The Motley Muse Part 6

This ancient tradition of non-recognition Is dear to all clubs (save Soho ones!), Where Brummels and Nashes still twirl their moustaches, And even the windows are _Beau_-ones!

Here, once the resort of all lovers of sport, Are the counters and dice of past players; The belt, too, bestowed upon Heenan, who showed So much grit when he battled with Sayers.

Here, loudly proclaiming their pa.s.sion for gaming, Our prodigal ancestors betted; Their shekels they squandered, and home again wandered, Stone-broke or profoundly indebted!

Less p.r.o.ne to high play is the member to-day Than his forbear, that fire-eating gamester.

His pleasure he takes in more moderate stakes, And his losses don't cause quite the same stir.

But, still, a White's-clubber can win a big rubber, With all of his forefathers' vigour, And double 'no trumps,' too, until the score jumps to A really respectable figure!

A cursory look at the old wager-book Will discover full many an entry Recalling the age when this club was the rage Of the pick of our peerage and gentry.

But now the old places are filled with fresh faces, Of members less wise and less witty, Of hearty old busters, of pool-playing thrusters, Of brokers and blokes from the City, Whose names are less worthy recording on vellum Than those of a Walpole, a Pulteney, or Pelham!

CANTO III

THE BACHELORS'

While clerks lunch at Lockhart's or Lyons', And labourers meet at some 'pub,'

Society's celibate scions Resort to the Bachelors' Club; For here all the members elected Belong to a very smart set, And bask in the sunshine reflected From Mr. Gillett.

Here youths of the Governing Cla.s.ses At regular intervals call, To tap barometrical gla.s.ses Or study the tape in the Hall; Discussing the 'latest from Lincoln,'

Comparing the odds of each bet, Or reading out jokes from the '_Pink 'Un_'

To Mr. Gillett.

And though they severely disparage Those trammels that Bened.i.c.ks bind, And members who contemplate marriage Are spoken to sharply and fined; 'The s.e.x' they regard as no sinners, And ladies may often be met, Partaking of luncheons or dinners With Mr. Gillett.

Here, too, for young persons of leisure Who wish to develop the mind, Instruction is tempered with pleasure, Tuition with fun is combined; New knowledge they gain (one conjectures) And cerebral stimulus get, Attending the Radium Lectures Of Mr. Gillett.

Then ho! for this celibate centre For youths who are loth to espouse, Though fish-knives (the gift of their mentor) May tempt them to cancel their vows!

And ho! for that guide and dictator!

Their whistles let bachelors wet (A whisky and soda, please, waiter!) To Mr. Gillett!

CANTO IV

THE GARRICK

If for solitude you feel a partiality, If you chance to be unsociably inclined, If (like other men of British nationality) You abominate the presence of your kind; If you take your pleasures glumly And delight in dining dumbly, And if table-talk's a thing you nearly die of; If you look with detestation Upon Gen'ral Conversation, Then the Garrick is a club you should fight shy of!

If you hunger for companionship and jollity, If you much prefer to chatter while you eat, If you condescend at moments to frivolity, And will fraternise with any one you meet; If your interest is chronic In the art called histrionic, If your pa.s.sion for the drama's hot and strong, too; If you welcome its professors Telling tales about their 'dressers,'

Then the Garrick is a club you should belong to!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

If you come here (say) at supper-time on Sat.u.r.days, You will meet with all the patrons of the stage (Though the place is not so popular, these latter days, As it was before 'week-ends' became the rage).

Here each notable 'first-nighter,'

Critic, journalist, and writer, Sprinkles pepper on this club's especial oyster, And you hear a well-known jurist Or some literary purist Telling anecdotes unsuited to the cloister!

Here you'll notice, too, a perfect portrait-gallery Of those mummers who immortal have become, Though they earned, no doubt, a less prodigious salary Than the moderns who more lucratively mum.

On these walls they all a.s.semble, Garrick, Matthews, Irving, Kemble, Men who knew what the traditions of the stage meant, In the days when ev'ry mummer Wore a sealskin coat in summer And would scorn a common music-hall engagement!

