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.And when I think of Smollett’s tales,Of waspish Pope’s ill-natured rails,Of Fielding dull, of Sterne too free,Of Swift’s uncurbed indecency,Of Dr. Johnson’s bludgeon-wit,I must confess I’m glad of it!

BOOKS vs. “BOOKS”

BY A BIBLIOMANIACA volume’s just received on vellum print.The book is worth the vellum – no more in’t.But, as I search my head for thoughts, I findOne fact embedded firmly in my mind.That’s this, in short: while it no doubt may beMost pleasant for an author small to seeA fine edition of his work put out,No man who’s sane can ever really doubtThat products of his brain and pen can liveAlone for that which they may haply give!And though on vellum stiff the work appears,It cannot live throughout the after-years,Unless it has within its leaves some hintOf something further than the style of printAnd paper – give me Omar on mere waste,I’ll choose it rather than some “bookish taste,”Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale,Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale.I’d choose my Omar print on grocer’s wrapsBefore the vellum books of “bookish” chaps.

A CONFESSION

My epic verse, my pet production, which I deemedSufficient to advance me to the highest peakOf difficult Parnassus, goal of which I’ve dreamedFor many a weary year, came back to me last week.The Editor I cursed, that he should stand betweenMy dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self;Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseenMy one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side,And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flameThe name of him I’d cursed was writ; and when I cried,“What portent this?” the rare celestial dameReplied:“Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou’st cursed.The very man of all men who should be the firstThy love and lasting gratitude to know, since heStill leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee —A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed,Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.Read thou thy lines again!”Ah! bitter was the cup.I read, withdrew the curse – and tore the epic up.

THE EDITION DE LOOKS

How very close to truth these bookish menCan be when in their catalogues they penThe words descriptive of the wares they holdTo tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!For instance, they have Dryden – splendid set —Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.’Tis richly bound, its edges gilded – but —Hard fate – as Dryden well deserves —uncut!For who these days would think to buy the screedOf dull old dusty Dryden just to read?In faith if his editions had been keptAmongst the rarities he’d ne’er have crept!And then those pompous, overwhelming tomesYou find so oft in overwhelming homes,No substance on a Whatman surface placed,In polished leather and in tooling cased,The gilded edges dazzling to the eyeAnd flaunting all their charms so wantonly.These book-men, when they catalogue their books,Call them in truth édition de luxe.That’s all they have, most of ’em, just plain shape,With less pure wine than any unripe grape.But tomes that travel on their “looks” indeedAre only good for those who do not read;And, like most people clad in garments grand,Seem rather heavy for the average hand.

WISE AND OTHERWISE

NAPOLINI’S ERROR

Pietro Napolini di Vendetta PasquarelleDeserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well,And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount,To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time,And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhymeHow this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.No chance had he for music that’s developed by a crank,No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach’s woe,It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man’s snow.And then P. Napolini di Vendetta PasquarelleSought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.“I wanta shov’ da snow,” he said, when there at last appearedFitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.“Go wi,” said Fitz, with gesture bold. “Yer cahn’t do nothink ere,Yer bloomin’, hugly furriner!” he added, with a sneer.“Hi thinks as ’ow you dagoes is the cuss o’ this ’ere land,With wuthy citizens like me ’most starved on every ’and.Hi vows hif I’d me wi at all hi’d order hout a troop,Hand send the bloomin’ lot o’ yer ’ead over ’eels in soup.Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop.”Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus wentAnd humbly asked his master for two dollars that he’d spentIn paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle;While Nap went back to Italy, the land that loved him well,Convinced that when he sailed that time his country to forsake,He must have got aboard the ship when he was half awake,And got to London, not New York, by some most odd mistake.

