Familiar Faces Part 2

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 G.o.ds_!"

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 eyegla.s.s 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 c.u.mmerbund 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 sc.r.a.pes; 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 Oth.e.l.lo, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Gilded Youth_]

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 h.o.a.rd, When a voice behind him whispered low, "Sherry or 'ock, my lord?"

G.o.ds! 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 cla.s.s from slim-stemmed gla.s.s, The ma.s.ses 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 b.u.t.ter 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 hara.s.sed ears are never freed From the fiddle and ba.s.soon, 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.