Dear Sir or Madam

Produced by Al Haines

OUTLOOK

ODES

By T. W. H. CROSLAND

AUTHOR OF "THE UNSPEAKABLE SCOT,"

"LITERARY PARABLES," "THE FINER SPIRIT," &c.

LONDON: AT THE UNICORN

VII CECIL COURT W.C.

MCMII

TO

THE LORD WINDSOR

ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

CONTENTS

TO THE PRIVATE MEMBER

TO THE TRUE-BORN BRITON

(_After Peace Night._)

TO THE CAMBRIDGE CREW

TO DAN LENO

(_On his appearance at Sandringham._)

TO THE POPE

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN

(_Touching his audience of the King._)

TO THE TSAR

(_After Dunkirk._)

TO DAN LENO

TO THE POET LAUREATE

TO THE AMERICAN INVADER

TO THE "MUDDIED OAF"

TO A PUBLISHER

TO AN HOTEL KEEPER

TO THE MAN WITH A GUN

TO THE STOCK EXCHANGE

(_On its Centenary._)

TO THE LORD MAYOR

(_November_ 9_th._)

TO THE MOTORIST

TO NEXT CHRISTMAS

TO THE TRIPPER

TO THE GLASGOW MAGISTRATES

(_On their proposal to banish barmaids._)

TO A BOOKSELLER

TO THE DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER

TO THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER

(_Before his retirement._)

TO THE COMMON GOLFER

TO MR. PIERPONT MORGAN

TO PRINCE EDWARD OF YORK

(_On the return of the "Ophir."_)

TO MME. BERNHARDT

TO SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT

TO THE KING'S BULLDOG

TO THE _DAILY MAIL_

(_August_ 3, 1901.)

TO EVERYBODY

TO THE PRIVATE MEMBER

My dear Sir,--

You may think it unkind of me

To interrupt the peaceful calm of your holiday

With a poem about business.

But I assure you, my dear sir,

That I do so with the very best intentions,

And at the call of what I consider to be duty.

Duty, as you know, is a tremendous abstraction,

And brings a man into all sorts of difficult corners.

It was duty that took you into Parliament:

Similarly it is duty that constrains me to Odes.

When a man sees another man and pities him,

It is the duty of the first man to let the other man know about it

Delicately.

I pity you, my dear Mr. Private Member,

From the bottom of a bottomless heart.

Many a time and oft in the course of my rambles

Through the lobbies and liquor bars of St. Stephens

It has been my ineffable portion to run across you--

Silk hat, frock coat, baggy trousers, patient stare, bored expression:

Suddenly you smile

And crook the pregnant hinges of the back of your neck.

Mrs. Wiggle, the three Misses Wiggle, and little Master Wiggle,

Wife, daughters, and son of Mr. Forthree Wiggle,

Draper, and burgess of the good old Parliamentary Division

Of Mudsher West,

Are up from Mudsher West,

And they want showin' round the 'Ouse, you know.

Round you go.

Again: you appear in the Strangers' Lobby,

Spectacles on nose, somebody's card in hand.

The policeman roars out name of leading constituent.

Leading constituent departed in a huff twenty minutes ago,

Because he thought you were not attending to him.

There being no answer,

Policeman roars out name of leading constituent once more.

Name echoes along Lords' Lobby;

But not being there, leading constituent fails to come forward.

You look embarrassed, turn tail, retire to your back bench,

And feel deucedly uncomfortable for the rest of the evening.

You would like to get away to the theatre,

But you dare not do it:

There are Whips about.

You would like to go home to bed;

You must wait the good pleasure of the course of the debate.

You would like to stand on your hind legs

And address the House on large matters:

But you know in your heart

That the House will stand absolutely nothing from you

Bar a question or so.

You sit, and sit, and sit through dull debate after dull debate,

And you sigh for the hustings and the brass bands,

And the banquets and the "He's-a-jolly-good-fellow"-s

And wonder how it comes to pass

That you, who were once set down in the _Mudsher Mercury_

For a blend of Demosthenes and John Bright,

Can never get more than twenty words off the end of your tongue

After "Mr. Speaker, Sir."

