THE CRY OF THE ADULT AUTHOR.
[The "Diarist" of The Westminster Gazette, in the issue of October 25th, utters a poignant cri de cœur over what he regards as one of the great tragedies of the time—the crowding-out of the "genuine craftsmen" of journalism and letters by Cabinet Ministers, notoriety-mongers and, above all, by sloppy infant prodigies.]
Oh, bitter are the insults
And bitter is the shame
Heaped on deserving authors
Of high and strenuous aim,
When all the best booksellers
Their shelves and windows cram
With novels from the nursery
And poems from the pram.
In recent Autumn seasons
Writers of age mature
(From eighteen up to thirty)
Of sympathy were sure;
Now publishers their portals
On everybody slam
Save novelists from the nursery
And poets from the pram.
Unfairly Winston Churchill
Invades the Sunday sheets;
Unfairly Mrs. Asquith
With serious scribes competes;
But these are minor evils—
What makes me cuss and damn
Are novels from the nursery
And poems from the pram.
When on the concert platform
The prodigy appears
I do not grudge his welcome,
The clappings and the cheers;
But I can't forgive the people
Who down our throats would cram
The novelists from the nursery,
The poets from the pram.
I met a (once) best seller,
And I took him by the hand,
And asked, "How's Opal Whiteley
And how does Daisy stand?"
He answered, "I can only
See sloppiness and sham
In novels from the nursery
And poems from the pram."
If I were only despot,
To end this painful feud
I'd banish straight to Mespot
The scribbling infant brood,
And bar the importation,
By that hustler, Uncle Sam,
Of novels from the nursery
And poems from the pram.
From an account of Sir J. Forbes-Robertson's début:—
"It was interesting to remember that in the audience on that occasion were Dante, Gabriel, Rossetti and Algernon Charles Swinburne."
—Provincial Paper.
The archangel was a great catch.
"When the Royal Cream horses were dispersed from the royal stables, one or two golf clubs made an endeavour to get one of these fine animals, and Ranelagh and Sandy Lodge were fortunate to secure them. The horses look fine on the course behind the mower."
Evening Paper.
Shoving, we suppose, for all they are worth.