'Tis a club for ev'ry section of the laity, Where the Services, the Press, the Bench, the Bar, Find delight in S-m-r H-cks's verbal gaiety And the anecdotal wit of C-m-ns C-rr.

Here the members who are crafty Seek a seat that isn't draughty-- In the anteroom or lounge you may discern 'em-- And postprandially cl.u.s.ter, Gaining dignity and l.u.s.tre From the presence of a B-ncr-ft and a B-rnh-m!

CANTO V

THE AUTOMOBILE

Pall Mall was a sober and dignified street In the days (say) of d.i.c.kens or Marryat, Where statesmen their peers would with courtesy greet, Where the senator sauntered on leisurely feet, And the dowager drove in her chariot.

The War Office entries Were guarded by sentries; But Mars was polite to the Graces, And officers' mothers, Their sisters, and others, Called daily on those in high places, Demanding, with true patriotic devotion, Their sons' (or their brothers') more rapid promotion!

Times changed. The old War Office warren was sc.r.a.pped, And this suitable site was selected By motorists, goggled, befurred, and peak-capped, As a central position excessively apt For the Palace of Fun they erected.

In place of old quiet Came racket and riot, As cars at the club kept arriving, Or p'licemen in torrents Poured in, to serve warrants On members for 'furious driving'; Where amateur chauffeurs, resolved to be jolly, Were drowning dull care in a 'Petrol and Polly'!

For those who enjoy fellow-men in the bunch This is really a fine place of meeting; For here in a crowd men may guzzle and munch (Though the orchestra makes such a noise while they lunch That the members can't hear themselves eating).

Here thousands forgather, To feed and to blather-- Each day brings a fresh reinforcement-- And tell (with a dry sense Of fun) how their licence Got marked with its latest endors.e.m.e.nt, Or how many yokels and dogs they ran over The day that they fractured the 'record' to Dover!

CANTO VI

BROOKS'S

How soft those whiskered waiters tread, Their dishes dexterously handing!

'Twould seem (as some one aptly said) As though a n.o.bleman lay dead Upon an upper landing, In such tranquillity and quiet Do members masticate their diet!

Yes, here is peace, that 'perfect peace,'

With loved ones safely at a distance, Which men demand who seek release From cares that cause the brow to crease And poison the existence; Peace, comatose--nay, cataleptic-- Dear to the dotard and dyspeptic!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The special feature of the place Is that it has no special feature; Its tone is that of frigid grace With which the Briton loves to face Each human fellow-creature.

Here sire meets son, or brother brother, And neither need address the other!

Within this dignified retreat, From Government or Opposition, The Whigs of all opinions meet, Eyeing each other, as they eat, With looks of dumb suspicion.

Here Unionist regards Home Ruler With feelings daily growing cooler.

Through Brooks's battered ballot-box His way to fame a man may well win, Who sits where Sheridan and Fox Discoursed of dice or fighting-c.o.c.ks With Wilberforce and Selwyn; Where modern wits and legislators Converse with no one but the waiters!

CANTO VII

'THE BEEFSTEAK'

While Germans eat flesh that is said to be equine, And Chinamen batten on birds' nests and dogs, While Frenchmen with _vin ordinaire_ (such a weak wine!) Ingurgitate molluscs and frogs, The Briton, old-fashioned, in language empa.s.sioned, On underdone oxen demands to be fed; His soul seems to glory in steaks that are gory, He 'looks on the kine when they're red,'

And all his carnivorous cravings awake When somebody happens to name 'The Beefsteak.'

'Tis years since the first of those chops began grilling, Whose smell caused so many choice spirits to throng Where wags would insist though 'the spirits were swilling, The flesh was undoubtedly strong'!

When Harlequin Rich entertained in his kitchen That circle which met round his sociable hearth, Where kidneys were roasted and cheese could be toasted By Johnson and Wilkes and Hogarth, And by most of Great Britain's more notable wits Whose counterparts nowadays dine at the Ritz.