Only page of title Moderate
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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 nobody blames,
Any more than the habits Peculiar to rabbits,
To label a duffer 'old woman' or 'muff,' 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.
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.
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.
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 space nor the leisure to quote),
Containing a humble request, and a hope,
And some stamps and a clearly addressed envelope.
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.
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.
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 damn 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
Assailed 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.
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-nobody'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 hoarse 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!
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).
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.
(His characters being Society Leaders;
The Heroine, suited to middle-class 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!
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.)
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!
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