No longer do the youthful fall, Like leaf or partridge in October; For they, if anything at all, Are sober.

(I mean the boys,--don't be absurd!

And not the foliage or the bird.)

No longer arm-in-arm they roam, Despite constabulary warning, Declaring that they won't go home Till morning!

With bursts of baccha.n.a.lian song, And jokes as broad as they are long.

No more they wander to-and-fro, Exchanging incoherent greetings-- The kind in vogue at Caledo- -Nian Meetings (Behavior that we all condemn, Especially at 3 a. m.).

Yes; fashions change--and well they may!

No longer, at the dinner-table, Do persons drink as much as they Are able; And seek the hospitable floor, When they have drunk a trifle more.

My nasal hue, incarnadine, Shall not, perhaps, be wholly wasted, If sons of mine but leave their wine Untasted; And vanquish, with deserving merit, The varied vices they inherit.

Yes, Offspring, I rejoice to think That, shunning my example truly, You never may be led to drink Unduly.

It is indeed a blessed thought!

Now, will you kindly pa.s.s the port?

_The Author to His Hostess_

(AN OPEN LETTER)

[Very few English men of letters enjoy a desirable social position. To be sure, they are frequently invited to functions, where they are treated with insistent affability by persons belonging to the higher cla.s.ses; but the sort of position to be obtained in this way is insecure, and unpleasant to any save those of adamantine cheek.--_Current Magazine._]

Dear Lady,--When you bade me come To grace your crowded "Kettledrum,"

And mingle in the best society; When Melba sang, and Elman played,

And waiters handed lemonade (Tempering music with sobriety), I never had the least suspicion Of my precarious position.

But now, with opened eyes, I leap To this conclusion, shrewd and deep, (What cerebral agility!): Your compliments were insincere, Your hospitality was mere "Insistent affability!"

And I, a foolish man of letters, Who thought to mingle with his betters!

Ah me! How pride precedes a fall!

That one who haunted "rout" or ball, When invitations were acquirable, Should see himself as others see, Becoming suddenly, like me, A social "undesirable"; Invading the selectest clique With truly adamantine cheek!

How proud an air I used to wear!

When t.i.tled persons turned to stare, I blushed like a geranium.

When lovely ladies softly said:

"Oh, d.u.c.h.ess, did you see his head?"

"What a capacious cranium!"

"Yes; isn't that the man who writes?"

"I wonder why they look such frights!"

I used to bridle coyly when Some schoolmate, of the Upper Ten (They were not over-numerous!), Would slap my back, and shout "By Jove!

"Ain't you a literary cove?"

(As tho' 'twere something humorous!) "Those books of yours are grand, you bet!

What? No, I haven't read them yet."

But now I realize my fate; A stranger at the social gate (Tho' treated with civility); The choicest circles I frequent Must be the ones my brains invent, With fictional futility; The only Royalties I know Are those my publisher can show!

The garden-party, and the tea, Are surely not for men like me (O Vanity of Vanities!); Such entertainments are taboo,

And might debase my talents to Additional inanities.

The Poet has no business there: _Que ferait-il dans cette galere?_

Ah, lonely is the Author's lot!

a.s.suming, if he hath it not, A suitable humility.

For when his daily work is done, He must inevitably shun The homes of the n.o.bility, As, with dejected steps, he pa.s.ses To supper with the middle cla.s.ses!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_I wonder why they look such frights_"

_On the Decline of Gentility Among the Young_

(SUGGESTED BY MR. MAX BEERBOHM)

O youth uncouth, who slouchest by, Along the crowded public street, An eyegla.s.s in thy languid eye, Brown boots upon thy feet, A loose umbrella in thy grip, A toothpick pendent from thy lip.

Much I deplore thy clumsy gait, Thy drab sartorial display, So wholly inappropriate To this august highway; How can a man in such attire Set any spinster's heart on fire?

Thou art in dress no epicure, By weight of fashions overladen; Thy tawdry togs do not allure The soul of every maiden; They sound no echoing color-note To her tempestuous petticoat.

Her stylish skirt, her dainty blouse, Are crepe-de-chine, or bombazine[2]; Compare the texture of thy trous: With _their_ chromatic sheen; To what abysm of taste we reach By the Observance of thy Breech!

Think what she pays her _modiste_ for Those hats of questionable shapes, Surmounted by a seagull or Some imitation grapes!

Small wonder she receives a shock Each time she views thy "billyc.o.c.k"!

Observe how like an autumn leaf The colors of the male canary, The garb of each New Zealand chief Who woos his Little Maori; The savage mind has thus designed A dress to please its womankind.

And tho' I would not have thee go As far as primal man or beast, To lovely woman thou should'st show _Some_ deference at least, And give a thought of what to wear Upon the public thoroughfare.

And should'st thou wish to walk aright, Let Mr. Beerbohm be thy mould; Sedate yet courtly, and polite As any beau of old; Yea, plant thy footsteps in the tracks Of our inimitable Max!

Enclose thy larynx in a stock (As though afflicted with the fever); And in the place of "billyc.o.c.k"

Procure a bristling "beaver"; And practise, not I hope in vain, The "conduct of a clouded cane."

If thou consentest thus to act, In scorn of popular convention, Thy bearing shall indeed attract Much feminine attention; As day by day, in brilliant hue, Thy figure fills Fifth Avenue.

[2] Impossible.--Publishers' Reader.

These ones were.--H. G.