Verse and Worse Part 10

'And, now I come to look at it, 'I'll send you in as "scalp-wound, slight."

'O' course it's wrong of me, but still--'

'Gawd bless you, sir, an' thanks!' sez Bill.

'E didn't die; 'e scrambled through.

They hoperated on 'is 'ead, An' Gawd knows wot they didn't do,-- 'Tripoded' 'im, I think they said.

I see'd 'im, Toosday, in Pall Mall, Nor never knowed 'im look so well.

Yes, Bill 'e's going strong just now, In London, an' employed again; Tho' it's a fact, 'e sez, as 'ow The doctors took out 'alf 'is brain!

Ho well, 'e won't 'ave need o' this-- 'E's working at the War Office.

THE LEGEND OF THE AUTHOR

(_A long way after Ingoldsby_)

When Anthony Adamson first went to school The reception he got was decidedly cool; And, because he was utterly hopeless at games, He was given all sorts of opprobrious names, Which ranged the whole gamut from 'fat-head' to 'fool'; For boys as a rule, Are what nurses call 'crool,'

'Tis their natural instinct, which n.o.body blames, Any more than the habits Peculiar to rabbits, To label a duffer 'old woman' or 'm.u.f.f,' or Some name calculated to cause him to suffer.

They failed in their treatment this time, on the whole, Since our Anthony thoroughly pitied the role Of the oaf who is muddied, (For Kipling he'd studied), However strong-hearted, broad-limbed, and warm-blooded, Who sits in a goal, Quite deficient of soul, And as blind to the beauties of Life as a mole.

He was rather a curious boy, was this youth, And a bit of a prig, if you must know the truth, And his comrades considered him weird and uncouth, For he didn't much mind When they left him behind, And, intent upon cricket, Went off to the wicket; Some other less heating employment he'd find, And, while his young playfellows fielded and batted, This curious fat-head, Ink-fingered, hair-matted, Would take a new pen from his pocket, and lick it, Then into the ink-bottle thoughtfully stick it, And, chewing the holder ('Twas fashioned of gold, Or at least so 'twas sold By a stationer bold, And at any rate furnished a good imitation), In deep rumination, With much mastication, And wonderful patience, Await inspirations; And brilliant ideas would arrive on occasions; When frequently followed, The pen being swallowed, As up to his eyes in the inkpot he wallowed.

So all the day long and for half of the night Would young Anthony Adamson nibble and write, With extravagant feelings of joy and delight, And it may sound absurd, But 'twas thus, as I've heard, That he learnt to acquire the appropriate word; And altho' composition, Which was his ambition, At first proved a trifle untamed and refractory; Arrived in a while At evolving a style Which a Stevenson even might deem satisfactory.

Now when Anthony A. was as yet in his 'teens He began to take aim at the big magazines, With articles, verses, and little love-scenes; And short stories he wrote, Which he sent with a note (Which I haven't the s.p.a.ce nor the leisure to quote), Containing a humble request, and a hope, And some stamps and a clearly addressed envelope.

Now a few of these got to the Editor's desk, And he found them well-written and quite picturesque, And he sighed to see talent like this go to waste On what couldn't appeal to the popular taste.

For the Public, you see (With a capital P), Doesn't care what it reads, just so long as it be Something really exciting, however bad writing, With wonderful heroes, And villains like Neroes, Who, running as serials, Wearing imperials, Revel in bloodshed and bombast and fighting.

So back to the Author his ma.n.u.script went; Altho' sometimes a friendly old Editor sent An encouraging letter, To say he'd do better To lower his style to the popular level; When Anthony proudly (Of course not out loudly, But mentally) told him to go to the devil!

But a few of his articles never came back, And their whereabouts no one was able to track, For some persons who edited, (Can it be credited?) Finding it paid them, Unduly mislaid them (Behaviour most rare Nowadays anywhere, And to ev'ry tradition entirely opposed), And grew fat on the numerous stamps he enclosed.

Tho' to this I am really unable to swear, Or at any rate haven't the courage to dare.

Now when Anthony Adamson grew rather older, And wiser, and bolder, And broader of shoulder, He thought he'd a fancy to write for the Press,-- 'Tis a common idea with the young, more or less;-- And he saw himself doing Critiques and reviewing The latest new books as they came from the printers; To set them on thrones or to smash them to splinters, To d.a.m.n with faint praise, Or with eulogies raise, As he banned or he blest, Just whatever seemed best To the wit and the wisdom of twenty-three winters.

But when he had carefully read thro' the papers, Arranged to the taste of our nation of drapers, And wisely as Solomon Studied each column, an Awful attack of despair and depression a.s.sailed him, and then, As he threw down his pen, He was forced to confess To no hope of success, If he entered the great journalistic profession.

For the only description of 'copy' that pays, In the journals that ev'ry one reads nowadays, Is the personal matter, Impertinent chatter, The tales of the tailor, the barber, the hatter; Society small talk, And mere servants'-hall talk, The sort of what's-n.o.body's-business-at-all-talk; And those who can handle The latest big scandal With the taste of a Thug and the tact of a Vandal, Whatever society paper they write in, Can always provide what their readers delight in.

An article, vulgarly written, which deals With the food that celebrities eat at their meals To the popular intellect always appeals.

