Cobwebs from a Library Corner

Bangs John Kendrick

Cobwebs from a Library Corner

TOSISTER ANNE

BOOKISH

A PESSIMISTIC VIEW

A little bit of Thackeray,A little bit of Scott,A modicum of Dickens justTo tangle up the plot,A paraphrase of Marryat,Another from Dumas —You ask me for a novel, sir,And I say, there you are.The pen is greater than the sword,Of that there is no doubt.The pen for me whene’er I wishAn enemy to rout.A pen, a pad, and say a pintOf ink with which to scrawl,To put a foe to flight is allThat’s needed – truly all.But when it comes to making upA novel in these daysYou do not need a pen at allTo win the writer’s bays.A pair of sharpened scissors andA wealth of pure white pageWill do it if you have at handA pot of mucilage.So give to me the scissors keen,And give to me the glue,And I will fix a novel upThat’s sure to startle you.The good ideas have all been worked,But while we’ve gum and pasteThere shall be books and books and booksTo please the public taste.

THE MASTER’S PEN – A CONFESSION

In my collection famed of curiosI have, as every bookman knows,A pen that Thackeray once used.To be amused,I thought I’d “take that pen in hand,”And see what came of it – what grandInspired lines ’twould write,One Sunday night.I dipped it in the ink,And tried to think,“Just what shall I indite?”And do you know, that pen went fairly mad;A dreadful time with it I had.It spluttered, spattered, scratched, and blotted so,I had to give it up, you know.It really wouldn’t work for me,And so I put it down; but last night, after tea,I took it up again,And equally in vain.The hours sped;I went to bed,And in my dreams the pen came up to me and said:“Here is the list of Asses who have triedTo take up pens the master laid aside;Look thou!” I looked, and lo! – perhaps you’ve guessed —My name, like Abou Ben’s, led all the rest!

BOOKWORM BALLADS

A LITERARY FEASTMy Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.I was not there – I say it to my very great regret.For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I sawWas followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.They go down easy; then for soup” – it really made me laugh —“The poems of old Johnny Gay” – his words were rather rough —“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as an entrée,I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;The roast will be Charles Kingsley – there’s a deal of beef in him.For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.“For game I’ll have Boccaccio – he’s quite the proper one;He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone;And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he,With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.“And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you’ll find right thereSome things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert;And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyám be brought,The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.“For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes of Punch—They’re good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;And through it all we’ll quaff the wines that flow forever clearFrom Avon’s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”

IDEAS FOR SALE

I’m in literary culture, and I’ve opened up a shop,Where I’d like ye, gents and ladies, if you’re passing by to stop.Come and see my rich assortment of fine literary seedThat I’m selling to the writers of full many a modern screed.I’ve bacilli for ten volumes for a dollar, in a bag —Not a single germ among ’em that’s been ever known to drag.Not a single germ among ’em, if you see they’re planted right,But will grow into a novel that they’ll say is out of sight.I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay.You can buy ’em by the dozen, or I’ll serve ’em every day:I will serve ’em in the morning, as the milkman serves his wares;I will serve ’em by the postman, or I’ll leave ’em on your stairs.When you get down to your table with your head a vacuum,You can say unto your helpmeet, “Has that quart of ideas comeThat we ordered served here daily from that plot-man down the street?”And you’ll find that I’ve been early my engagement to complete.Should you want a book of poems that will bring you into fame,Let me send a sample packet that will guarantee the same,Holding “Seeds of Thought from Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Tennyson.”Plant ’em deep, and keep ’em watered, and you’ll find the deed is done.I’ve a hundred comic packets that would make a Twain of Job;I have “Seeds of Tales Narcotic; Tales of Surgeons and the Probe.”I’ve a most superb assortment, on the very cheapest terms,Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my A 1 “Trilby Germs.”So perchance if you’re ambitious in a literary line,Be as dull as e’er you can be, you will surely cut a shine,If you’ll only take advantage of this opportunity,When you’re passing by to stop in for a little chat with me.You may ask me, in conclusion, why I do not seek myselfAll the laurel and the glory of these seeds I sell for pelf.I will tell you, though the confidence I can’t deny is rash,I’m a trifle long on laurels, and a little short of cash.

THE AUTHOR’S BOOMERANG

He frowns with reason; he has always said,“The public has no knowledge of true art;The book of worth these days would not be read;’Tis trash not truth that goes upon the mart.”And then was published his belovéd work —Some twenty-six editions it has had —And he his own conclusion cannot shirk:With such success as this it must be bad!

TO AN EGOTISTICAL BIOGRAPHER

I’ve read your story of your friend’s fine life,But really, gentle sir, I fail to see,Why you have named it “Blank, and Jane his wife,”When you had better called it simply “Me.”

