Familiar Faces
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THE CRY OF THE PUBLISHER
O my Author, do you hear the Autumn calling?Does its message fail to reach you in your den,Where the ink that once so sluggishly was crawlingCourses swiftly through your stylographic pen?'Tis the season when the editor grows active,When the office-boy looks longingly to you.Won't you give him something novel and attractiveTo review?Never mind if you are frivolous or solemn,If you only can be striking and unique,The reviewers will concede you half a columnIn their literary journals, any week.And 'twill always be your publisher's ambitionTo provide for the demand that you create,And dispose of a gigantic first edition,While you wait.O my Author, can't you pull yourself together,Try to expiate the failures of the past,And just ask yourself dispassionately whetherYou can't give us something better than your last?If you really – if you truly – are a poet,As you fancy – pray forgive my being terse —Don't you think you might occasionally show itIn your verse?THE CRY OF THE AUTHOR
O my Publisher, how dreadfully you bore me!Of your censure I am frankly growing tired.With your diatribes eternally before me,How on earth can I expect to feel inspired?You are orderly, no doubt, and systematic,In that office where recumbent you recline;You would modify your methods in an atticSuch as mine.If you lived a sort of hand-to-mouth existence(Where the mouth found less employment than the hand);If your rhymes would lend your humour no assistance,And your wit assumed a form that never scann'd;If you sat and waited vainly at your tableWhile Calliope declined to give her cues,You would realise how very far from stableWas the Mews!You would find it quite impossible to labourWith the patient perseverance of a drone,While some tactless but enthusiastic neighbourPlayed a cake walk on a wheezy gramophone,While your peace was so disturbed by constant clatter,That at length you grew accustomed – nay, resigned,To the never-ending victory of MatterOver Mind.While you batten upon plovers' eggs and claret,In the shelter of some fashionable club,I am starving, very likely, in a garret,Off the street so incorrectly labelled Grub,Where the vintage smacks distinctly of the ink-butt,And the atmosphere is redolent of toil,And there's nothing for the journalist to drink butMidnight oil!It is useless to solicit inspirationWhen one isn't in the true poetic mood,When one contemplates the prospect of starvation,And one's little ones are clamouring for food.When one's tongue remains ingloriously tacit,One is forced with some reluctance to admitThat, alas! (as Virgil said) Poeta nascit--Ur, non fit!Then, my Publisher, be gentle with your poet;Do not treat him with the harshness he deserves,For, in fact, altho' you little seem to know it,You are gradually getting on his nerves.Kindly dam the foaming torrent of your curses,While I ask you, – yes, and pause for a reply, —Are you writing this immortal book of verses,Or am I?I
THE FUMBLER
Gentle Reader, charge your tumblerWith anæmic lemonade!Let us toast our fellow-fumbler,Who was surely born, not made.None of all our friends is "dearer"(Costs us more – to be jocose – );No relation could be nearer,More intensely "close"!Hear him indistinctly mumbling"Oh, I say, do let me pay!"Watch him in his pocket fumbling,In a dilatory way;Plumbing the unmeasured deeps there,With some muttered vague excuse,For the coinage that he keeps there,But will not produce.If he joins you in a hansom,You alone provide the fare;Not for all a monarch's ransomWould he pay his modest share.He may fumble with his collar,He may turn his pockets out,He can never find that dollarWhich he spoke about!Cigarettes he sometimes offers,With a sort of old-world grace,But, when you accept them, proffersWith surprise, an empty case.Your cigars, instead, he'll snatch, and,With the cunning of the fox,Ask you firmly for a match, andPocket half your box!If with him a meal you share, too,You'll discover, when you've dined,That your friend has taken care toLeave his frugal purse behind."We must sup together later,"He remarks, with right good-will,"Pass the