Familiar Faces

IX

THE COLONEL

Observe him, in the best armchair,At ev'ry "Service" Club reclining!How brightly through its close-cropped hair!His polished skull is shining!His form, inert and comatose,Suggests a stertorous repose.What strains are these that echo clear?What music on our ears is falling?Through his Æolian nose we hearThe distant East a-calling.(A good example here is foundOf slumber that is truly "sound.")He dreams of India's coral strand,Where, camping by the Jimjam River,He sacrificed his figure andThe best part of his liver,And, in some fever-stricken hole,Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control.Blow lightly on his head, and noteIts surface change from chrome to hectic;Examine that pneumatic throat,That visage apoplectic.His colour-scheme is of the typeThat plums affect when over-ripe.With rising gorge he stands erect,Awakened by your indiscretion,Becoming slowly Dunlop-necked —(To coin a new expression);Where stud and collar form a juncture,You contemplate immediate puncture.His head, like some inverted cup,Ascends, a Phoenix, from its ashes;His eyebrows rise and beckon upHis "porterhouse" moustaches;1And you acknowledge, as you flinch,That he's a Colonel – ev'ry inch!The voice that once in strident tonesAcross the barrack-square could carry,Reverberates and megaphonesA rich vocabulary.(His "rude forefathers," you'll agree,Were never half so rude as he.)As blatantly he cataloguesThe grievances from which he suffers: —"The Service gone, sir, to the dogs!""The men, sir, all damduffers!"In so invet'rate a complainerYou recognise the "old champaigner."His raven locks (just two or three)Recall their retrospective splendour;One of the brave Old Guard is he,That dyes but won't surrender;With fits of petulance afflicted,When questioned, crossed, or contradicted.But as, alas! from poor-man's gout,Combined with chronic indigestion,The breed is quickly dying out —(The fact admits no question) —I'll give you, if advice you're taking,A recipe for Colonel-making.Select some subaltern whose toneIs bluff and anything but "soul-y;"Transplant him to a torrid zone;There leave him stewing slowly;Remove his liver and his hair,Then serve up hot in an armchair.

X

THE WAITER

"He also serves who only stands and waits!"My hero does all three, and even more.Bearing a dozen food-congested plates,With silent tread (altho' his feet are sore),He swiftly skates across the parquet floor.None can afford completely to ignore him,Because, of course, he "carries all before him!"Endowed with some of Cinquevalli's charm,He poises plate on plate, and never swerves;Two in each hand, three more up either arm, —A feat of balancing which tries the nervesOf the least timid customer he serves.So firm his carriage, and his gait so stable,He is the Blondin of the dinner-table.Rising abruptly at the break of day(A custom more might copy, I confess),The waiter hastens, with the least delay,To don that unbecoming evening-dressWhich etiquette compels him to possess.('Tis too the conjurer's accustomed habit,Whence he evolves a goldfish or a rabbit.)Each calling its especial trademark bears.The anarchist parades a red cravat;The eminent physician always wearsA stethoscope concealed within his hat;A diamond stud proclaims the plutocrat;The rural dean displays a sable gaiter,And evening dress distinguishes the waiter.Time was when he was elderly and staid,With long sidewhiskers and an old-world air.How gently, with what rev'rent hands, he laidA bottle of some vintage rich and rareWithin a pail of ice beneath your chair,Like some proud steward in a hall baronialPerforming an important ceremonial.How cultured his well-modulated voice,His manner how distingué and discreet,As he directed your capricious choiceTo what 'twere best and pleasantest to eat,Or warmly recommended the Lafitte.A perfect pattern of the genus homo,More like a bishop than a major-domo.He kept as grave as the proverbial tombWhen in some haven "hush'd and safe apart,"You sought the shelter of a private room,To entertain the lady of your heartAt a delightful dinner à la carte.(The consequences would, he knew, be shockingWere he perchance to enter without knocking.)Now he is haggard, pale and highly-strung,The alien product of some Southern sun.Who speaks an unintelligible tongueAnd serves impatient patrons at a run,Snatching away their plates before they've done.Brisk as a bee, and restless as the Ocean,He solves the problem of perpetual motion.You would not look to him for good advice;To him your choice you never would resign.He gauges from the point of view of priceThe rival worth of each respective wine;His tastes, indeed, are frankly Philistine,And, with a mien indifferent or placid,He serves your claret cold and corked and acid.His is a tragic fate, a dreary lot.Think sometimes of his troubles, I entreat,Who in a crowded restaurant and hotWalks to and fro on tired and tender feet,Watching his hungry fellow-creatures eat!What form of earthly hardship could be greaterThan that which daily overwhelms the waiter?