Oh! my dear Mr. Private Member,

Your case is indeed a sad one,

And it is all the sadder when one comes to reflect

That, as a general rule, you are a sincereish sort of man,

Burning and bursting with a desire

To do your poor suffering country

A bit of good.

You know that the men who have the ear of the House

Are mere talkers;

That they are only "playing the party game,"

And that the country may go to pot for anything they care.

And yet they make their speeches

And get them reported at length in the papers,

And are given places in the Cabinet,

And go for "dines-and-sleeps" with the King,

What time you grow old and grey and obese and bleary eyed,

And never get the smallest show.

I pity you, my dear Mr. Private Member, I do really.

But for your comfort I may tell you

That all you lack

Is courage

And brains.

TO THE TRUE-BORN BRITON

(_After Peace Night_)

Dear Sir, or Madam,

As the case may be,

When Britain first,

At Heaving's command,

Arose from out

The azure main,

This was the chawter

Of that land

And gawdian a-a-a-a-angels

Sang this strain:

Don't you think so?

For my own part,

I am quite sure of it:

Monday night convinced me.

Mafeking night,

As you may remember,

Was a honeyed

And beautiful affair.

But

Peace night,

I think,

Really outdid it in splendours.

At the cafe

Which I most frequent,

All was Peace.

Round the table next mine,

There were seventeen Jews,

With a Union Jack.

Ever and anon

(Between drinks, as it were),

They held up

That Union Jack

And yelled:

"Shend him victoriouth,

'Appy and gloriouth,

Long to-o reign over uth,

&c., &c."

I wonder, my dear Sir, or Madam,

Why the Jews are so pleased:

I can't make it out.

Howsomever,

Pleased they are,

And a pleased Jew

Is worth a king's ransom,

Or words to that effect.

Peace, my dear Sir, or Madam,

Is a chaste and choice

Thing.

Outside the aforesaid cafe,

The crowd

Was so numerous

And exuberant

That I was compelled

(Much to my annoyance, of course)

To remain inside

Till closing-time.

Then I went home

In the friendly embrace

Of a four-wheeler.

For a little while,

There was much shouting and yelling and roaring and squeaking

and singing;

And then I knew

No more.

My cab

Bowled away

Through the sweet evening air

(That is to say,

If the common or Regent Street growler

Ever does bowl away),

And all the time

I snored.

Duly awakened

Outside my bungalow,

I raked up the fare,

And, in reply to kind enquiries

In the hall,

I remarked:

"Peace, O woman of mine,

Peace!"

TO THE CAMBRIDGE CREW

My dear Cambridge,

You have pulled it off,

As all men know.

This ode

Will make Oxford pretty sick;

But the spoils are to the victor.

If Oxford had rowed better

And won,

They should have had a nice new ode,

Like good boys;

But they have been and gone and lost,

And are, therefore,

Not fit subjects

For immortal verse.

Pah!

I pass by Oxford!

As for you, dear Cambridge,

Here's to you:

In spite of your long and honourable connection

With the manufacture

Of sossiges,

There appears to be something in you,

Which is more than can be said

For some of the sossiges.

Cambridge, my own,

You have won the bowt rice!

'Ave a drink!

What is the good of winning the bowt rice,

If you don't 'ave a drink?

I don't know,

And I'm sure you don't.

Also, what is the good

Of winning the bowt rice

At all?

I give it up.

Yes, I do really;

Please do let me give it up.

You have won;

You can afford to be generous;

Suffer me to indulge my little whim:

There is no good

In winning the bowt rice, Cambridge

No good at all.

On the other hand,

When I come to think of it

I am not quite sure

That to have rowed

In the Cambridge boat

Which won the bowt rice,

Is materially to have damaged

One's prospects or career:

At the very least, it makes one safe

For a tutor's job

At L80 per annum;

And what self-respecting person from Cambridge

Could wish for more?