Heidsieck, please; and, waiter,Bring my friend the bill!"At some crowded railway stationHe comes running up to you,And exclaims with agitation,"Take my ticket, will you, too?"Though his pow'rs of conversationIn the train require no spur,To this trifling obligationHe will not refer!When at Bridge you win his money,Do not think it odd or strangeIf he says, "It's very funny,But I find I've got no change!Do remind me what I owe you,When you see me in the street."Mr. Fumbler, if I know you,We shall never meet!Fumbler, so serenely fumblingIn a pocket with thy thumb,Never by good fortune stumblingOn the necessary sum,Cease to make polite pretences,Suited to thy niggard ends,Of dividing the expensesWith confiding friends!Here, we crown thee, fumbling brother,With the fumbler's well-earned wreath,Who would'st rob thine aged motherOf her artificial teeth!We at length are slowly learningThat some friendships cost too dear."Longest worms must have a turning,"And our turn is near!Henceforth, when a cab thou takest,Thou a lonely way must wend;Henceforth, when for food thou achest,Thou must dine without a friend.Thine excuses thou shalt mumbleDown some public telephone,And if thou perforce must fumble,Fumble all alone!II
THE BARITONE
In many a boudoir nowadaysThe baritone's decolleté throatProduces weird unearthly lays,Like some dyspeptic goatDeprived but lately of her young(But not, alas! of either lung).His low-necked collar fails to showThe contours of his manly chest,Since that has fallen far belowHis "fancy evening vest."Here, too, in picturesque relief,Nestles his crimson handkerchief.Will no one tell me why he singsSuch doleful melancholy lays,Of withered summers, ruined springs,Of happier bygone days,And kindred topics, more or lessDesigned to harass or depress?That ballad in his bloated handIs of the old familiar blend: —A faded flow'r, a maiden, andA "brave kiss" at the end!(The kind of kiss that, for a bet,A man might give a Suffragette.)(THE BARITONE'S BOUDOIR BALLAD)Eyes that looked down into mine,With a longing that seemed to sayIs it too late, dear heart, to waitFor the dawn of a brighter day?Is it too late to laugh at fate?See how the teardrops start!Can we not weather the tempest together,Dear Heart, Dear Heart?Lips that I pressed to my own,As I gazed at her yielding form, —Turned with a groan, and then hastened aloneInto the teeth of the Storm!Long, long ago! Still the winds blow!Far have we drifted apart!You live with Mother, and I love – another!Dear Heart, Dear Heart!At times some drinking-song inspiresOur hero to a vocal burst,Until his audience, too, acquiresThe most prodigious thirst.And nobody would ever thinkThat milk was his peculiar drink!What spacious days his song recalls,When each monastic brotherhoodCould brew, within its private walls,A vintage just as goodAs that which restaurants purveyAs "rare old Tawny Port" to-day!(THE BARITONE'S DRINKING SONG)The Abbot he sits, as his rank befits,With a bottle at either knee,And he smacks his lips as he slowly sipsAt his beaker of Malvoisie.Sing Ho! Ho! Ho!Let the red wine flow!Let the sack flow fast and free!His heart it grows merry on negus and sherry,And never a care has he!Ho! Ho!(Ora pro nobis!)Sing Ho! for the Malvoisie!In cellar cool, on a highbacked stool,The Friar he sits him down,With the door tight shut, and an unbroached buttWhere the ale flows clear and brown.Sing Ha! Sing Hi!Till the cask runs dry,His spirits shall never fail!For no one is dryer than Francis the Friar,When getting "outside the pail!"Ho! Ho!(Benedicimus!)Sing Ho! for the nutbrown ale!The Monk sits there, in his cell so bare,And he lowers his tonsured head,As he lifts the lid of the tankard hid'Neath the straw of his trestle bed.Sing Ho! Sink Hey!From the break of dayTill the vesper-bell rings clear,Of grave he makes merry and hastens to buryHis cares in the butt'rybier!Ho! Ho!(Pax Omnibuscum!)Sing Ho! for the buttery beer!Oh, find me some secure retreat,Some Paradise for stricken souls,Where amateurs no longer bleatTheir feeble baracoles,From lungs that are so oddly placedWhere other people keep their waist;Where public taste has quite outgrownThe faculty for being boredBy each anæmic baritoneWho murders "The Lost Chord,"And singers, as a body, areCursed with a permanent catarrh!III