MY COLOR

My best-loved color? Well, I think I likeA soft and tender dewy green – for grass.Sometimes a pink my fancy too will strike —In lobster purée or a Sauterne glass.Blue is a color, too, I greatly love.It’s sort of satisfying to my eyes.’Tis their own color; and I’m quite fond ofThis hue also for soft Italian skies.For blushes, give me red, nor hesitateTo pile it on; I like it good and strongUpon the cheeks of her I call my Fate,The loveliest of all the lovely throng.On golden-yellow oft my fancy dwells.’Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles throughThe effervescent fizz; and wondrous spellsIt casts o’er me when coined in dollars, too.Hence, friend, it is I cannot specifyWhat hues particular my joys enhance.I like them all; their popularityAt special times depends on circumstance.

CONTENTMENT IN NATURE

I would not change my joys for thoseOf Emperors and Kings.What has my gentle friend the roseTold them, if aught, do you suppose —The rose that tells me things?What secrets have they had with trees?What romps with grassy spears?What know they of the mysteriesOf butterflies and honey-bees,Who whisper in my ears?What says the sunbeam unto them?What tales have brooklets told?Is there within their diademA single rival to the gemThe dewy daisies hold?What sympathy have they with birdsWhose songs are songs of mine?Do they e’er hear, as though in words’Twas lisped, the message of the herdsOf grazing, lowing kine?Ah no! Give me no lofty throne,But just what Nature yields.Let me but wander on, aloneIf need be, so that all my ownAre woods and dales and fields.

THE HEROIC GUNNER

When the order was given to withdraw from battle for breakfast, one of the gun-captains, a privileged character, begged Commodore Dewey to let them keep on fighting until “we’ve wiped ’em out.” — War Anecdote in Daily Paper.

At the battle of Manila,In the un-Pacific sea,Stood a gunner with his mad upJust as far as it could be —Stood a gunner brave and readyFor the hated enemy.Near the Isles of PhilopenaRaged the battle all the morn,And the plucky Spanish sailorsBy the shot and shell were torn;And the flag that floated o’er themTo oblivion was borne.Every cannon belched projectiles,Every cannon breathed forth hell,Every cannon mowed the foemanFrom the deck into the swell,When amid the din of battleRang the silvery breakfast-bell.“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”Cried the gallant Commodore.“After eating we will let themHave a rousing old encore.Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies;Let the cannon cease to roar.”Then upspake the fighting gunner:“Dewey, don’t, I beg of you.What’s the use of drinking coffeeTill we’ve put this scrimmage through?If there’s any one who’s hungry,Won’t this Spanish omelet do?“Farragut would not have done itWhen through Mobile Bay he sped.Why then, Dewey, should we breakfastTill we’ve plunked ’em full of lead?Let our motto be as his was —Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!”

THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY

“Come here,” said I, “oh caddy boy, and tell me how it hapsYou cling so fast unto these links; not like the other chaps,Who like to dally on the streets and play the game of craps?“Is it that you enjoy the work of carrying a bagWhile others speed the festive ball o’er valley, hill, and crag?And do your spirits never seem to falter or to flag?“I’ve watched you many a day, my lad, and puzzled o’er the factThat you are so attentive to the game; your every actDoth indicate perfection – there’s been nothing you have lacked.“And I would know just why it is that you so perfect seem —In all my golfing days you’ve been the very brightest gleam —Or am I lying home in bed and are you just a dream?”“Oh, sir,” said he, “I caddy here because I love my pa;I cling unto these gladsome links because I love my ma;In short, I love my parents, sir, and these my reasons are:“’Twas but a year ago, good sir, when first this ancient sportCame in the portals of our home – home of the sweetest sort;When golf came through the window, sir, why home went through the port.“My father first he took it up, and many a weary nightMy mother with us children waited up by candle-light,In hopes that he’d return and free us from our lonely plight.“Then mother she went after him – alas! that it should be —And shortly learned the game herself – she plays it famously —Which left us children orphans, I and all my brothers three.“They play it here, they play it there, they play it everywhere;No matter what the weather, be it wet or be it fair,And for the cares of golf they’ve dropped their every other care.“And so it is that we poor lads are forced to leave our home,And join the ranks of caddy boys who o’er the fields do roamIn search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;“For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will seeOur most beloved parents on some putting-green or tee;A sight to gladden all our hearts if it should ever be.”And lo – I looked upon that boy – his face was sweet and sad,And to my heart there came a twinge, for in that little ladI recognized my eldest son —I was that wicked dad!And now together we are out on links at home and far.He and his three small brothers with their shamed, repentant pa,A-looking here and looking there to find their dear mamma.

