Part 3

"'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.

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.

"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!)