NO COPYRIGHT NEEDED

I’ve penned a score of essays bright,In Addison’s best style;I’ve taken many a lofty flight,The Muses to beguile.Of novels I have written few —I think no more than ten;With history I’ve had to do,Like several other men.And still, to my intense regret,Through all my woe and weal,I’ve never penned a volume yet,A foreigner would steal.

INGREDIENTS OF GREATNESS

The style of man I’d like to be,If I could have my way,Would be a sort of pot-pourriOf Poe and Thackeray;Of Horace, Edison, and Lamb;Of Keats and Washington,Gérôme and blest Omar Khayyám,And R. L. Stevenson;Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums,And Bonaparte the great —If I were these, I’d snap my thumbsDerisively at Fate.

A COMMON FAVORITE

Charles Lamb is good, and so is Thackeray,And so’s Jane Austen in her pretty way;Charles Dickens, too, has pleased me quite a lot,As also have both Stevenson and Scott.I like Dumas and Balzac, and I thinkLord Byron quite a dab at spreading ink;But on the whole, at home, across the sea,The author I like best is Mr. Me.A “first” of Elia filled my soul with joy.A Meredith de luxe held no alloy.And when I found Pendennis in the partsA throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.A richly pictured set of Avon’s bardUpon my liking bounded pretty hard;But none brought out that cloying sense of gleeThat came from that first book by Mr. Me.And so I beg you join me in the toastTo him that I confess I love the most.He does not always do his level best,But no one lives who can survive that test.His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,And some aver ’tis but a passing fad;But I don’t care, the fact remains that heHas won my admiration – dear old Me.

THEIR PENS

The poet pens his odes and sonnets spruceWith quills plucked from the ordinary goose,While critics write their sharp incisive linesWith quills snatched from the fretful porcupines.

AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM

If Bacon wrote those grand inspiring linesAt which alternately man weeps and laughs,Who was it penned those chirographic vinesWe know these times as Shakespeare’s autographs?

THE BIBLIOPHILE’S THREAT

If some one does not speedily inditeA volume that is worthy of my shelf,I’ll have to buy materials and writeA novel and some poetry myself.

MY TREASURES

My library o’erflows with treasures rare:Of “Dickens’ firsts,” a full, unbroken set;And in a little nooklet off the stairThe whole edition of my novelette.

A POET’S FAD

He writes bad verse on principle,E’en though it does not sell.He thinks the plan original —So many folk write well.

THE POET UNDONE

He was a poet born, but unkind FateOnce doomed him for his verses to be paid,Whereon he left the poet-born’s estateAnd wrote like one who’d happened to be made.

A WANING MUSE

“Why art thou sad, Poeticus?” said I.So blue was he I feared he would not speak.“Alas! I’ve lost my grip,” was his reply —“I’ve writ but forty poems, sir, this week.”

MODESTY

“What hundred books are best, think you?” I said,Addressing one devoted to the pen.He thought a moment, then he raised his head:“I hardly know – I’ve written only ten.”

MY LORD THE BOOK

A book is an aristocrat:’Tis pampered – lives in state;Stands on a shelf, with naught whereatTo worry – lovely fate!Enjoys the best of company;And often – ay, ’tis so —Like much in aristocracy,Its title makes it go.

THE BIBLIOMISER

He does not read at all, yet he doth hoardRich books. In exile on his shelves they’re stored;And many a volume, sweet and good and true,Fails in the work that it was made to do.Why, e’en the dust they’ve caught since he beganWould quite suffice to make a decent man!

THE “COLLECTOR”

I got a tome to-day, and I was glad to strike it,Because no other man can ever get one like it.’Tis poor, and badly print; its meaning’s Greek;But what of that? ’Tis mine, and it’s unique.So Bah! to others,Men and brothers —Bah! and likewise Pooh!I’ve got the best of you.Go sicken, die, and eke repine.That book you wanted – Gad! that’s mine!

A READER

Daudet to him is e’er Dodett;Dumas he calls Dumass;But prithee do not you forgetHe’s not at all an ass;Because the books that he doth buy,That on his shelf do stand,Hold not one page his eagle eyeHath not completely scanned.And while this man’s orthoepyMay not be what it should,He knows what books contain, and he“Can quote ’em pretty good.”

FATE!

I feel that I am quite as smartAs Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.I’m also every bit as brightAs Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;And in my own peculiar wayI’m just as good as Thackeray.But, woe is me that it should be,They got here years ahead of me,And all the tales I would unfoldBy them already have been told.

A PLEASING THOUGHT

They speak most truly who do sayWe have no writing-folk to-dayLike those whose names, in days gone by,Upon the scroll of fame stood high.

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