LITMIR.BIZ

      Long ago, our English actors

      Ranked with rogues and vagabonds;

      They were jailed as malefactors,

      They were ducked in village ponds.

      In the stocks the beadle shut them,

      While the friends they chanced to meet

      Would invariably cut them

      In the street.

      With suspicion people eyed them,

      Ev'ry country-squire would feel

      That his fallow-deer supplied them

      With the makings of a meal.

      They annexed the parson's rabbits,

      Poached the pheasants of the peer,

      And had other little habits

      Just as queer!

      Even Will, the Bard of Avon,

      As a poacher stands confest,

      And altho', of course, cleanshaven,

      Was as barefaced as the rest.

      He, a player by vocation,

      Practised, like his buckskin'd pals,

      Indiscriminate flirtation

      With the gals!

      Now, the am'rous actor's cravings

      For romance are orthodox;

      Nowadays he puts his savings,

      Not his ankles, into "stocks."

      Nobody to-day is doubting

      That a halo round him clings;

      One can see his shoulders sprouting

      Into wings.

      Watch the mummer managerial,

      Centre of a rev'rent group;

      Note with what an air imperial

      He controls his timid troupe.

      Deadheads scrape and bow before him,

      To his doors the public flocks;

      Even duchesses implore him

      For a box.

      Enemies, no doubt, will tell us

      (What we should not ever guess)

      That he is absurdly jealous

      Of subordinates' success.

      Minor mimes who score a hit or

      Threaten to advance too fast,

      Are advised to curb their wit or

      Leave the cast!

      Foes declare that, at rehearsal,

      Managers are free of speech,

      And unduly prone to curse all

      Those who come within their reach.

      With some tiny dams (or damlets)

      They exhort each "walking gent – "

      Language that potential Hamlets

      Much resent.

      Do not autocrats, dictators,

      All who lead successful lives,

      Swear repeatedly at waiters,

      Curse consistently at wives?

      Shall the heads of the Profession,

      Histrionic argonauts,

      Be denied the frank expression

      Of their thoughts?

      Will not we who so applaud them

      Execrate with righteous rage

      Player knaves who would defraud them

      Of their centre of the stage?

      Do we grudge these godlike creatures

      Picture-cards that advertise —

      Calcium lights that flood their features

      From the flies?

      No, for ev'ry leading actor

      Who produces problem plays,

      Is a most important factor

      In the world of modern days.

      Kings occasionally knight him,

      Titled ladies take him up;

      Even millionaires invite him

      Out to sup.

      Proudly he advances, trailing

      Clouds of limelight from afar,

      (Diffidence is not the failing

      Of the true dramatic "star").

      What cares he for rank or fashion,

      Politics or place or pelf?

      He whose one prevailing passion

      Is himself?

      All the world's a stage, we know it;

      Managers, whose heads are twirled,

      Think (to paraphrase the poet)

      That the stage is all the world.

      Other men discuss the summer,

      Or the poor potato crop,

      Nothing can prevent the mummer

      Talking "shop."

      With his Art as the objective

      Of his intellectual pow'rs,

      He (as usual, introspective)

      Talks about himself for hours.

      While his friends, who never dream of

      Interrupting, stand agog,

      He decants a ceaseless stream of

      Monologue.

      He is great. He has become it

      By a long and arduous climb

      To the crest, the crown, the summit

      Of the Thespian tree – a lime!

      There he chatters like a starling,

      There, like Jove, he sometimes nods;

      But he still remains the "darling

      Of the gods!"

      A monocle he always wears,

      Safe screwed within his dexter eye;

      His mouth stands open wide, and snares

      The too intrusive fly.

      Were he to close his jaws, no doubt,

      The eyeglass would at once fall out.

      His choice of clothes is truly weird;

      His jacket, short, and negligée,

      Is slit behind, as tho' he

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