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diff --git a/35059.txt b/35059.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d256547 --- /dev/null +++ b/35059.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2251 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Familiar Faces, by Harry Graham + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Familiar Faces + +Author: Harry Graham + +Release Date: January 24, 2011 [EBook #35059] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAMILIAR FACES *** + + + + +Produced by Mark C. Orton, Josephine Paolucci and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. +(This book was produced from scanned images of public +domain material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + + +FAMILIAR FACES + + +_By the Same Author_ + + MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN + + MORE MISREPRESENTATIVE MEN + + MISREPRESENTATIVE WOMEN + +[Illustration: The Man Who Knows It All] + + + + +FAMILIAR FACES + +BY + +HARRY GRAHAM + +_Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," "Misrepresentative +Men," "Misrepresentative Women," etc., etc._ + +ILLUSTRATED BY TOM HALL + +[Illustration] + +NEW YORK +DUFFIELD & COMPANY +1907 + + +COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY +DUFFIELD & COMPANY + +_Published August, 1907_ + +THE PREMIER PRESS, NEW YORK. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + +THE CRY OF THE PUBLISHER 7 + +THE CRY OF THE AUTHOR 9 + +THE FUMBLER 11 + +THE BARITONE 15 + +THE ACTOR MANAGER 20 + +THE GILDED YOUTH 25 + +THE GOURMAND 29 + +THE DENTIST 36 + +THE MAN WHO KNOWS 38 + +THE FADDIST 44 + +THE COLONEL 47 + +THE WAITER 50 + +THE POLICEMAN 54 + +THE MUSIC HALL COMEDIAN 58 + +THE CONVERSATIONAL REFORMER 63 + +KING LEOPOLD 67 + +"BART'S" CLUB 71 + +THE REVIEWER 74 + +L'ENVOI 77 + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +THE MAN WHO KNOWS IT ALL _Frontispiece_ + +THE BARITONE _Facing Page_ 16 + +THE ACTOR MANAGER " " 22 + +THE GILDED YOUTH " " 28 + +THE FADDIST " " 44 + +THE COMEDIAN " " 58 + +KING LEOPOLD " " 68 + +THE REVIEWER " " 74 + + + + +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 crawling + Courses 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 attractive + To review? + + Never mind if you are frivolous or solemn, + If you only can be striking and unique, + The reviewers will concede you half a column + In their literary journals, any week. + And 'twill always be your publisher's ambition + To 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 whether + You 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 it + In 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 attic + Such 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 table + While Calliope declined to give her cues, + You would realise how very far from _stable_ + Was the _Mews_! + + You would find it quite impossible to labour + With the patient perseverance of a drone, + While some tactless but enthusiastic neighbour + Played 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 Matter + Over 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 but + Midnight oil! + + It is useless to solicit inspiration + When 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 admit + That, 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 tumbler + With anaemic 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 ransom + Would he pay his modest share. + He may fumble with his collar, + He may turn his pockets out, + He can never find that dollar + Which he spoke about! + + Cigarettes he sometimes offers, + With a sort of old-world grace, + But, when you accept them, proffers + With surprise, an empty case. + Your cigars, instead, he'll snatch, and, + With the cunning of the fox, + Ask you firmly for a match, and + Pocket half your box! + + If with him a meal you share, too, + You'll discover, when you've dined, + That your friend has taken care to + Leave 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 station + He comes running up to you, + And exclaims with agitation, + "Take my ticket, will you, too?" + Though his pow'rs of conversation + In the train require no spur, + To this trifling obligation + He will _not_ refer! + + When at Bridge you win his money, + Do not think it odd or strange + If 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 fumbling + In a pocket with thy thumb, + Never by good fortune stumbling + On the necessary sum, + Cease to make polite pretences, + Suited to thy niggard ends, + Of dividing the expenses + With confiding friends! + + Here, we crown thee, fumbling brother, + With the fumbler's well-earned wreath, + Who would'st rob thine aged mother + Of her artificial teeth! + We at length are slowly learning + That 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 mumble + Down some public telephone, + And if thou perforce _must_ fumble, + Fumble all alone! + + + + +II + +THE BARITONE + + + In many a boudoir nowadays + The baritone's _decollete_ throat + Produces weird unearthly lays, + Like some dyspeptic goat + Deprived but lately of her young + (But not, alas! of either lung). + + His low-necked collar fails to show + The contours of his manly chest, + Since that has fallen far below + His "fancy evening vest." + Here, too, in picturesque relief, + Nestles his crimson handkerchief. + + Will no one tell me why he sings + Such doleful melancholy lays, + Of withered summers, ruined springs, + Of happier bygone days, + And kindred topics, more or less + Designed to harass or depress? + + That ballad in his bloated hand + Is of the old familiar blend:-- + A faded flow'r, a maiden, and + A "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 say + Is it too late, dear heart, to wait + For 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 alone + Into 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!