I have heard of a man

Who rowed

In a winning Cambridge boat

And is now driving

A hansom cab.

And I have heard of another man

Who omitted to row

In a winning Cambridge boat

And is now driving a four-wheeler.

You see the difference, of course!

After all,

To row

In a winning Cambridge boat

Does give one

A sort of start in life,

And don't you forget it.

Always remember, my dear Cambridge, who you are.

You licked Oxford by five lengths

In 1902.

This is probably

All you will get

For your father's money.

Be thankful.

TO MR. DAN LENO

(_On his Appearance at Sandringham_)

Dear Mr. Dan Leno,--

This has been a great week

For Art--

One of the biggest weeks in fact

On record.

For at the beginning of the week, my dear Mr. Leno,

You were a mere popular entertainer,

Whereas at the present moment

You are a proud and 'appy man,

And in a position to walk about the Strand

With a diamond E

Scintillating in your cravat.

The thing that was anticipated

By the intelligent paragraphists,

My dear Mr. Leno,

Has come to pass.

His Britannic Majesty

King Edward VII., D.G.: B. et T.T.B.R.: I.I.,

_Does_ intend to give artists and authors and people

A little bit more of a show

Than has hitherto fallen to their lot.

His Majesty,

My dear Mr. Leno,

Has always been noted for his tact,

And in opening the ball with you, as it were,

His Majesty has exhibited an amount of tact

Which leaves absolutely nothing to be desired.

Had he commenced with Mr. Swinburne,

Or myself,

Or Mr. Hall Caine

What howls there would have been!

Whereas as it is

Everybody is delighted,

And the Halls resound nightly with his Majesty's praises.

Furthermore,

Besides being tactful,

The King's choice of you,

My dear Mr. Leno,

For an invitation to Sandringham

Has its basis in a profound common sense;

For I am acquainted with nobody in the movement,

My dear Mr. Leno,

Who could have done the Sandringham turn

With anything like the success which appears to have been yours.

I gather from interviews

That the King "laughed heartily" at your jokes,

And that "it was a treat to see him enjoying himself."

It is just here that Mr. Swinburne, myself, and Mr. Hall Caine

Would have broken down.

It seems to me unlikely

That the King would have laughed

At Mr. Swinburne's jokes;

My own jokes, as everybody is aware,

Are constructed on a principle

Which entirely prohibits laughter;

While, as for Mr. Hall Caine's jokes,

They have such a tremendous sale

That it is not good form to laugh at them.

Mr. Leno, my boy,

You have been the humble means

Of doing us all

A great kindness.

Those jokes of yours

Which have tickled Royal ears

Will be nectar to me

When next it is my pleasurable duty

To sit under you;

That hand which Royalty has shaken

I shall grasp

With an added fervour;

That smile will cheer me all the more readily

Because it has cheered

My liege Lord and Sovereign;

Those feet----

But, after all, the great point

Is the scarf pin.

I suppose you would not care to lend it to me

For a week or two

While I have one made

Like it?

TO THE POPE

May it please your Holiness

There are possibly two,

Or it may be three,

Men

In Europe

Who could indite this Ode

Without treading on anybody's corns.

After mature reflection,

I am inclined to think that I am those three men

So that you will understand.

Well, my dear Pope, I hear on all hands

That you are engaged, at the present moment,

In the cheerful act and process

Of having a Jubilee.

I have had several myself

And I know what pleasant little functions they are,

Especially when the King

Sends a mission to congratulate one on them.

To proceed,

You must know, my dear Pope,

That, by conviction

And in my own delightful country,

I am a rabid, saw-toothed Kensitite Protestant;

All my ancestors figure gloriously

In Foxe's "Book of Martyrs,"

And, if they don't, they ought to.

Also, I never go into Smithfield

Without thinking of the far-famed fires thereof

And thanking my lucky stars

That this is Protestant England

And that the King defends the Faith.

