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 isfacile princeps, perhaps, of his calling;But jokes aboutprincip'ly forcepsaregalling!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!
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 isfacile princeps, perhaps, of his calling;But jokes aboutprincip'ly forcepsaregalling!
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!
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 muchsavoir-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 mostrecherchéhat 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.
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 muchsavoir-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 mostrecherchéhat 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.
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.
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.
The Faddist
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!
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!
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;[A]And 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,Arecipefor 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.
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;[A]And 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,Arecipefor 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.
[A]Cf. "mutton-chop" whiskers.
[A]Cf. "mutton-chop" whiskers.
"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 howdistinguéand discreet,As he directed your capricious choiceTo what 'twere best and pleasantest to eat,Or warmly recommended the Lafitte.A perfect pattern of thegenus 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 dinnerà 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?
"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 howdistinguéand discreet,As he directed your capricious choiceTo what 'twere best and pleasantest to eat,Or warmly recommended the Lafitte.A perfect pattern of thegenus 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 dinnerà 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?
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 theapache.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!
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 theapache.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!
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."
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."
The Music-Hall Comedian
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 listencon 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 imposingsomerestrictionsOn 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 ifonlyhe were funny,We would tolerate him gladly,And get value for our money!
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 listencon 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 imposingsomerestrictionsOn 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 ifonlyhe were funny,We would tolerate him gladly,And get value for our money!
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:.
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:.
("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.
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.