Part 2

My dear Poet Laureate,-- Do not, I implore you, Be perturbed. It is not my purpose to harp Upon old strings, Or to express the smallest satisfaction Either with you as an official personage Or with your verses as a production of an official personage; I have called to-day, as it were, For a little quiet talk: You are a fellow-townsman of mine, Consequently I am a fellow-townsman of yours; We ought to get on well together. Between ourselves, my dear Poet Laureate, It seems to me That if you were to set about it In the right way You might, with very little trouble Render a real service to the State Being as you are The only writer fellow Who in his literary capacity Is associated with the Court, You have, if I may say so, chances and opportunities Such as do not appear to have been vouchsafed To any other contemporary worker in the department of Letters. Our Gracious Sovereign Lord King Edward VII. (I make no doubt) Continually consults you on matters literary "Dear Mr. Austen" (I can hear him saying), "Would you now advise me to read Mr. Newverse's Sonnets And Miss Jumpabouti's new novel, Or would you not?" Of course, my dear Poet Laureate, If you were one of those stiff ungenerous Poets Laureate Who make it a rule to stick to business, You would say very respectfully, "Your Majesty honours me, But I am not your Majesty's Book-Taster, Being, as your Majesty is aware, Paid only to wangle my harp In celebration of Births, Deaths, and Marriages. Therefore I must respectfully, civilly, humbly, and generally otherwisely Beg to decline to answer your Majesty's kind inquiry." But my dear Poet Laureate, There is nothing of that sort about you. You believe that a Poet Laureate, Should not only be a sort of walking rhyming dictionary, But also a general compendium of advice, counsel, and straight tips For crowned heads. Hence (I make no doubt) That when his Majesty the King _Does_ ask you for a hint as to the kind of book he ought to read You break the marble box of your wisdom Upon the palace floor And expound things to him. Having thus the ear Of an exceedingly amiable and capable Monarch, You should by all means Take advantage of the circumstance To do what you can in that quarter For the benefit of your brethren and sisters of the pen. Many of them, my dear Poet Laureate, Are at the present moment Going about the country With weary souls and tattered nerves Because their Services to Literature Have not been blessed and approved, Not to say "recognised," By the Crown. Some of them believe in their hearts That they ought to have a peerage. Others desire to be Baronets, Knights, and so forth, In order that their wives may be called "Lady." Others, whom I know, Would be well content with a humble K.C.B. And yet others Would go off their heads with joy If they might only be invited regularly To the King's Levees and Droring Rooms. My dear Poet Laureate, I charge you to do your best for these suffering people. WRITING IS A NOBLE ART, IT SHOULD MOST CERTAINLY BE RECOGNISED BY THE CROWN. Rub these facts well in, my dear Poet Laureate (You know who to rub 'em into); And while you are about it, There are two persons On whose behalf You might use every legitimate endeavour To rub your hardest-- One of them, my dear Poet Laureate, is YOURSELF And the other is MYSELF. Your own desires in the way of "recognition" Are of course your own affair, Ask for what you like, my dear Poet Laureate, And see that you get it, For me (Let me whisper) I want a pension.

TO THE AMERICAN INVADER

Dear Sir or Madam (As the case may be),-- Peace hath her victories as well as war And sometimes When I have occasion to travel In this muggy metropolis of ours, I begin to wonder whether I really am in London, Or in New York. On the tops of Atlas 'buses, and all other 'buses, At the dining-tables of hotels at all prices, At all theatres, At all music-halls, At all art galleries, At all "evenings," At all social functions Metropolitan in their nature You, my dear Sir or Madam (As the case may be), Flourish and are to the fore, There are people in the world Who can pick you out at a glance. The American woman, I am told, Wears a certain kind of complexion And a certain kind of blouse; The American man, I am told, Is weedy and anaemic, A cigarette smoker, A confirmed spitter, And a moderate drinker; He has a soft hat and unlimited dollars: It is his dollars, of course, Which are creating all the trouble. They are beginning to circulate And "geta-holt" Wherever honest Britons most do congregate. My tobacco merchant, Who sells me two ounces of the real thing every week, Has just been bought up by an American syndicate; My barber is in the same case; And I feel sure That the woman who brings home "the laundry" Is seriously considering proposals which have been made to her By a syndicate of wealthy American gentlemen. The electric-lighting plant in St. Paul's Cathedral Was, it seems, paid for by an American. Another American is doing something or other With the underground railways, And a third proposes to erect a building Which will contain 6,000 rooms On one of the best sites On the new Holborn-Strand improvement. Also I am using An American roll-top desk, An American typewriter, An American chair, American ink, American pens, American blotting paper, American gum, American paper fasteners, American notions, An American pattern of Ode, And Heaven knows what besides. I am all American. I can whistle the "Star-Spangled Banner," I can, really! Shake! I like you, There are no flies on you. How are Mr. Roosevelt and all at home? Is Pierpont keeping hearty? Do you miss Carnegie--much? Have you seen the Amur'can eagle at the Zoo? Is Monroe's docterin' Good for dyspepsia? And it's O to be at home On the rolling perarie, With one's money well invested in English concerns, Run by British labour, And paying good old, fruity, nourishing British dividends!