THE ACTOR MANAGER
Long ago, our English actorsRanked with rogues and vagabonds;They were jailed as malefactors,They were ducked in village ponds.In the stocks the beadle shut them,While the friends they chanced to meetWould invariably cut themIn the street.With suspicion people eyed them,Ev'ry country-squire would feelThat his fallow-deer supplied themWith the makings of a meal.They annexed the parson's rabbits,Poached the pheasants of the peer,And had other little habitsJust as queer!Even Will, the Bard of Avon,As a poacher stands confest,And altho', of course, cleanshaven,Was as barefaced as the rest.He, a player by vocation,Practised, like his buckskin'd pals,Indiscriminate flirtationWith the gals!Now, the am'rous actor's cravingsFor romance are orthodox;Nowadays he puts his savings,Not his ankles, into "stocks."Nobody to-day is doubtingThat a halo round him clings;One can see his shoulders sproutingInto wings.Watch the mummer managerial,Centre of a rev'rent group;Note with what an air imperialHe controls his timid troupe.Deadheads scrape and bow before him,To his doors the public flocks;Even duchesses implore himFor a box.Enemies, no doubt, will tell us(What we should not ever guess)That he is absurdly jealousOf subordinates' success.Minor mimes who score a hit orThreaten to advance too fast,Are advised to curb their wit orLeave the cast!Foes declare that, at rehearsal,Managers are free of speech,And unduly prone to curse allThose who come within their reach.With some tiny dams (or damlets)They exhort each "walking gent – "Language that potential HamletsMuch resent.Do not autocrats, dictators,All who lead successful lives,Swear repeatedly at waiters,Curse consistently at wives?Shall the heads of the Profession,Histrionic argonauts,Be denied the frank expressionOf their thoughts?Will not we who so applaud themExecrate with righteous ragePlayer knaves who would defraud themOf their centre of the stage?Do we grudge these godlike creaturesPicture-cards that advertise —Calcium lights that flood their featuresFrom the flies?No, for ev'ry leading actorWho produces problem plays,Is a most important factorIn the world of modern days.Kings occasionally knight him,Titled ladies take him up;Even millionaires invite himOut to sup.Proudly he advances, trailingClouds of limelight from afar,(Diffidence is not the failingOf the true dramatic "star").What cares he for rank or fashion,Politics or place or pelf?He whose one prevailing passionIs himself?All the world's a stage, we know it;Managers, whose heads are twirled,Think (to paraphrase the poet)That the stage is all the world.Other men discuss the summer,Or the poor potato crop,Nothing can prevent the mummerTalking "shop."With his Art as the objectiveOf his intellectual pow'rs,He (as usual, introspective)Talks about himself for hours.While his friends, who never dream ofInterrupting, stand agog,He decants a ceaseless stream ofMonologue.He is great. He has become itBy a long and arduous climbTo the crest, the crown, the summitOf the Thespian tree – a lime!There he chatters like a starling,There, like Jove, he sometimes nods;But he still remains the "darlingOf the gods!"IV
THE GILDED YOUTH
A monocle he always wears,Safe screwed within his dexter eye;His mouth stands open wide, and snaresThe too intrusive fly.Were he to close his jaws, no doubt,The eyeglass would at once fall out.His choice of clothes is truly weird;His jacket, short, and negligée,Is slit behind, as tho' he fearedA tail might sprout some day.One's eye must be inured to shocksTo stand the tartan of his socks.The chessboard pattern of his checkBetrays its owner's florid taste;A three-inch collar grips his neck,A cummerbund his waist;The trousers that his legs enshroudSpeak for themselves, they are so loud.His shirt, his sleeve-links and his stud,Are all of a cerulean hue,And advertise that Norman blood, —The bluest of the blue, —Which, as a brief inspection shows,Seems to have centred in his nose.His saffron tresses, oiled with care,Back from a vacant brow he scrapes;From so compact a head of hairNo filament escapes.