Part 1
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
FAMILIAR FACES
BY
HARRY GRAHAM
_Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes," "Misrepresentative Men," "Misrepresentative Women," etc., etc._
ILLUSTRATED BY TOM HALL
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!_
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?
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.
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