But, when I get on to the Continent,

To do my week-end in Paris,

Or my "ten days at lovely Lucerne,"

Or my walk with Dr. Lunn

"In the footsteps of St. Paul,"

Why, then, somehow

The bottom falls clean out of my Kensitariousness

And I become a decent, mass-hearing, candle-burning Catholic.

That is curious, but true,

And may probably be accounted for

By differences of climate.

However, we can leave that;

Here, in England, my dear Pope,

We all like you,

Whether we be Catholics or Protestants or Jews or Gentiles or

members of the Playgoers' Club;

And we all see you, in our minds' eye,

Seated benevolently upon your throne

Giving people blessings;

Or walking in the Vatican Garden

Clothed on with simple white.

We all think of you, my beloved Pope,

As a diaphanous and dear old gentleman

Whose intentions are the kindest in the world.

And yet, and yet, and yet--

The memory of Smithfield

So rages in our honest British blood

That, in spite of your white garments

And your placid, gentle ways,

We feel quite sure that you do carry,

Somewhere about your person,

A box of matches;

And that, if certain people had their way,

You would soon be lighting such a candle in England

That we should want a new Foxe

And a new Book of Martyrs

Of about the size of a pantechnicon.

Hence it is, my dear Pope,

That we--er--Englishmen remain Protestant

And make the King swear fearful oaths

Against popery and all its works,

Although, for aught one knows to the contrary,

He may have Mass said twice daily

Behind the curtain, as it were.

All the same, I wish you good wishes

As to this your Jubilee

And

_Nihil obstat_.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN

(_Touching his Audience of the King_)

My dear Mr. Chamberlain,

Since you last heard from me,

Many curious things have happened,

Both in Birmingham and abroad.

As to the happenings in Birmingham,

Nobody cares tuppence for them.

The happenings abroad, however, are a different matter,

Inasmuch as they have brought you great fame,

And cost us a lot of money.

Your influence in the governance of this great country,

my dear Mr. Chamberlain,

Is undoubted.

When you say things,

It is understood that all your fellow-ministers

Sit up and look good.

"We don't like it," they say in their decent hearts;

"But Joseph says it must be so, and be so it must."

To the delicate souls of Arthur James,

And George, and Broddy, and the rest of 'em,

You must, my dear Mr. Chamberlain, be a good deal of a trial,

But, somehow, they have to put up with you,

Even as the honest martyr has to put up with his shirt;

And, for my own part, I rather like to see it:

At any rate, in a sort of way, don't you know.

But, my dear Mr. Chamberlain,

In the daily papers of Monday morning,

What did I read? Why, I read:

"Mr. Chamberlain had an audience of the King

Yesterday afternoon."

And yesterday afternoon was Sunday afternoon.

Now, my dear Joseph, I do not mind in the least

What you do to Arthur James,

Or what you do to George,

Or what you do to Broddy,

Or whether you do it on Sunday afternoons,

Or on any other afternoon.

But I really must draw the line somewhere,

And I wish you to understand

That if you go to see His Majesty the King

On Sunday afternoons

(On the afternoon of the Sabbath, as they would say in Birmingham),

You do so entirely without my approval.

I think it is scandalous, and, not being a politician,

I have no hesitation in saying what I think.

Somehow, while I know you to be a competent man of business,

You never figure in my mind's eye, Joseph,

As the sort of man who ought to have

Personal communication with his Sovereign,

Particularly on Sunday afternoons.

Birmingham men were not born to grace the Court;

And, when it comes to the furnishing of Pleasant Sunday Afternoons

for Monarchs,

In my opinion, they are quite out of it.

When business presses,

As it no doubt did press on Sunday, Joseph,

It is your business, as a Birmingham man,

To remember your origin,

And, if you have anything on your mind

Which really must be communicated

To His Gracious Majesty King Edward the Seventh,

To look up the peerage and send round somebody

Who is, as one might say, fit for the job.

