Misrepresentative Men. Graham Harry

      ALL great biographers possess,

      Besides a thirst for information,

      That talent which commands success,

      I mean of course Imagination;

      Combining with excessive Tact

      A total disregard for Fact.

      Boswell and Froude, and all the rest,

      With just sufficient grounds to go on,

      Could only tell the world, at best,

      What Great Men did, and thought – and so on.

      But I, of course, can speak to you

      About the things they didn't do.

      I don't rely on breadth of mind,

      On wit or pow'rs of observation;

      Carnegie's libraries I find

      A fruitful source of inspiration;

      The new Encyclopædia Brit.

      Has helped me, too, a little bit.

      In any case I cannot fail,

      With such a range of mental vision,

      So deep a passion for detail,

      And such meticulous precision.

      I pity men like Sidney Lee;

      How jealous they must be of me!

      'Tis easy work to be exact,

      (I have no fear of contradiction),

      Since it has been allowed that Fact

      Is stranger far than any Fiction;

      But what demands the truest wit

      Is knowing what one should omit.

      Carlyle, for instance, finds no place

      Among my list of lucubrations;

      Because I have no wish to face

      The righteous wrath of his relations.

      Whatever feud they have with Froude,

      No one can say that I was rude.

      This work is written to supply

      A long-felt want among Beginners;

      A handbook where the student's eye

      May read the lives of saints and sinners,

      And learn, without undue expense,

      The fruits of their experience.

      A book to buy and give away,

      To fill the youthful with ambition,

      For even they may hope, some day,

      To share the Author's erudition;

      So not in vain, nor void of gain,

      The work of his colossal brain.

      ALERT as bird or early worm,

      Yet gifted with those courtly ways

      Which connoisseurs correctly term

      The tout-c'qu'-il-y-a de Louis seize;

      He reigns, by popular assent,

      The People's peerless President!

      Behold him! Squarely built and small;

      With hands that would resemble Liszt's,

      Did they not forcibly recall

      The contour of Fitzsimmons' fists;

      Beneath whose velvet gloves you feel

      The politician's grip of steel.

      Accomplished as a King should be,

      And autocratic as a Czar,

      To him all classes bow the knee,

      In spotless Washington afar;

      And while his jealous rivals scoff,

      He wears the smile-that-won't-come-off.

      In him combined we critics find

      The diplomatic skill of Choate,

      Elijah Dowie's breadth of mind,

      And Chauncey's fund of anecdote;

      He joins the morals of Susannah

      To Dr. Munyon's bedside manner.

      The rugged virtues of his race

      He softens with a Dewey's tact,

      Combining Shafter's easy grace

      With all Bourke Cockran's love of fact;

      To Dooley's pow'rs of observation

      He adds the charms of Carrie Nation.

      In him we see a devotee

      Of what is called the "simpler life"

      (To tell the naked Truth, and be

      Contented with a single wife).

      Luxurious living he abhors,

      And takes his pleasures out of doors.

      And, since his sole delight and pride

      Are exercise and open air,

      His spirit chafes at being tied

      All day to an official chair;

      The bell-boys (in the room beneath)

      Can hear him gnash his serried teeth.

      In summertime he can't resist

      A country gallop on his cob,

      So, like a thorough altruist,

      He lets another do his job;

      In winter he will work all day,

      But when the sun shines he makes Hay.

      And thus, in spite of office ties,

      He manages to take a lot

      Of healthy outdoor exercise,

      Where other Presidents have not;

      As I can prove by drawing your

      Attention to his carte du jour.

      At 6 a.m. he shoots a bear,

      At 8 he schools a restive horse,

      From 10 to 4 he takes the air, —

      (He doesn't take it all, of course);

      And then at 5 o'clock, maybe,

      Some colored man drops in to tea.

      At intervals throughout the day

      He sprints around the house, or if

      His residence is Oyster Bay,

      He races up and down the cliff;

      While seagulls scream about his legs,

      Or hasten home to hide their eggs.

      A man of deeds, not words, is he,

      Who never stooped to roll a log;

      Agile as fond gazelle or flea,

      Sagacious as an indoor dog;

      In him we find a spacious mind,

      "Uncribb'd, uncabin'd, unconfin'd."

      In martial exploits he delights,

      And has no fear of War's alarms;

      The hero of a hundred fights,

      Since first he was a child (in arms);

      Like battle-horse, when bugles