_ + +[Illustration: The Baritone] + + At times some drinking-song inspires + Our hero to a vocal burst, + Until his audience, too, acquires + The most prodigious thirst. + And nobody would ever think + That milk was _his_ peculiar drink! + + What spacious days his song recalls, + When each monastic brotherhood + Could brew, within its private walls, + A vintage just as good + As that which restaurants purvey + As "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 sips + At 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 butt + Where 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 day + Till the vesper-bell rings clear, + Of grave he makes merry and hastens to bury + His cares in the butt'ry_ BIER! + _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 bleat + Their feeble baracoles, + From lungs that are so oddly placed + Where other people keep their waist; + + Where public taste has quite outgrown + The faculty for being bored + By each anaemic baritone + Who murders "The Lost Chord," + And singers, as a body, are + Cursed with a permanent catarrh! + + + + +III + +THE ACTOR MANAGER + + + Long ago, our English actors + Ranked 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 meet + Would invariably cut them + In the street. + + With suspicion people eyed them, + Ev'ry country-squire would feel + That his fallow-deer supplied them + With the makings of a meal. + They annexed the parson's rabbits, + Poached the pheasants of the peer, + And had other little habits + Just 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 flirtation + With the gals! + + Now, the am'rous actor's cravings + For romance are orthodox; + Nowadays he puts his savings, + Not his ankles, into "stocks." + Nobody to-day is doubting + That a halo round him clings; + One can see his shoulders sprouting + Into wings. + + Watch the mummer managerial, + Centre of a rev'rent group; + Note with what an air imperial + He controls his timid troupe. + Deadheads scrape and bow before him, + To his doors the public flocks; + Even duchesses implore him + For a box. + + Enemies, no doubt, will tell us + (What we should not ever guess) + That he is absurdly jealous + Of subordinates' success. + Minor mimes who score a hit or + Threaten to advance too fast, + Are advised to curb their wit or + Leave the cast! + + Foes declare that, at rehearsal, + Managers are free of speech, + And unduly prone to curse all + Those who come within their reach. + With some tiny dams (or damlets) + They exhort each "walking gent--" + Language that potential Hamlets + Much 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 expression + Of their thoughts? + +[Illustration: _The Actor Manager_] + + Will not we who so applaud them + Execrate with righteous rage + Player knaves who would defraud them + Of their centre of the stage? + Do we grudge these godlike creatures + Picture-cards that advertise-- + Calcium lights that flood their features + From the flies? + + No, for ev'ry leading actor + Who produces problem plays, + Is a most important factor + In the world of modern days. + Kings occasionally knight him, + Titled ladies take him up; + Even millionaires invite him + Out to sup. + + Proudly he advances, trailing + Clouds of limelight from afar, + (Diffidence is _not_ the failing + Of the true dramatic "star"). + What cares he for rank or fashion, + Politics or place or pelf? + He whose one prevailing passion + Is 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 mummer + Talking "shop." + + With his Art as the objective + Of his intellectual pow'rs, + He (as usual, introspective) + Talks about himself for hours. + While his friends, who never dream of + Interrupting, stand agog, + He decants a ceaseless stream of + Monologue. + + He is great. He has become it + By a long and arduous climb + To the crest, the crown, the summit + Of the Thespian tree--a _lime_! + There he chatters like a starling, + There, like Jove, he sometimes nods; + But he still remains the "darling + Of _the gods_!" + + + + +IV + +THE GILDED YOUTH + + + A monocle he always wears, + Safe screwed within his dexter eye; + His mouth stands open wide, and snares + The 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 _negligee_, + Is slit behind, as tho' he feared + A tail might sprout some day. + One's eye must be inured to shocks + To stand the tartan of his socks. + + The chessboard pattern of his check + Betrays its owner's florid taste; + A three-inch collar grips his neck, + A cummerbund his waist; + The trousers that his legs enshroud + Speak 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 hair + No 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 task + With 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 frail + To 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 doree_ of to-day + Is called the _jeunesse stage-dooree_! + + How slow the weary days must seem + (That to his fellows fly so fast), + To one who in a waking-dream + Awaits the next repast! + How tiresome and how long they feel, + Those hours dividing meal from meal! + + For, like Othello, he must find + His "occupation gone," poor soul, + Who can but wander in his mind + When he requires a stroll; + A mental sphere, one may surmise, + Too cramped for healthy exercise. + + But since a poet has declared + That "nothing walks with aimless feet," + To ask why such a type is spared + To grace the public street, + Would be most curiously misplaced, + And in the very worst of taste. + +[Illustration: _The Gilded Youth_] + + + + +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-fare + We waiters call the "M'noo," + And at ev'ry dainty mentioned there, + From _entree_ to _ragout_. + + With head bent low, and cheeks aglow, + He viewed the groaning board, + For he wondered if the _chef_ would show + The 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 hair + And 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 course + Each moment wilder grew. + For he who thinks to mix his drinks + Must mix his symptoms too. + + Did he regret that tough _noisette_, + And the tougher _tournedos_, + The oysters dry, and the game so high, + And the souffle 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 because + The 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 ate + And omitted to digest. + + ....