ACTOR JAMES.

(A Ballad.)

Punch, July 29, 1903

 

[Sir Charles Wyndham stated that, as regards a West-End theatre, once an actor was engaged for a piece, the engagement was for the run of the piece.

The Judge. It is perfectly clear that the only way to get rid of an actor if you do not like him is to shoot him.—Extract from Theatrical Case.]

The deeds of Histrion Pym
 (James was his Christian name)
The bard proceeds to hymn.
 Draw profit from the same.

James did as well as an actor can
In the arduous rôle of a “first young man.”
His form was graceful, his step was light,
His hair was auburn, his eye was bright,
His voice expressive, his laughter free:
He played in musical comedy.

He persevered with his song and jest,
Year after year without a rest,
Now with a fond or facetious glance,
Or an epigram or a lively dance,
Till he happened to set the town awhirl
With his Captain Smythe in The Chorus Girl.

Years rolled by: he was thirty-one
On the opening night of the piece’s run;
Older every year he grew
(As, alas! we mortals so often do);
Stout and gouty, he lost his charm.
The Manager marked it with much alarm.

“ ’Tis long,” quoth he, “since the run began;
We must look for another ‘first young man.’
Captain Smythe should be tall and slim,
Tender and slender—well, look at him!
Months have flitted and years have flown:
He’s two-and-sixty—and eighteen stone!”

“Nay, good Sir,” replied Actor James,
“These be illegal little games.
Engaged at the start of the piece’s run,
I must play the part till the piece is done:
That (I quote my lawyer’s advice) is
The rule that guides in this pattern of crisis.”

Dark as night grew the Manager’s brow:
“Foiled!” he hissed. “You may triumph now,
But mark me, minion, a time will come,
And then——” he departed, looking glum,
Till a great idea through his mind there flames:
“Happy thought! I’ll assassinate James.”

He called to him ruffians, black of soul,
Fit to be cast for so dark a rôle:
“Murder me Actor James,” said he,
“And a thumping tip shall your guerdon be:
Drop me a line when his course is run.”
And the black-souled ruffians muttered, “Done!

“Prompt despatch is our aim and boast:
We’ll send him poison by every post:
We’ll speedily fill him with well-aimed lead,
And daily with sand-bags ply his head.
And if by chance we should fail with these,
We’ll drive at his ribs with our snickersnees.”

“Good,” said the Manager. “Ah, but stay,
There may, perhaps, be another way:
I’m loth except as a last resource
To use (if only by proxy) force.
Kindly postpone your fell design
Till I’ve sought advice from a friend of mine.”

Off he hurried without delay,
Called on his friend that very day.
“Well,” said the friend, “from what I see,
The case is simple, it seems to me.
At the end of the run his claim will cease;
What I suggest is—withdraw the piece.”

“Withdraw the piece!” he cried (in tears);
“Why, it’s only been running some thirty years.
And the life of a musical comedee
(At least of those produced by me)
Is half a century, if a day.”
“Withdraw,” said the friend; “it’s the only way.”

So another and fresher piece began,
With another and fresher “first young man.”
And James retired to private life,
Safe from the sand-bag, gun, and knife,
And lives with his spouse (perhaps you’ve met ’em?)
At Sandringham, Frogmore Crescent, Streatham.

 

                               

 

Unsigned verse as printed; credited to P. G. Wodehouse in the Index to Vol. 125 of Punch.

 

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