TO THE "MUDDIED OAF"

My dear Muddied Oaf,-- While still a youth and all unknown to fame, I went to school. And on a certain Saturday I put on a beautiful blue jersey, and some striped knickers, And betook myself into a damp field With my hands nice and clean, And my hair parted. Within an hour's time My shins had the appearance of a broken paint can, My garments were covered with mud, One of my teeth had somehow got swallowed, And my hair was out of joint. When I come to think of it, In that hour I must have been a Muddied Oaf, Though I did not know what to call myself. And no doubt on that and successive Saturday afternoons I won my various journalistic Waterloos, And contracted a stubborn cardiac hypertrophy Which is even yet with me. For nigh twenty years, however, I have never, to my knowledge, Taken part in a football match; And, in spite of Mr. Kipling, I do not propose to indulge again In either Rugby or the other thing. Youth loves to be muddied; In old age one flings one's mud at other people. I don't know, my dear Muddied Oaf, How you like being called a Muddied Oaf. The average Muddied Oaf of my acquaintance Will not in the least understand What Muddied Oaf means, And even when a dozen reporters Have explained it to him, dictionary in hand, He will not care. You cannot take the glory of having crumpled up the Footleum Otspurs out of a man By calling him Muddy; And as for Oaf, When all is said It is a poor synonym for "dashing forward." No, my dear boy, Phrases out of poems cannot damp your ardours. And, so far as you are concerned, Mr. Rudyard Kipling May Be Blowed! All the same, I assure you As an old muddifier That there is a great deal in what the gentleman says. To a delicate age, Rifle practice presents many attractions: To shoot out of a No. 1 rifle At a choice array of clay pipes, dancing globules, and cardboard rabbits Is on the face of it A gentleman's job: You can do it with your hair parted: And providing you don't get betting drinks That you will ring the bell every time, It doesn't cost much. Regular practice At the ordinary shooting booths Will no doubt make a soldier and a gentleman of you, And teach you to fear no Boer in shining armour. These are points worth considering. Also, the game does not hurt. You need no lemon to help you through with it, You run no risk of dislocation, fracture, hypertrophy, gouged eye, or broken neck, You are on velvet all the time. And when it comes to calling names, You will have the honour and glory Of being set down for a gallant and gilt-edged Defender of your country, Ponder it, O Muddied One, And be wise.

TO A PUBLISHER

My dear Sir,-- In the whole round Of animated nature I am acquainted With nothing or nobody Who is, generally speaking, So gay, gaudy, and interesting As yourself. From my youth up I have been taught to look upon a publisher As a very great person indeed. When I was young and courted him He it was drew from me (As morn from Memnon) Rivers of melody; The which, however, He took good care Not to glorify with his imprimatur. In those days I looked upon publishing as a trade And poetry as a profession. Recently I have become wise, And I feel in the heart of me That publishing is a profession And poetry a trade. In spite of all that has been said to the contrary, Barabbas Certainly was not a publisher. I have not had time to look him up, But I feel quite sure That he was not a professional man. Besides, If he was a publisher, Why did he not publish something? Echo and the Publishers' Association No doubt answer "Why?" I sometimes think I should like to be a publisher myself. It must be rather nice To know for a fact How many copies Mr. So-and-so, and Mr. So-and-so, and Mr. So-and-so Really do sell, And how many "A second large edition" And "Tenth impression" Really mean. It must be rather nice, also, To go off to Switzerland every year (With your wife) To attend the Publishers' Conference. It must be rather nice, too, To know of a surety That when an author is making money Some publisher or other Is making just as much, And not infrequently a trifle more, On the same work. We have learnt of late Greatly to our disgust That when a publisher dies rich He has made his money out of Apollinaris. This is hard on authors, Who, between ourselves, Are not by any means bad people, And invariably take a kindly interest In their publishers' welfare. On the other hand, You must admit, sir, That a publisher seldom goes bankrupt, And does not as a rule sleep Under his own counter. Once I lent a publisher half a crown. He paid it back. The average author would have taken it As money earned. So that, on the whole, I am inclined to like publishers, And to set them down in my tablets For Useful persons.