*....*....*....* + + We know not whether meals be short, + Or whether meals be long; + All that we know of this resort + Proves 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 make + A common person swear. + + And when misguided people feed, + At eve or afternoon, + Their harassed ears are never freed + From 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 fruits + To a Blue Hungarian Band + Is 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 baulk + All efforts to digest, + Till the chops will not lie still, but walk + All night upon one's chest. + + ....*....*....*....* + + Six times a table here he booked, + Six times he sat and scann'd + The list of dishes, badly cooked + By the _chef's_ unskilful hand; + And I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the band. + + He did not swear or tear his hair, + But ordered wine galore, + As though it were some vintage rare + From 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 show + If 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 paws + In the gibbering jaws + Of some trusting but terrified friend, + With the risk that before he is ten minutes older + His 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 mouth + He 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 dentist + You should always avoid talking "shop." + If he drops in to tea, + You must certainly see + That 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 dentist + That he isn't a gentleman quite. + Half the gents that we see + Are 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 shine + In ordinary conversation + As brightly as this human mine + Of universal information, + Or give mankind the benefit + Of such encyclopaedic wit. + + How few of us can lightly touch + On any topic one may mention + With so much _savoir-faire_, or such + Exasperating condescension; + Or take so lively a delight + In 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 air + He listens to your newest story, + As tho' your latest legend were + Some 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 caps + Your 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 bad + As one that once his uncle had. + + Should you describe some strange event + That 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 supplies + A 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 anent + Some wealthy or distinguished lady, + He stops you with a sudden sign:-- + "She is a relative of mine!" + + When on some simple point of fact + You fancy him impaled securely, + He either smiles with silent tact, + Or else he shakes his head obscurely, + Suggesting that he might disclose + Portentous 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-resort + Where tourists are quite inoffensive; + He knows a brand of ancient port, + Comparatively inexpensive; + And he will tell you where to get + The choicest Turkish cigarette. + + He knows hotels at which to dine + And take the most fastidious guest to; + He knows a mine in Argentine + In which you safely can invest, too; + He knows the shop where you can buy + The most _recherche_ hat or tie. + + If you require a motor-car, + He has a cousin who can tell you + Of something second-hand but far + Less 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 grow + Of such unceasing erudition,-- + How fervently his fellows long + That just for once he should be wrong. + + O Man Who Knows, we humbly ask + That thou shouldst cease such grateful labours-- + Suspend thy self-inflicted task + Of lecturing thine erring neighbours; + For in thy knowledge we detect + No faintest sign of Intellect. + + + + +VIII + +THE FADDIST + + + Gentle Reader, is your bosom filled with loathing + At 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 diet + Of 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 of + Monkey-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 cereals + Or roots. + +[Illustration: _The Faddist_] + + He believes in drinking quantities of water, + Undiluted by the essence of the grape; + And he deprecates the universal slaughter + Of dumb animals in any form or shape. + So his breakfast-food (a patent, too, of course), is + Made of oats which he monotonously chews, + Mixed with chaff which any self-respecting horses + Would refuse. + + He discovers fatal microbes that are hiding + In the liquids that his fellow creatures drink; + Fell bacilli that are stealthily residing + In 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 him + Of the cocoanuts his ancestors enjoyed. + As he masticates his monkeyfood, you wonder + If 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 explaining + The 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 correctly + Through 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 sombrero + Such 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 pirate + Than a man! + + + + +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 AEolian nose we hear + The distant East a-calling. + (A good example here is found + Of slumber that is truly "sound.") + + He dreams of India's coral strand, + Where, camping