XI

THE POLICEMAN

My hero may be daily seenIn ev'ry crowded London street;Longsuff'ring, stoical, serene,With huge pontoonlike feet,His boots so stout, so squat, so square,A motor-car might shelter there.The traffic's cataract he dams,With hands that half obscure the sun,Like monstrous, vast Virginian hams.A trifle underdone;The while the matron and the maidPass safely by beneath their shade.His courtesy is quite unique,His tact and patience have no end;He helps the helpless and the weak,He is the children's friend;And nobody can feel alarmWho clings to his paternal arm.When foreign tourists go astrayIn any tangled thoroughfare,Or spinster ladies lose their way, —The constable is there.With smile avuncular and bland,He leads them gently by the hand.He stalks on duty through the night,A bull's-eye lantern at his belt;His muffled steps are noiseless quite,His soles unheard – tho' felt!And burglars, when a crib they crack,Are forced to do so from the back.In far New York the "man in blue"Is Irish by direct descent.His bludgeon is intended toInflict a nasty dent;And if you ask him for advice,He knocks you senseless in a trice.In Paris he is fierce and small,But tho' he twirls his waxed moustache,The natives heed him not at all.No more does the apache.And cabmen, when he lifts his palm,Drive over him without a qualm.The German minion of the lawIs stern, inflexible, austere.His presence fills his friends with awe,The foreigner with fear.Your doom is sealed if he should passAnd find you walking on the grass!But no policeman can compareWith London's own partic'lar pet;A martyr he who stands foursquareTo ev'ry Suffragette,And when that lady kicks his shinsOr bites his ankles, merely grins.He may not be as bright, forsooth,As Dr. Watson's famous foil, —Sherlock, that keen unerring sleuthImmortalised by Doyle,And Patti who, where'er she roams,Asserts "There's no Police like Holmes!"But though his movements, staid and slow,Provide the vulgar with a jest,How true the heart that beats belowThat whistle at his breast!How perfect an example heOf what a constable should be!

