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 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.
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-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!
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 vassal
(He is feeling Low as well),
Sadly waits without the Cassell,
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.