(This surface-polish, friends complain,Does not descend into the brain.)What does he do? You well may ask.Nothing at all, to be exact!Yet he performs this tedious taskWith quite consummate tact.(No cause for wonder this, in truth,Since he has practised it from youth.)To some wide window-seat he goes,And gazes out with torpid eyes;Then yawns politely through his nose,Looks at his watch, and sighs;Regards his boots with dumb regret,And lights another cigarette.Then glances through his morning's mail,And now, his daily labours done,Feels far too comatose and frailTo give the dog a run;Besides, as he reflects with shame,He can't recall the creature's name!Safe in a front-row stall he sits,Where lyric comedy is played;And, after, to some local Ritz,Escorts a chorus-maid.The jeunesse dorée of to-dayIs called the jeunesse stage-doorée!How slow the weary days must seem(That to his fellows fly so fast),To one who in a waking-dreamAwaits the next repast!How tiresome and how long they feel,Those hours dividing meal from meal!For, like Othello, he must findHis "occupation gone," poor soul,Who can but wander in his mindWhen he requires a stroll;A mental sphere, one may surmise,Too cramped for healthy exercise.But since a poet has declaredThat "nothing walks with aimless feet,"To ask why such a type is sparedTo grace the public street,Would be most curiously misplaced,And in the very worst of taste.V
THE GOURMAND
(A Ballad of Reading Grill)He did not wear his swallow-tail,But a simple dinner-coat;For once his spirits seemed to fail,And his fund of anecdote.His brow was drawn and damp and pale,And a lump stood in his throat.I never saw a person stare,With looks so dour and blue,Upon the square of bill-of-fareWe waiters call the "M'noo,"And at ev'ry dainty mentioned there,From entrée to ragout.With head bent low, and cheeks aglow,He viewed the groaning board,For he wondered if the chef would showThe treasures of his hoard,When a voice behind him whispered low,"Sherry or 'ock, my lord?"Gods! What a tumult rent the air,As, with a frightful oath,He seized the waiter by the hairAnd cursed him for his sloth;Then, grumbling like some stricken bear,Angrily answered "Both!"For each man drinks the thing he loves,As tonic, dram or drug;Some do it standing, in their gloves,Some seated, from a jug;The upper class from slim-stemmed glass,The masses from a mug.…*...*…*...*The wine was slow to bring him woe,But when the meal was through,His wild remorse at ev'ry courseEach moment wilder grew.For he who thinks to mix his drinksMust mix his symptoms too.Did he regret that tough noisette,And the tougher tournedos,The oysters dry, and the game so high,And the soufflé flat and low,Which the chef had planned with a heavy hand,And the waiters served so slow?Yet each approves the things he loves,From caviare to pork;Some guzzle cheese or new-grown peas,Like a cormorant or stork;The poor man's wife employs a knife,The rich man's mate a fork.Some gorge, forsooth, in early youth,Some wait till they are old;Some take their fare from earthenware,And some from polished gold.The gourmand gnaws in haste becauseThe plates so soon grow cold.Some eat too swiftly, some too long,In restaurant or grill;Some, when their weak insides go wrong,Try a postprandial pill.For each man eats his fav'rite meats,Yet each man is not ill.He does not sicken in his bed,Through a night of wild unrest,With a snow-white bandage round his head,And a poultice on his breast,'Neath the nightmare weight of the things he ateAnd omitted to digest.…*...*…*...*We know not whether meals be short,Or whether meals be long;All that we know of this resortProves that there's something wrong,That the soup is weak and tastes of port,And the fish is far too strong.The bread they bake is quite opaque,The butter full of hair;Defunct sardines and flaccid "greens"Are all they give us there.Such cooking has been known to makeA common person swear.And when misguided people feed,At eve or afternoon,Their harassed ears are never freedFrom the fiddle and bassoon,Which sow dyspepsia's subtlest seed,With a most evil spoon.To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes,Is a pastime rare and grand;But to eat of fish or fowl or fruitsTo a Blue Hungarian BandIs a thing that suits nor men nor brutes,As the world should understand.Such music baffles human talk,And gags each genial guest;A grillroom orchestra can baulkAll efforts to digest,Till the chops will not lie still, but walkAll night upon one's chest.