XII

THE MUSIC-HALL COMEDIAN

When the day of toil is ended,When our labours are suspended,And we hunger for agreeable society,The relentless voice of PleasureBids us spend an hour of leisureIn a Music-Hall or Palace of Variety,Where to furnish relaxationEv'ry effort is directed,Tho' the claims of ventilationHave been carefully neglected.There's an atmosphere oppressive(For the smoking is excessive)In this Temple of conventional hilarity,But the place is scarcely warmerThan the average performerWith his stock-in-trade of commonplace vulgarity.There is nothing wise or wittyIn the energy he squandersOn some quite unworthy dittyFull of dubious "dooblontonders."For the singer labelled "comic"Is by nature economic--Al of humour, and avoids originality;Like a drowning man he seizesUpon prehistoric wheezes,Which he honours with a loyal partiality,In accordance with the rulingOf a senseless superstitionWhich demands a form of foolingThat is hallowed by tradition.Dressed in feminine apparel,With a figure like a barrel,And a smile of transcendental imbecility,All the humours he disclosesOf such things as purple nosesOr of matrimonial incompatibility;While the band (who would remind himThat it never would forsake him)Keeps a bar or two behind him,But can never overtake him.Then he gives an imitationOf that mild intoxicationWhich is chronic in some sections of society,And we learn from his explainingHow extremely entertainingAnd amusing is persistent insobriety;And we realise how funnyAre the wives who nag and bicker,While the husbands spend their moneyUpon alcoholic liquor.He discusses, slyly winking,The delights of overdrinking,And describes his nightly orgies, which are numerous;How he comes home "full of damp," too,How he overturns the lamp, too,And does other things if possible more humorous.And we listen con amore,While our merriment redoubles,To the truly tragic storyOf his dull domestic troubles.Next he tells us how "the lodger,"A cantankerous old codger,Asks another person's spouse to come and call for him;How he tumbles from a casementIn an attic to the basement,Where the lady very kindly breaks his fall for him;And our peals of happy laughter,As he lands on her umbrella,Grow ungovernable afterShe has fractured her patella.'Tis a more polite performanceThan "The Macs" and "The O'Gormans,"Who are artistes of the "knockabout" variety,Or those ladies in chemisesWho undress upon trapezesWith an almost imperceptible propriety;'Tis as worthy of encoringAs the "Farmyard Imitator,"And a little bit less boringThan the "Lightning Calculator."It does not evoke our strictures,Like those dreadful "Living Pictures"Which the prurient wrote columns to the press about;'Tis no clever exhibitionLike that tedious "Thought Transmission"Which we all of us disputed more or less about.But the balderdash and babbleOf our too facetious hero,Tho' attractive to the rabble,Send our spirits down to zero.For we weary of his patter,Growing every moment flatter,On such subjects as connubial infelicity,And we find ourselves protestingAgainst everlasting jestingOn the tragedies of conjugal duplicity.And we feel desirous veryOf imposing some restrictionsOn the humour that makes merryOver personal afflictions.Our disgust we cannot bridleWhen we see some public idol,Who is earning a colossal weekly salary,Having long ignobly panderedTo the questionable standardOf intelligence that blooms in pit and gallery.We are easily contented,And our feelings we could stifle,If the comic man consentedJust to raise his tone a trifle.If he shunned such risky questionsAs red noses, weak digestions,Drunkards, lodgers, twins and physical deformities;Ceased from casting imputationsOn his wretched "wife's relations,"Or from mentioning his "ma-in-law's" enormities;If he didn't sing so badly,And if only he were funny,We would tolerate him gladly,And get value for our money!

XIII

THE CONVERSATIONAL REFORMER

When Theo: Roos: unfurled his bann:As Pres: of an immense Repub:And sought to manufact: a planFor saving people troub:.His mode of spelling (termed phonet:)Affec: my brain like an emet:.And I evolved a scheme (pro tem)To simplify my mother-tongue,That so in fame I might resem:Upt: Sinc:, who wrote "The Jung:,"And rouse an interest enorm:In conversational reform.I grudge the time my fellows wasteCompleting words that are so comm:Wherever peop: of cult: and tasteHabitually predom:.'T would surely tend to simpli: lifeCould they but be curtailed a trif:.For is not "Brev: the Soul of Wit"?(Inscribe this mott: upon your badge).The sense will never suff: a bit,If left to the imag:,Since any pers: can see what's meantBy words so simp: as "husb: " or "gent:."When at some meal (at dinn: for inst:)You hand your unc: an empty plate,Or ask your aunt (that charming spinst:)To pass you the potat:,They have too much sagac:, I trust,To give you sug: or pep: or must:.If you require a slice of mutt:,You'll find the salfsame princ: hold good,Nor get, instead of bread and butt:,Some tapioca pudd:,Nor vainly bid some boon-compan:Replen: with Burg: his vacant can.At golf, if your oppon: should askWhy in a haz: your nib: is sunk.And you explain your fav'rite Hask:Lies buried in a bunk:,He cannot very well misund:That you (poor fooz:) have made a blund:.If this is prob: – nay, even cert: —My scheme at once becomes attrac:And I (pray pard: a litt: impert:)A public benefac:Who saves his fellow-man and neighb:A large amount of needless lab:.Gent: Reader, if to me you'll list:And not be irritab: or peev:,You'll find it of tremend: assist:This habit of abbrev:,Which grows like some infec. disease,Like chron: paral: or German meas:.And ev'ry living human bipe:Will feel his heart grow grate: and warmAs he becomes the loy: discip:Of my partic: reform,(Which don't confuse with that, I beg,Of Brander Math: or And: Carneg:)."'Tis not in mort: to comm: success,"As Add. remarked; but if my meth:Does something to dimin: or less:The waste of public breath,My country, overcome with grat:Should in my hon: erect a stat:.My bust by Rod: (what matt: the cost?)Shall be exhib:, devoid of charge,With (in the Public Lib: at Bost:)My full-length port: by Sarge:,That thous: from Pitts: or Wash: may swarmTo worsh: the Found: of this Reform.…*...*…*...*Meanwhile I seek with some avid:The fav: of your polite consid:.