by the Jimjam River, + He sacrificed his figure and + The best part of his liver, + And, in some fever-stricken hole, + Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control. + + Blow lightly on his head, and note + Its surface change from chrome to hectic; + Examine that pneumatic throat, + That visage apoplectic. + His colour-scheme is of the type + That 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 up + His "porterhouse" moustaches;[A] + And you acknowledge, as you flinch, + That he's a Colonel--ev'ry inch! + + The voice that once in strident tones + Across the barrack-square could carry, + Reverberates and megaphones + A rich vocabulary. + (His "rude forefathers," you'll agree, + Were never half so rude as he.) + + As blatantly he catalogues + The grievances from which he suffers:-- + "The Service gone, sir, to the dogs!" + "The men, sir, all damduffers!" + In so invet'rate a complainer + You 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 tone + Is 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._ + +[Footnote A: Cf. "mutton-chop" whiskers.] + + + + +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 nerves + Of 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-dress + Which 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 wears + A 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 laid + A bottle of some vintage rich and rare + Within a pail of ice beneath your chair, + Like some proud steward in a hall baronial + Performing an important ceremonial. + + How cultured his well-modulated voice, + His manner how _distingue_ and discreet, + As he directed your capricious choice + To 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 tomb + When in some haven "hush'd and safe apart," + You sought the shelter of a private room, + To entertain the lady of your heart + At a delightful dinner _a la carte_. + (The consequences would, he knew, be shocking + Were 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 tongue + And 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 price + The 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 hot + Walks to and fro on tired and tender feet, + Watching his hungry fellow-creatures eat! + What form of earthly hardship could be greater + Than that which daily overwhelms the waiter? + + + + +XI + +THE POLICEMAN + + + My hero may be daily seen + In 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 maid + Pass 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 alarm + Who clings to his paternal arm. + + When foreign tourists go astray + In 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 to + Inflict 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 law + Is stern, inflexible, austere. + His presence fills his friends with awe, + The foreigner with fear. + Your doom is sealed if he should pass + And find you walking on the grass! + + But no policeman can compare + With London's own partic'lar pet; + A martyr he who stands foursquare + To ev'ry Suffragette, + And when that lady kicks his shins + Or bites his ankles, merely grins. + + He may not be as bright, forsooth, + As Dr. Watson's famous foil,-- + Sherlock, that keen unerring sleuth + Immortalised 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 below + That whistle at his breast! + How perfect an example he + Of 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 Pleasure + Bids us spend an hour of leisure + In a Music-Hall or Palace of Variety, + Where to furnish relaxation + Ev'ry effort is directed, + Tho' the claims of ventilation + Have been carefully neglected. + + There's an atmosphere oppressive + (For the smoking is excessive) + In this Temple of conventional hilarity, + But the place is scarcely warmer + Than the average performer + With his stock-in-trade of commonplace vulgarity. + There is nothing wise or witty + In the energy he squanders + On some quite unworthy ditty + Full of dubious "_dooblontonders_." + +[Illustration: The Music-Hall Comedian] + + For the singer labelled "comic" + Is by nature economic- + -Al of humour, and avoids originality; + Like a drowning man he seizes + Upon prehistoric wheezes, + Which he honours with a loyal partiality, + In accordance with the ruling + Of a senseless superstition + Which demands a form of fooling + That is hallowed by tradition. + + Dressed in feminine apparel, + With a figure like a barrel, + And a smile of transcendental imbecility, + All the humours he discloses + Of such things as purple noses + Or of matrimonial incompatibility; + While the band (who would remind him + That it never would forsake him) + Keeps a bar or two behind him, + But can never overtake him. + + Then he gives an imitation + Of that mild intoxication + Which is chronic in some sections of society, + And we learn from his explaining + How extremely entertaining + And amusing is persistent insobriety; + And we realise how funny + Are the wives who nag and bicker, + While the husbands spend their money + Upon 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 story + Of 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 casement + In 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 after + She has fractured her patella. + + 'Tis a more polite performance + Than "The Macs" and "The O'Gormans," + Who are artistes of the "knockabout" variety, + Or those ladies in chemises + Who undress upon trapezes + With an almost imperceptible propriety; + 'Tis as worthy of encoring + As the "Farmyard Imitator," + And a little bit less boring + Than 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 exhibition + Like that tedious "Thought Transmission" + Which we all of us disputed more or less about. + But the balderdash and babble + Of 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 