TO AN HOTEL KEEPER

My dear Sir,-- Oft in the stilly night My thoughts fly In your direction, For oft in the stilly night It is my unfortunate habit To have uncomfortable dreams, And the worst of them Runs to bankruptcy. I have a horror of bankruptcy, At any rate in my dreams. I sometimes lie Between the blankets In a cold sweat And for public examination as it were, And the presiding genius of the court Says to me, sepulchrally, "To what do you attribute your financial rottenness?" I fall into a colder sweat And remark, With a humility Which becomes my unfortunate position, "Sir, if you please, I have been living at an hotel." At this juncture of course I come in for every sympathy: The Court is with me, The Court has been there itself; There is not a dry eye about the place, Every man present knows what I mean, And his heart is touched accordingly. Sir, My dear Sir, You also know what I mean; In other words, you know That I am the victim of a convention, And that, when all is said that can be said, You are the author of that convention. As to the nature of that convention We will put it this way: One pound of steak To the actual consumer Should cost, say, 1s. 2d. Trimmings In the way of potatoes and peas might cost, say, 6d., Bread, 1d., Pepper, salt, and mustard, 1d. (You will notice that I put a princely price on everything), Total, 1s. 10d. Fifty per cent. profit for you, let us say, Would bring us up to 2s. 9d. Really you ought to let one off for 2s. 9d., But what do you do? Well, So far as I can gather from your bills, You lie awake at night Debating with yourself Whether you should charge one 3s. 6d. or 4s. 6d. And you usually come to the conclusion That it will be best For all parties concerned To charge one 5s. If one expostulates, You remark With hauteur That you thought you were dealing with a gentleman. You are quite correct in this surmise. But-- One pays, And you pocket the difference. Then, again, on one's bill You put Bed, 7s. 6d. Which is cheap; And I do not murmur; But you also put Attendance, 2s. 6d.; Coffee in bedroom before rising, 1s.; Bath, 1s. 6d.; This is just 5s. too much, Especially in view of the fact That the attendance wears dirty shirts, That the bath Is lukewarm if you order it cold And lukewarm if you order it hot; And that the coffee before rising Doesn't cost you a farthing. I am aware, of course, That all this is very mean And low down On my part, But frankly Your rapacity Matters not so much to me As to yourself. People come once to your establishment, They read your bill, Pay your prices And tip your dirty-shirted waiters, And go away _And forget to come back_. Hence You are bound to charge The next man that comes along As much extra as he will stand, And by slow degrees Your establishment Is becoming A by-word And a warning. My dear Sir, Have a shilling bottle of wine (For which you charge me 3s. 6d.) At your own expense, Consult with your wife, And make up your mind Never to charge More than 2s. For 9d. worth of goods. Honesty is its own reward-- It is really.

TO THE MAN WITH A GUN

My dear Sir,-- I suppose you are having an excellent time just now. There are a large number of counties In England and Scotland, And I am not acquainted with one of them Wherein your bang-bang And puffs of smoke And red-faced men with dogs Are not to be encountered. You like it; It is very nice; And really, when you come to think of it, It is what the counties were made for. In the history books They were wont to say Of a certain Norman monarch, That he loved the red deer As if he were their brother. Of you it may safely be said That you love the red grouse And the brown partridge. As if you were a poulterer. You are a sportsman. The man who first went out with a gun To shoot game Probably did it on the sly. Had he been caught He would no doubt have been regarded By the sportsmen of his day With the same contempt That you yourself indulge For the unprincipled blackguard, Sir, Who shoots foxes. But time and the gunsmiths Have changed all that; And now you are a sportsman, A shooter of birds For the London market. You are also a gunner, And you kill things. Oh! why do you not go And live at Gunners-bury? Bad joke? Well, I know it is. But I assure you, my dear Sir, That it is not half so bad as I can make them When I try. To come now to the region Of practical politics, Let me explain to you right off That, despite all that has been said against you By people who are mad about the Land And the Game-laws, And the feathered kingdom And so forth, I, Who am always on the side of wisdom, Have discovered a justification for you. It is this: There has been a great demand of late For really competent shots. In response to that demand Mr. Kipling has started a village rifle club. I understand that the members thereof Are, let us say, five hundred in number. Now, I put it to you, Sir, How many sportsmen are there Shooting in this beautiful country and Scotland To-day? Well, we will not compute; It is dangerous. But you could make a fairly big rifle club out of them. They are all good men, And of course all beautiful shots. Some day (When the war is over) England may want them. Will they answer to the call? My dear Sir, You have your uses. Go in peace.