XIV

KING LEOPOLD

("In dealing with a race that has been composed of cannibals for thousands of years, it is necessary to use methods that best can shake their idleness and make them realise the sanctity of labour." – King Leopold of Belgium on the Congo scandal.)

People call him "knave" and "ogre" and a lot of kindred names,Or they label him as "tyrant" and "oppressor";The majority must wilfully misunderstand his aimsTo regard him in the light of a transgressor.For, to tell the honest truth, he's a benevolent old manWho attempts to do his "duty to his neighbour"By endeavouring to formulate a philanthropic planWhich shall demonstrate the "sanctity of labour."There were natives on the Congo not a score of years ago,Whose existence was a constant round of pleasure;Whose imperfect education had not ever let them knowThe pernicious immorality of leisure.They were merry little people, in their simple savage way,Not a thought to moral obligations giving;Quite unconscious of their duties, wholly ignorant were theyOf the blessedness of working for a living.But a fond paternal Government (in Belgium, need I add?)Heard their story, and, with admirable kindness,Deemed it utterly improper, not to say a trifle sad,That the heathen should continue in his blindness."Let us civilise the children of this most productive soil,"Said their agents, who proceeded to invade them;"Let us show these foolish savages the dignity of toil —If we have to use a hatchet to persuade them!"So they taught these happy niggers how unwise it was to shirk;They implored them not to idle or malinger;And they showed them there was nothing that encouraged honest workLike the loss of sev'ral toes or half a finger.When they fancied that their womenfolk were lonely or depress'd,They would chain them nice and close to one another,And they thoughtfully abducted ev'ry baby at the breast,To facilitate the labours of its mother.So they made a point of parting ev'ry husband from his wifeAnd dividing ev'ry maiden from her lover;If a workman drooped or sickened they would jab him with a knife,And then leave him by the roadside to recover.If he grumbled or grew restive they would amputate a hand,Just to show him how unsafe it was to blubber,Till with infinite solicitude they made him understandThe necessity of cultivating "rubber."Thus the merry work progresses, as it must progress forsooth,While these pioneers are sharp and firm and wary, —And the Congo is reluctantly compelled to own the truthOf that motto "Laborare est orare."Though the Belgians sometimes wonder, on their tenderhearted days,(When the little children scream as they abduct them),If the natives CAN supply sufficient rubber to eraseThe effect of such endeavours to instruct themTho' within the royal bosom a suspicion there may lurkThat these practices offend the sister-nations,That one cannot safely advocate "the sanctity of work,"By a policy of theft and mutilations, —Yet wherever on the Congo Belgium's banner is unfurled,Where the atmosphere is redolent and sunny,I am sure the Monarch's methods must be giving to the worldSome ideas upon the "sanctity of money!"And, if so, I am not boasting when I mention once againThat the Ruler of the Congo has not surely ruled in vain!

XV

"BART'S" CLUB

("In my view, the most absolutely perfect club of all would be a club where absolutely every man could get in, it mattered not what he had done in the past." – Bart Kennedy.)