protesting + Against everlasting jesting + On the tragedies of conjugal duplicity. + And we feel desirous very + Of imposing _some_ restrictions + On the humour that makes merry + Over personal afflictions. + + Our disgust we cannot bridle + When we see some public idol, + Who is earning a colossal weekly salary, + Having long ignobly pandered + To the questionable standard + Of intelligence that blooms in pit and gallery. + We are easily contented, + And our feelings we could stifle, + If the comic man consented + Just to raise his tone a trifle. + + If he shunned such risky questions + As red noses, weak digestions, + Drunkards, lodgers, twins and physical deformities; + Ceased from casting imputations + On 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 plan + For 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 waste + Completing words that are so comm: + Wherever peop: of cult: and taste + Habitually predom:. + 'T would surely tend to simpli: life + Could 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 meant + By 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 ask + Why 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 warm + As 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 swarm + To 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 aims + To regard him in the light of a transgressor. + For, to tell the honest truth, he's a benevolent old man + Who attempts to do his "duty to his neighbour" + By endeavouring to formulate a philanthropic plan + Which 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 know + The 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 they + Of 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 work + Like 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. + +[Illustration: King Leopold] + + So they made a point of parting ev'ry husband from his wife + And 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 understand + The 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 truth + Of 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 erase + The effect of such endeavours to instruct them + + Tho' within the royal bosom a suspicion there may lurk + That 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 world + _Some_ ideas upon the "sanctity of money!" + + And, if so, I am not boasting when I mention once again + That 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 atmosphere + Of 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 blows + Of 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 pursued + The path of penal servitude. + + We've anarchists upon our lists, + While regicides infest the smoke-room; + (The _faux-bonhomme_ who brings a bomb + Must 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 fold + King Peter greets King Leopold. + + Our doors are barred to Scotland Yard; + And no precautions are neglected. + Come, then, with me, and you shall be + Immediately elected, + To what with confidence I dub + An "absolutely perfect" club! + + + + +XVI + +THE REVIEWER + + + Pray observe the stern Reviewer! + See with what a piercing look + He impales, as with a skewer, + This unlucky little book! + Note his gestures of impatience, + As he contemplates, perplex'd, + The amazing illustrations + Which adorn the text! + + Hear him mutter, as his swivel- + Eye converges on the verse, + "Any man who writes such drivel + Must be capable of worse. + Let it be my painful mission, + As a literary man, + To suppress the whole edition, + If a critic can. + +[Illustration: The Reviewer] + + "More than tedious ev'ry pome is; + Ev'ry drawing less than true; + Such a trite and trivial tome is + Quite unworthy of review. + On this balderdash no vocal + Praises can my tongue bestow; + To the dust-bin of some local + Pulp-mill let it go! + + "There its paper, disinfected + By some cunning artifice, + Shall be presently directed + To diviner ends than this. + There its pages, expurgated + By some alchemy abstruse, + Shall at length be dedicated + To a nobler use!" + + Grim, implacable Reviewer, + Do not spurn it with a groan, + Tho' your labours may be fewer + If you leave my books alone! + 'Tis the chief of all your duties-- + Duties which you strive to shirk-- + To discover hidden beauties + In an author's work. + + Jewels, though perchance elusive, + Crowd this casket of a book; + 'Tis your privilege exclusive + For these hidden gems to look. + When you have adroitly caught them, + Their delights you can explain + To a public which has sought them + For 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 creep + Beneath the pillows of the blest, + Whence those who seek in vain for sleep + Shall drag thee from thy nest; + That so thy sedative aroma + May 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 nurses + Shall bless thy soporific verses. + + The invalid who cannot rest + Has but at thy contents to glance + To hug thee to his fevered breast + And fall into a trance; + And sleepless patients without number + Shall 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 ages + With balm from thine hypnotic pages! + + So in the palace of the king, + The mansion of the millionaire, + Thy readers shall combine to sing + Thy praises ev'rywhere, + Till folks in less exalted places + Scream loudly for _Familiar Faces_! + + (When, if their cries are shrill and healthy, + _I_ shall become extremely wealthy!) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Familiar Faces, by Harry Graham + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAMILIAR FACES *** + +***** This file should be named 35059.txt or 35059.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/0/5/35059/ + +Produced by Mark C. 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