GARRULOUS WISDOM

I know a wondrous man – my neighbor he;He’s ripe in years, and great in understanding.He’s versed in art, and in philosophyHe shows a mind that’s verily commanding.He’ll stand before a painting, and withoutA single instant’s thought, or hesitation,He’ll tell the painter’s name, nor any doubtIs there he gives the proper information.The rocks, the hills and valleys, hold from himNo secret that is past a man’s revealing.He knows why some are stout and others slim;He comprehends all kinds of human feeling.The records of the stars he knows, and eachRomance that round about the heavens lingers.At dinner-time he oft delights to preachOn which was made the first, or forks or fingers.Indeed, all things he knows, or high or low —The things that fly on wing, or go a-walking —Except one thing he never seems to know,And that’s when he should stop his endless talking.

THE PERJURY OF A REJECTED LOVER

When I was twenty-one, I swore,If I should ever wed,The maiden that I should adoreShould have a classic head;Should have a form quite Junoesque;A manner full of grace;A wealth of hirsute picturesqueAbove a piquant face.But I, alas! am perjured, forI’ve wed a dumpy lassI much despised in days of yore,Of quite the plainest class,Because each maiden of my dream,Whose favor I did seek,Was so opposed unto my schemeI married Jane in pique.

MAID OF CULTURE

Maid of culture, ere we part,Since we’ve talked of letters, art,Science, faith, and hypnotism,And ’most every other ism,When you wrote, a while ago,Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ,Let me tell you this, my dear:Though your lettering was clear,Though the ancient sages GreekWould be glad to hear you speak,They would be replete with woeAt your μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ.For, dear maiden most astute,You have placed the mark acuteO’er omega. Take your specs.See? It should be circumflex.Still I love you, even thoughYou have written ἀγαπώ.

NOT PERFECT

Her eyes are blue – a lovely hueFor eyes; her cheeks are pink,And for the cheek, ’twixt me and you,That color’s right, I think.Her fingers taper prettily,Her teeth are white as pearls —Her hands seem softer far to meThan any other girl’s.Her figure’s trim – it is petite —I like them just that way,And truly, maiden half so sweetYou’d not find every day.And yet, alas! she’s not my choice,This creature of my rhyme —Because her soft and rich-toned voiceIs going all the time.

A CITY DWELLER’S WISH

I love the leaf of the old oak-tree,I love the gum of the spruce,I love the bark of the hickory,And I love the maple’s juice.On the walnut’s grain I fondly dote,On the cherry’s fruit I’d dine,And I love to lie in a narrow boat,And scent the odor of pine.Ah, me! how I wish some power grandWould invent some single treeWith all these points well developed, andWould send that tree to me!I’d plant it deep in the jardinièreThat stands in this flat of mine;I’d give it the sweetest, tenderest care,And water its roots with wine.

WHERE ARE THEY?

What has become of the cast-off coatsThat covered Will Shakespeare’s back?What has become of the old row-boatsOf Kidd and his pirate pack?Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?Where are poor Shelley’s cuffs?What has become of that wondrous storeOf Queen Elizabeth’s ruffs?Where are the slippers of Ferdinand?Where are Marc Antony’s clothes?Where are the gloves from Antoinette’s hand?Where Oliver Goldsmith’s hose?I do not search for the ships of Tyre —The grave of Whittington’s catWould sooner set my spirit on fire —Or even Beau Brummel’s hat.And when I reflect that there are spotsIn the world that I can’t find,Where lie these same identical lots,And many of this same kind,I’m tempted to give a store of goldTo him that will bring to meA glass, Earth’s mysteries to unfold,And show me where these things be.