It fills, indeed, a long felt need,This institution, just arisen;We notice here that atmosphereOf restaurant and prison,Of green-room, gambling-hell, saloon,Which makes it an especial boon.That member there with close-cropped hair,Who noisily inhales his luncheon,His flattened nose has felt the blowsOf many a p'liceman's truncheon;The premier cracksman of the City,Is Chairman of our House Committee!That bull-necked youth, with fractured tooth,Discussing Plato with his neighbour,Returned to-day from Holloway,And eighteen months' "hard labour";He's such a gentleman, I think,– Or would be, if he didn't drink.We've thieves and crooks upon our books,And all the nimble-fingered gentry;The buccaneer is harboured here,The "shark" has instant entry.Blackmail is practised, too, by all,Who never heard of a black-ball!We gladly take the titled rake,The bankrupt and the unfrocked parson,All those whose vice is loading dice,Or bigamy, or arson.Most of our pilgrims have pursuedThe path of penal servitude.We've anarchists upon our lists,While regicides infest the smoke-room;(The faux-bonhomme who brings a bombMust leave it in the cloak-room).Ink for the forger we provide,And strychnine for the suicide.Each member's name is known to fame,As "green-goods man" or quack-physician;We welcome here the pseudo-peer,Or bogus politician.Within the shelter of our foldKing Peter greets King Leopold.Our doors are barred to Scotland Yard;And no precautions are neglected.Come, then, with me, and you shall beImmediately elected,To what with confidence I dubAn "absolutely perfect" club!

XVI

THE REVIEWER

Pray observe the stern Reviewer!See with what a piercing lookHe impales, as with a skewer,This unlucky little book!Note his gestures of impatience,As he contemplates, perplex'd,The amazing illustrationsWhich adorn the text!Hear him mutter, as his swivel-Eye converges on the verse,"Any man who writes such drivelMust be capable of worse.Let it be my painful mission,As a literary man,To suppress the whole edition,If a critic can."More than tedious ev'ry pome is;Ev'ry drawing less than true;Such a trite and trivial tome isQuite unworthy of review.On this balderdash no vocalPraises can my tongue bestow;To the dust-bin of some localPulp-mill let it go!"There its paper, disinfectedBy some cunning artifice,Shall be presently directedTo diviner ends than this.There its pages, expurgatedBy some alchemy abstruse,Shall at length be dedicatedTo a nobler use!"Grim, implacable Reviewer,Do not spurn it with a groan,Tho' your labours may be fewerIf you leave my books alone!'Tis the chief of all your duties —Duties which you strive to shirk —To discover hidden beautiesIn an author's work.Jewels, though perchance elusive,Crowd this casket of a book;'Tis your privilege exclusiveFor these hidden gems to look.When you have adroitly caught them,Their delights you can explainTo a public which has sought themFor so long in vain.Tho' you whelm me with your strictures,Snubs which one might justly call(Like the artist's cruel pictures)The "unkindest cuts of Hall"!Tho' your sneers be fierce and many,Honest censure I respect,And will meekly swallow any-Thing except neglect.Tho' your mouth be far from mealy,Tho' your pen be dipped in gall,Criticise me frankly, freely, —Better thus than not at all!Up the ladder I have crept un-Til I reached a middle rung,Do not let me die "unwept, un-Honoured and unhung."

L'ENVOI

Go, little book, and coyly creepBeneath the pillows of the blest,Whence those who seek in vain for sleepShall drag thee from thy nest;That so thy sedative aromaMay lull them to a state of coma.The infant child who lies awake,Within its tiny trundle-bed,No soothing potion needs to take,If thou art duly read;And hosts of harassed monthly nursesShall bless thy soporific verses.The invalid who cannot restHas but at thy contents to glanceTo hug thee to his fevered breastAnd fall into a trance;And sleepless patients without numberShall hail thee harbinger of slumber.Go then, fond offspring of the Muse,Perform thy deadly work by night,Thou rich man's boon, thou widow's cruse,Thou orphan-child's delight!Appease the heirs from all the agesWith balm from thine hypnotic pages!So in the palace of the king,The mansion of the millionaire,Thy readers shall combine to singThy praises ev'rywhere,Till folks in less exalted placesScream loudly for Familiar Faces!(When, if their cries are shrill and healthy,I shall become extremely wealthy!)

1

Cf. "mutton-chop" whiskers.