…*...*…*...*Six times a table here he booked,Six times he sat and scann'dThe list of dishes, badly cookedBy the chef's unskilful hand;And I never saw a man who lookedSo wistfully at the band.He did not swear or tear his hair,But ordered wine galore,As though it were some vintage rareFrom an old Falernian store;With open mouth he slaked his drouth,And loudly called for more.He was the type that waiters know,Who simply lives to feed,Who little cares what food they showIf it be food indeed,Who, when his appetite is low,Falls back upon his greed.For each man eats his fav'rite meats,(Provided by his wife);Or cheese or chalk, or peas or pork,(For such, alas! is life!)The rich man eats them with a fork,The poor man with a knife.VI.
THE DENTIST
What a dangerous trade is the dentist's!With what perils he has to contend,As he plunges his pawsIn the gibbering jawsOf some trusting but terrified friend,With the risk that before he is ten minutes olderHis arms may be bitten off short at the shoulder!He is born in the West, is the dentist,And he speaks with a delicate twang,When polite as a prince,He requests you to "rinse,"After gently removing a fang.('Tis to save wear-and-tear to the mouth, one supposes,That dentists consistently talk through their noses.)He is painfully shy, is the dentist;For he lives such a hand-to-mouth life.When the sex known as "fair"Comes and sits in his chair,He will call for his sister or wife,For a lady-companion or female relation, —So strong is the instinct of self-preservation!He's a talkative man, is the dentist;Though his patients are loth to reply.With his fist in your mouthHe may say North is South,And you cannot well give him the lie;For it's hard to converse on such themes as the weather,With jawbone and tongue fastened firmly together!To a sensitive soul like the dentistYou should always avoid talking "shop."If he drops in to tea,You must certainly seeThat your wife doesn't ask him to "stop!"He is facile princeps, perhaps, of his calling;But jokes about princip'ly forceps are galling!There are people who say of the dentistThat he isn't a gentleman quite.Half the gents that we seeAre no gentler than he,And but few are so sweetly polite;For of all the strange trades to which men are apprentic'd;The gentlest, I'm certain, is that of the dentist!VII
THE MAN WHO KNOWS
How few of us contrive to shineIn ordinary conversationAs brightly as this human mineOf universal information,Or give mankind the benefitOf such encyclopædic wit.How few of us can lightly touchOn any topic one may mentionWith so much savoir-faire, or suchExasperating condescension;Or take so lively a delightIn setting other people right.Whatever you may do or dream,The Man Who Knows has dreamt or done it;If you propound some novel scheme,The Man Who Knows has long begun it;Should you evolve a repartee,"I made that yesterday," says he.With what a supercilious airHe listens to your newest story,As tho' your latest legend wereSome chestnut long of beard and hoary."When I recount that yarn," he'll say,"I end it in a diff'rent way."With a superior smile he capsYour ev'ry statement with another,If you have lost your voice, perhaps,He knows a man who's lost his mother;If you've a cold, 'tis not so badAs one that once his uncle had.Should you describe some strange eventThat happened to a near relation, —Some fatal motor accident,Some droll or ticklish situation, —"In eighteen-eighty-eight," says he,"The very same occurred to me."Each man who dies to him suppliesA peg on which to air his knowledge;"Poor So-and-So," he sadly sighs,"He shared a room with me at college.I knew his sister at Ostend.He was my father's dearest friend."If you relate some incident,A trifle scandalous or shady,An anecdote you've heard anentSome wealthy or distinguished lady,He stops you with