered Brahma key, Combined with blurred articulation, Displays a man's capacity For infinite ingurgitation; Obliquity of moral vision Betrays the civic politician.

I had an uncle, who possessed A marked resemblance to a bloater, Whom Sherlock, by deduction, guessed To be the victim of a motor; Whereas, his wife (or so he swore) Had merely shut him in the door!

My brother's nose, whose hectic hue Recalled the sun-kissed autumn leaf, Though friends attributed it to Some secret or domestic grief, Revealed to Holmes his deep potations, And _not_ the loss of loved relations!

I had a poodle, short and fat, Who proved a conjugal deceiver; Her offspring were a Maltese Cat, Two Dachshunds and a pink retriever!

Her husband was a pure-bred Skye; And Sherlock Holmes alone knew why!

When after-dinner speakers rise, To plunge in anecdotage deep, At once will Sherlock recognise Each welcome harbinger of sleep: That voice which torpid guests entrances, That immemorial voice of Chauncey's!

Not his, suppose Hall Caine should walk All unannounced into the room, To say, like pressmen of New York, "Er--Mr. Shakespeare, I presoom?"

By name "The Manxman" Holmes would hail, Observing that he _had no tale_.

In vain, amid the lonely state Of Zion, dreariest of havens, Does bashful Dowie emulate The prophet who was fed by ravens; To Holmes such affluence betrays A prophet who is fed by _jays_!

With Holmes there lived a foolish man, To whom I briefly must allude, Who gloried in possessing an Abnormal mental hebetude; One could describe the grossest _betise_ To this (forgive the rhyme) Achates.

'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole, Obtusely, painfully polite; Who played the unambitious role Of parasitic satellite; Inevitably bound to bore us, Like Aristophanes's Chorus.

But London town is sad to-day, And preternaturally solemn; The fountains murmur "Let us spray"

To Nelson on his lonely column; Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is, For Holmes has given up his practice.

No more in silence, as the snake, Will he his sinuous path pursue, Till, like the weasel (when awake), Or deft, resilient kangaroo, He leaps upon his quivering quarry, Before there's time to say you're sorry.

No more will criminals, at dawn, Effecting some burglarious entry, (While Sherlock, on the garden lawn, Enacts the thankless role of sentry), Discover, to their bitter cost, That felons who are found--are lost!

No more on Holmes shall Watson base The Chronicles he proudly fabled; The violin and morphia-case Are in the pa.s.sage, packed and labelled; And Holmes himself is at the door, Departing--to return no more.

He bids farewell to Baker Street, Though Watson clings about his knees; He hastens to his country seat, To spend his dotage keeping bees; And one of them, depend upon it, Shall find a haven in his bonnet!

But though in grief our heads are bowed, And tears upon our cheeks are s.h.i.+ning, We recognise that ev'ry cloud Conceals somewhere a silver lining; And hear with deep congratulation Of Watson's timely termination.

_Aftword_

Ye Critics, who with bilious eye Peruse my incoherent medley, Prepared to let your arrows fly, With cruel aim and purpose deadly, Desist a moment, ere you spoil The harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!

Remember, should you scent afar The crusted jokes of days gone by, What conscious plagiarists we are: Moliere and Seymour Hicks and I, For, as my bearded chestnuts prove, _Je prends mon bien ou je le trouve!_

My wealth of wit I never waste On Chestertonian paradox; My humour, in the best of taste, Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks; For sacred things my rev'rent awe Resembles that of Bernard Shaw.

Behold how tenderly I treat Each victim of my pen and brain, And should I tread upon his feet, How lightly I leap off again; Observe with what an airy grace I fling my inkpot in his face!