There is always Salisbury,

There is always Arthur James,

There is always George,

And there is always Broddy:

These men, my dear Joseph, are gentlemen,

And have known the Court all their lives.

What they do on Sundays I neither know nor care

But I have no doubt that, if you told them to go round and

see the King,

They would go hotfoot and see him.

So that you have no excuse, Joseph.

Birmingham will, no doubt, forgive you this once:

As for me, I solemnly swear that I never will.

TO THE TSAR

(_After Dunkirk_)

My dear Tsar,--

I am owing you

The usual apologies.

I did not come to Dunkirk,

I did not come to Dunkirk,

I did not come to Dunkirk;

I was billed as usual,

But at the last moment

I did not come.

So that it was in vain, my dear Tsar,

That you and your Imperial spouse

(To whom I offer my very humble duty),

It was in vain

That you and your Imperial spouse

(To whom I again offer my very humble duty)

Searched the poop of _La Marguerite_

With your Imperial binoculars;

I was not there,

I was not there,

(O pregnant phrase!)

I was not there;

I was not on the poop,

I was not on the poop,

I was not on the poop,

I was not even abaft the binnacle,

In fine, I was not there at all.

And why?

Ah, ingrate that I am,

Why? O why?

The North Sea or German Ocean, my dear Tsar,

No doubt hath its pearls,

It also hath other things,

As, for example, a Dover-Ostend route.

I went on that route

On Saturday last;

It is a nice route,

I give you my word for it;

But the North Sea or German Ocean

Also has

An Ostend-Dover route,

On which route I went

On Sunday evening

And part of Monday morning last.

Five hours, my dear Tsar,

Had I of that Ostend-Dover route;

And I am now at a place called Thame

In Oxfordshire,

Recruiting--

Though I promised a man at Bruges,

And another man at Ypres,

That I would infallibly see him

At Dunkirk.

The Loubets are, of course,

Bitterly disappointed,

But you can explain for me,

Can you not, my dear Tsar?

You understand,

Do you not?

The North Sea or German Ocean

Fatigued you,

Did it not?

That is precisely what it did to me.

Fatigue is a good word.

I thank thee, Tsar, for that beautiful word fatigue.

All day Monday I felt so fatigued

That I went and joined a Peace Society.

The Boer war, my dear Tsar,

Is entirely over,

So far as I am concerned;

Henceforth I quarrel with no man.

Fatigue has laid its heavy hand upon me;

I am too much fatigued to quarrel even with the partner of my joys

and sorrows.

Peace, perfect peace,

Is what I require,

And what I mean having.

Time writes no wrinkles on the Ostend-Dover route.

But you should see the people who have been that way.

Thame, in Oxfordshire,

Pitches beneath my feet

When I think of it.

TO DAN LENO

Dear Mr. Leno,

It is now many happy weeks

Since I had the pleasure of addressing you.

On the last occasion, you will remember,

You were fresh from Sandringham,

With a medal and sundry excellent stories

As to the manner in which you had been received

By His Majesty the King

And the Members of the Royal Family.

"To see them laugh," you told us, "was a treat."

Since then you have gone about

With a diamond "E" in your cravat,

And "The King's Jester" written all over you

As I have already stated,

I do not doubt for a moment

That the King really did laugh

At Mr. Leno.

I have laughed at him

(That is to say, at Mr. Leno) myself,

And I know what it is;

But to-day, Mr. Leno,

To-day being the 1st of April,

It is my turn to laugh,

And I do so with a right good will,

For to-day, Mr. Leno,

Your cup appears to be full,

Inasmuch as for this day only

You are actually editing a paper!

Now when a man takes to editing papers

All is over with him:

The next step is

Into the unutterable dark.

I have read your paper, Mr. Leno,

And I find that on the whole

It has been remarkably well edited:

That is to say, you as Editor

And your big co-editor,

Mr. Campbell of that ilk,

Have had the good sense

To edit the paper

In the only way in which an editor

Should edit a paper,

Namely, by leaving it to itself

As much as possible.

