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 nobleman, “I’ve a
Good mind just to test you, my Lady Godiva!
“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 Godiva.
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 Godiva 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The tax was remitted, the bells were repealed,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.
Miss Marie Corelli
A very Woman among Men!
Her pæans, 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, unobtrusive 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.
For while, of course, from day to day,
Her popularity increases,
As, in an artless sort of way,
She tears Society to pieces,
Her sense of humor, so they tell us,
Makes even Alfred Austin jealous!
Yet even bumpkins, by and by,
(Such is the spread of education)
May view with cold, phlegmatic eye
The fruits of her imagination,
And learn to temper their devotion
With slight,