People laugh themselves hoa.r.s.e At the latest divorce, While a peer's breach of promise is comic, of course; How eager each face is, As ev'ry one races To read the details of the Cruelty cases!

And a magistrate's pun Is considered good fun, And arouses the bench of reporters from torpor, When it's at the expense of some broken-down pauper!

So Anthony pondered the different ways Of attaining and gaining the popular praise; And selected a score of his brightest essays, Just enough for a book, Which he hopefully took To some publishers, thinking perhaps they would look At what might (as he couldn't help modestly hinting) Repay the expense and the trouble of printing.

Now the publishers all were extremely polite, And encouraging quite, For they saw he could write; But the answer they gave him was always the same.

'You are not,' so they said, 'in the least bit to blame, And your style is so good, Be it well understood, We'd be happy to publish your work if we could; But alas! All the people who know are agreed This is not what the Public demands, or would read.

'It is over the head Of the people,' they said.

'If you'd only write down to the popular level!'

(Once more, he replied, they could go to the devil!) The result to our author was not unexpected, And, as on his failures he sadly reflected, He took out his pen and a nib he selected, Then wrote (and his verses Were studded with curses) This poem, the Lay of the Author (Rejected).

_The rejected Author's cup Comes from out a bitter bin, Constable won't 'take him up,'

Chambers will not 'take him in.'_

_Publishers, when interviewed, Each alas! in turn looks Black; De la Rue is De-la-rude, Nutt is far too hard to crack._

_Author, humble as a va.s.sal (He is feeling Low as well), Sadly waits without the Ca.s.sell, Vainly tries to press the Bell._

_Author, hourly growing leaner, Finds each day his jokes more rare, Asks the Longman if he's Green, or Spottiswoode to take the Eyre._

_Author, blithe as lark each morning, Finds each night his tale unheard, And, when Fred'rick gives him Warn(e)ing, Is not Gay as any Bird._

_Author, to his writings partial, Musters their array en bloc, Which the Simpkins will not Marshall, And the Elliot will not Stock._

_Tho' for little he be yearning, Yet that little Long he'll want, When the Lane has got no turning, And the Richards will not Grant._

Now when Anthony's life it grew harder and harder; Less coal in the cellar, less meat in the larder; He thought for a while, And at last (with a smile) He determined to sacrifice even his style.

So he wrote just whatever came into his head, Without any regard for the living or dead, Or for what his friends thought or his enemies said.

From his style he effaced, As incentives to waste, All the canons of grammar and even good taste; And so book after book after book he brought out, Which you've probably read, and you know all about; For the publishers bought them, And ev'ry one thought them So splendidly vulgar, that no one had ever Read anything quite so improperly clever.

He tried ev'ry style, from the fashion of Ouida's (His characters being Society Leaders; The Heroine, suited to middle-cla.s.s readers,-- A governess she, who might well have been humbler; The Hero a Duke, an inveterate grumbler; And a Guardsman who drank creme-de-menthe from a tumbler) To that of another more popular lady, And wrote about aristocrats who were shady, And showed that the persons you happen to meet In the Very Best Houses are always effete; That they gamble all night, in particular sets, And (Oh, hasn't she said it, Tho' can it be credit- Ed?) have no intention of paying their debts!

His best, which the Critics said 'teemed with expression,'

Was the one-volume novel 'A Drunkard's Confession'; The next, 'My Good Woman. A Love Tale'; another, Most popular this, 'The Flirtations of Mother'; And lastly, the crowning success of his life, 'How the Other Half Lives. By a Baronet's Wife.'

And the Publishers now are all down on their knees, As they offer what fees He may happen to please; And success he discerns As with rapture he learns The amount that he earns From his roy'lty returns.

(N.B.--I omit the last 'a' here in Royalty, For reasons of scansion and not from disloyalty.)

The moral of this is quite easy to see; If a popular author you're anxious to be, You won't care a digamma For truth or for grammar, Be far from straitlaced Upon questions of taste, And don't trouble to polish your style or to bevel, But always write down to the popular level; Be vulgar and smart, And you'll get to the heart Of the persons directing the lit'rary mart, And your writings must reach (It's a figure of speech) The--(well, what shall we call it--compositor's) devil!

THE MOTRIOT

(_After Robert Browning_)

'It was chickens, chickens, all the way, With children crossing the road like mad; Police disguised in the hedgerows lay, Stop-watches and large white flags they had, At nine o'clock o' this very day.

'I broke the record to Tunbridge Wells, And I shouted aloud, to all concerned, "Give room, good folk, do you hear my bells?"

But my motor skidded and overturned; Then exploded--and afterwards, what smells!

'Alack! it was I rode over the son Of a butcher; rolled him all of a heap!

Nought man could do did I leave undone; And I thought that butcher's boys were cheap,-- But this, poor man, 'twas his only one.

'There's n.o.body in my motor now,-- Just a tangled car in the ditch upset; For the fun of the fair is, all allow, At the County Court, or, better yet, By the very foot of the dock, I trow.

'Thus I entered, and thus I go; In Court the magistrate sternly said, "Five guineas fine, and the costs you owe!"

I might not question, so promptly paid.

Henceforth I _walk_; I am safer so.'