If all editors would have the sense

To take this wise course,

Contributors and subordinates, generally,

Would, to say the least of it,

Have a fairly happy life.

It seems in a way a pity, Mr. Leno,

That you should waste yourself

Upon an evening paper,

When there are so many morning papers

Requiring Editors:

The _Daily Chronicle_, for example,

Would have offered you a fair field

For the exercise of your extraordinary abilities;

Even the _Times_ might, for once in a way,

Have added lustre to itself

By taking on

Your joyous and winning lucubrations;

Then there is _Punch_,

Which journal, I understand,

Is always (and still) on the look-out

For that humour

Which somehow never comes its way.

But there, Mr. Leno,

You have missed your chance,

And possibly it will not come round again.

As you are young in journalism,

Let me say three things to you:

Imprimis, never be an Editor,

It is better to be in the ballet;

Item, always be on either a morning paper or a weekly.

The all-day papers keep one too busy.

Item, if you are an editor only for a day,

Be sure to subscribe to the Newspaper Press Fund;

Otherwise, what will your widow do?

TO THE POET LAUREATE

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

My dear Sir,--

When men have nightmares, they dream about you.

I myself have been chased over the tops of pinnacles

By flaming-eyed Panhards and Durkopps

In my sleep.

Nor is this all,

For if one brings oneself

To read reports of the proceedings of police courts

One finds that the average citizen

Gets more or less chased by you sir,

In his waking moments.

The Police I know, sir, seldom speak the truth:

They remember so well the day

When a horseless carriage had to be taken through the street

At the speed of a funeral march,

And with a red flag in front of it,

That the spectacle of an affable motorist

Bowling through a Surrey village

To the tune of six miles an hour

Shocks ther imagination,

And they believe for the rest of their natural lives

That the affable motorist aforesaid

Must have been travelling

At the rate of anything from 60 to 600 miles per minute.

Hence, my dear motorist,

It comes to pass that you are afforded so many opportunities

For airing your eloquence and the fatness of your purse

Before the police magistrates.

In my opinion it seems just possible

That the real trouble lies in the fact

That you, my dear sir, do actually

Go through villages at a very low speed,

And that really the best thing you can do

Would be to make a point of going through them

At the highest speed consistent

With the safety of your own person.

For if you did this,

No policeman of my acquaintance would be able to catch you,

Hence you would never be fined.

I have been out of sympathy with motor cars

Right up to the other night.

The other night I had the felicity to take a small trip on one.

The motorist would fain have driven me to my house,

Which is half an hour's cab drive from Charing Cross.

He offered to do the distance in ten minutes

And started stirring up his petroleum,

But I said "No. Let us go to the Marble Arch."

We went through the Mall, to Hyde Park Corner,

to South Kensington, to Paddington,

Into the Edgware Road, and so to the Marble Arch;

Time, at the outside, 15 min.

I am willing to admit

That we went down certain streets quite rapidly,

What time the policemen at odd corners stared stupidly,

And fumbled for their note-books.

But, as a result of that trip, my dear sir,

I have become an enthusiastic motorist.

I am convinced that speed and wind and the smell of petroleum mixed

Is the only thing which can be considered worth living for.

And if you happen to know anybody

Who would be willing to take

A typewriter and a pair of skates (not much worn)

In exchange for a Durkopp racer,

Kindly communicate with me.

TO NEXT CHRISTMAS

My dear Next Christmas,--

It is an excellent journalistic thing,

Not to say a poetical thing,

To be first in the field.

Behold me, therefore, advancing

At the head of that motley army

Which will inevitably hail you

When your time comes.

For your predecessor,

My dear Next Christmas,

I cannot say much.

He came in with several thousand inches of rain;

He went out on a watery moon.

There was turkey as usual,

Pudding as usual,

Mistletoe as usual,

Peace on earth as usual.

There were also the waits,

The young folks,

The postman,

The dustman

(No connection with the scavengers),

And the turncock.

We had a merry day.