TO THE STOCK EXCHANGE

(_On its Centenary_)

My dear Stock Exchange,-- I am given to understand That to-day you are a hundred years old, And that to-day therefore You will celebrate What nine men out of every ten of you Call your "Cen_teen_ary" By taking a whole holiday instead of a half one. It would be easy for me, my dear Stock Exchange, To present you With a sort of illuminated address on this occasion; But I refrain. One short year ago I tumbled into a little money; It was "not enough to live upon," But it was a nice sum. A man introduced me to a member of the Stock Exchange, The member of the Stock Exchange introduced me to a little game of "in and out," And my five hundred pounds folded its tents like the Arabs-- That is to say, it silently stole away. It was not the member of the Stock Exchange's fault; Certainly it was not my fault; And I will not say that it was the fault of the Stock Exchange. But I am not giving the Stock Exchange Any illuminated addresses At present. On the other hand, let me assure you That I believe the Stock Exchange To be a highly respectable, Honourable, And useful institution. It leaves the court without a stain upon its character. I say these latter things advisedly, Because some time back A friend of mine who writes articles on food supply Having delivered himself of the opinion That London's milk was largely water, Was sued for slander By the Amalgamated Society of Dairymen's Daughters, And had to climb down and apologise. So that on the whole I repeat that, in my humble opinion, If you want to find Really sound, white men, Men of spotless character and impregnable probity, You cannot do better Than wend your way to Gorgonzola Hall. And joking apart, my dear Stock Exchange, You really are a blessing. If it were not for you People with a lot of money, And people with only a little, Would simply not lose it. It would lie in banks and old stockings and kindred receptacles Till it went mouldy. You keep things going. You are the heart of the monetary world, You pump in the gold, You pump out all that you don't happen to want. And you go and live in Maida Vale, Keep a butler, Drive two horses, And change your name from Manassah to Howard. This "Cen_teen_ary" holiday of yours Gives me much pause. Supposing, instead of taking a day, You were to take a year, What would happen to England? SHE--WOULD--BE--RUINED! Yeth, indeed.

TO THE LORD MAYOR

(_November 9th_)

My dear Lord Mayor,-- In Fleet Street all is gay From min' office window I catch glimpses Of fluttering bunting and swinging festoons. I don't know who pays for them (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say), But I am informed by the police that they (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say) Have been hung up in honour of YOU. I am also given to understand that there has been a big rush For free windows to view your procession, Which, all being well (the Procession, that is to say) Will take place this day, Saturday; For my own part I am going into the country, And I dare say that on the whole You wish you were going with me; But ambition has its penalties, And if you will become Lord Mayor of London (A dizzy pinnacle to which none but the biggest-souled of us May aspire) I suppose you must put up with the attendant inconveniences And publicity. So far as I have been able to judge (And I arrive at this conclusion by dint of steadfast abstinence From witnessing Lord Mayors' Shows) A Lord Mayor's Show is a distinctly inspiriting spectacle. It may be set down As the Londoner's one annual opportunity Of seeing a circus for nothing; Hence no doubt its popularity. Think not, however, my dear Lord Mayor, That I deprecate your little pageant, gratis though it be. This country, as everybody knows, Has for centuries past been on the high road to ruin, And, in my humble opinion, its decadence has been largely due To a deep-rooted tendency on the part of the powerful To curtail and do away with mayoral and other shows. Feasts and fairs have been kicked out of England By the aforesaid powerful: If you would be a respectable community You must have neither feast nor fair, And, if you would be a respectable citizen of any given city, You must not array yourself in motley. A man who walked into his bank In yellow trousers and a blue silk hat Would never be allowed an overdraft, Black and subdued greens and browns being the only wear For persons who would get on in life. All this is wrong, my dear Lord Mayor. I am of opinion that millionaires Ought to wear purple breeches; I see no reason why I myself Should not have a morning coat of red, white, and blue, Or a waistcoat emblazoned with the arms Of the Worshipful Company of Spectaclemakers. In fact, my dear Lord Mayor, To perpetrate a Mrs. Meynellism, The colour of life is the salt of it, Just as the Lord Mayor's Show is the salt of the Lord Mayoralty And the one beautiful thing About life as people expect you to live it In the Metropolis. Come hither, come hither, my dear Lord Mayor, And do not tremble so! We are all glad to see you going up Fleet Street, We are all glad to see you going home the other way; And we shall be equally glad to see your successor Getting through the same flowerful day's work Next year. Goodbye, my dear Lord Mayor! And Hooray?

TO THE MOTORIST