The Author to His Hostess (AN OPEN LETTER)

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[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 classes; 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 titled persons turned to stare,
I blushed like a geranium.
When lovely ladies softly said:
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“Oh, Duchess, 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 galÈre?
Ah, lonely is the Author’s lot!
Assuming, if he hath it not,
A suitable humility.
For when his daily work is done,
He must inevitably shun
The homes of the Nobility,
As, with dejected steps, he passes
To supper with the middle classes!

I wonder why they look such frights


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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