a sudden sign: —"She is a relative of mine!"When on some simple point of factYou fancy him impaled securely,He either smiles with silent tact,Or else he shakes his head obscurely,Suggesting that he might disclosePortentous secrets, if he chose.But if you dare to doubt his word,At once that puts him on his metal;"Your facts," says he, "are quite absurd!As for Mount Popocatepetl, —Of course it's not in Mexico;I've been there, and I ought to know!"Or "George, how you exaggerate!It isn't half-past seven, nearly!I make it seven-twenty-eight;Your watch is out of order, clearly.Mine cannot possibly be slow;I set it half an hour ago."He knows a foreign health-resortWhere tourists are quite inoffensive;He knows a brand of ancient port,Comparatively inexpensive;And he will tell you where to getThe choicest Turkish cigarette.He knows hotels at which to dineAnd take the most fastidious guest to;He knows a mine in ArgentineIn which you safely can invest, too;He knows the shop where you can buyThe most recherché hat or tie.If you require a motor-car,He has a cousin who can tell youOf something second-hand but farLess costly than the trade would sell you;And if you want a chauffeur, too,He knows the very man for you.There's nothing that he doesn't know,Except – a rather grave omission —How weary his relations growOf such unceasing erudition, —How fervently his fellows longThat just for once he should be wrong.O Man Who Knows, we humbly askThat thou shouldst cease such grateful labours —Suspend thy self-inflicted taskOf lecturing thine erring neighbours;For in thy knowledge we detectNo faintest sign of Intellect.VIII
THE FADDIST
Gentle Reader, is your bosom filled with loathingAt the mention of the "Simple Life" brigade?Do you shudder at their Jaeger underclothing,Which is "fearfully and wonderfully made"?Though in manner they resemble "poor relations,"Or umbrellas which their owners have forgot,They contribute to the gaiety of nations,Do they not?They are harmless little people, tame and quiet,Who will feed out of a fellow-creature's hand,If he happens to provide them with a dietOf a temperance and vegetable brand.They can easily subsist – a thing to brag of —In the draughtiest of sanitary huts,On a "mute inglorious Stilson" and a bag ofMonkey-nuts.Ev'ry faddist is, of course, an early riser;When he leaves his couch (at 6 a. m. perhaps)He will struggle with some patent "Exerciser,"Until threatened with a physical collapse.He wears collars made of cellular materials,And sandals in the place of leather boots,And his victuals are composed of either cerealsOr roots.He believes in drinking quantities of water,Undiluted by the essence of the grape;And he deprecates the universal slaughterOf dumb animals in any form or shape.So his breakfast-food (a patent, too, of course), isMade of oats which he monotonously chews,Mixed with chaff which any self-respecting horsesWould refuse.He discovers fatal microbes that are hidingIn the liquids that his fellow creatures drink;Fell bacilli that are stealthily residingIn our carpets, in our kisses, in our ink!In his eagerness such parasites to smother,He will keep himself so sterilised and aired,That one fancies he would disinfect his mother,If he dared.In a vegetarian restaurant you'll find him,Where he feeds, like any other anthropoid,Upon dishes which must certainly remind himOf the cocoanuts his ancestors enjoyed.As he masticates his monkeyfood, you wonderIf his humour is as meagre as his fare,And you look to see his tail depending under--Neath his chair.To his friends he never wearies of explainingThe exact amount of times they ought to chew,The advantages of "totally abstaining,"And the joys of walking barefoot in the dew;How that slumber must be summoned circumspectly,In an attitude conducive to repose,And that breathing should be carried on correctlyThrough the nose.A pathetic little figure is my hero,With a sparse and wizened beard, and straggly hair,Upon which is perched a sort of a sombreroSuch as operatic brigands love to wear.He may eat the nuts his prehistoric sires ate,He may flourish upon sawdust mixed with bran,But he looks more like a Nonconformist pirateThan a man!