Half the world pretended to be happy,

The other half pretended to be bored.

The festivities, I understand,

Are still being kept up.

There is a ping-pong tournament at the Queen's Hall

And a children's banquet

At the Guildhall on Tuesday evening;

Not to mention Mr. Dan Leno at Drury Lane

And Mr. De Wet at the Tweefontein.

It is all very cheerful

And very inspiriting.

All the same,

Let us not repine:

Christmas comes but once a year,

And it will come again, I fear.

This couplet, of course.

My dear Next Christmas,

Is not intended to be

Disrespectful to you;

It is inserted simply

For the sake of effect.

For I never miss an opportunity

Of bursting into rhyme.

When the way is plain before me.

My dear Next Christmas,

Do not be discouraged,

Come next year by all means;

If I said "Don't come"

You would come just the same.

Therefore, I say "Come,"

And I trust, my dear Next Christmas,

That when you do come

You will bring us a little luck.

Ring out the old, as it were,

And ring in the new;

Let candied peel

Be a trifle cheaper;

Let the war be settled

To the satisfaction of both parties;

Let the book trade flourish;

Let the Income-tax be reduced:

Let there be a fine Christmas Eve

And dry waits,

And a little skating next morning;

Let there be peace and plenty,

A pocket full of money,

And a barrel full of beer,

And all other good things,

Including a free and enlightened Press,

And a strong demand

For seasonable poetry.

My dear Next Christmas,

Here is my hand,

With my heart in it.

Till we meet again--

As Mr. Hall Caine says--

Addio.

TO THE TRIPPER

My dear Sir, or Madam,--

When James Watt,

Or some such person,

Had the luck

To see a kettle boil,

He little dreamed

That he was discovering you,

Otherwise he would have let his kettle boil

For a million million years

Without saying anything about it.

However,

James Watt

Omitted to take cognisance of the ultimate trouble,

And here you are.

And here, alas! you will stay,

Till our iron roads are beaten into ploughshares,

And Messrs. Cook & Sons are at rest.

"When I was young, a single man,

And after youthful follies ran"

(Which, strange as it may seem, is Wordsworth)

Your goings to and fro upon the earth,

And walkings up and down thereon,

Were limited by the day trip.

For half-a-crown

You went to Brighton,

Or to Buxton and Matlock,

Or Stratford-on-Avon,

As the case may be.

A special tap of ale

And a special cut of 'am

Were put on for your delectation;

You sang a mixture of hymns

And music-hall songs

On your homeward journey,

And there was an end of the matter.

But nowadays there is no escape from you.

The trip that was over and done

In twenty-four hours at most

Has become a matter

Of "Saturday to Monday at Sunny Saltburn,"

"Ten days in Lovely Lucerne,"

And "A Visit to the Holy Land for Ten Guineas."

Wherever one goes

On this wide globe

There shall one find

Your empty ginger-beer bottle and your old newspaper;

The devastations,

Fence-breakings,

And flower-pot maraudings

Which you once reserved for noblemen's seats

Are now extended to the Rigi,

The Bridge of Sighs,

Mount Everest,

And the deserts of Gobi

And Shamo.

Indeed, I question whether it would be possible

For one to traverse

The trackless forests of Mexico

Or "the dreary tundras of remote Siberia,"

Or to put one's nose

Into such an uncompromising fastness as Craig Ell Achaie

(Which is the last place the Canadian Pacific Railway made

And which may not be properly spelled)

Without coming upon you

Picnicking in a spinny,

And prepared to greet all and sundry

With that time-honoured remark,

"There's 'air,"

Or some other

Equally objectionable ribaldry.

Well, my dear Tripper,

Time is short,

And poets fill their columns easily,

So that I must not abuse you any more.

You are part of the Cosmos,

And as such I am bound to respect you;

But, by Day and Night,

I wish

That James Watt

Had taken no notice

Of his boiling kettle!

TO THE GLASGOW MAGISTRATES

(_On their Proposal to Banish Barmaids_)