Cobwebs from a Library Corner

A little bit of Thackeray,

A little bit of Scott,

A modicum of Dickens just

To 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 wish

An enemy to rout.

A pen, a pad, and say a pint

Of ink with which to scrawl,

To put a foe to flight is all

That’s needed—truly all.

But when it comes to making up

A novel in these days

You do not need a pen at all

To win the writer’s bays.

A pair of sharpened scissors and

A wealth of pure white page

Will do it if you have at hand

A pot of mucilage.

So give to me the scissors keen,

And give to me the glue,

And I will fix a novel up

That’s sure to startle you.

The good ideas have all been worked,

But while we’ve gum and paste

There shall be books and books and books

To please the public taste.

My 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 saw

Was 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 there

Some 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 clear

From Avon’s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”

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 seed

That 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 come

That 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 myself

All 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.

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!

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.

The style of man I’d like to be,

If I could have my way,

Would be a sort of pot-pourri

Of 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 thumbs

Derisively at Fate.

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 think

Lord 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 parts

A throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.

A richly pictured set of Avon’s bard

Upon my liking bounded pretty hard;

But none brought out that cloying sense of glee

That came from that first book by Mr. Me.

And so I beg you join me in the toast

To 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 he

Has won my admiration—dear old Me.

A book is an aristocrat:

’Tis pampered—lives in state;

Stands on a shelf, with naught whereat

To worry—lovely fate!

Enjoys the best of company;

And often—ay, ’tis so—

Like much in aristocracy,

Its title makes it go.

Daudet to him is e’er Dodett;

Dumas he calls Dumass;

But prithee do not you forget

He’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 eye

Hath not completely scanned.

And while this man’s orthoepy

May not be what it should,

He knows what books contain, and he

“Can quote ’em pretty good.”

I feel that I am quite as smart

As Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.

I’m also every bit as bright

As Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;

And in my own peculiar way

I’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 unfold

By them already have been told.

A 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 find

One fact embedded firmly in my mind.

That’s this, in short: while it no doubt may be

Most pleasant for an author small to see

A fine edition of his work put out,

No man who’s sane can ever really doubt

That products of his brain and pen can live

Alone 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 hint

Of something further than the style of print

And 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 wraps

Before the vellum books of “bookish” chaps.

How very close to truth these bookish men

Can be when in their catalogues they pen

The words descriptive of the wares they hold

To 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 screed

Of dull old dusty Dryden just to read?

In faith if his editions had been kept

Amongst the rarities he’d ne’er have crept!

And then those pompous, overwhelming tomes

You 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 eye

And 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” indeed

Are only good for those who do not read;

And, like most people clad in garments grand,

Seem rather heavy for the average hand.

Pietro Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle

Deserted 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 rhyme

How 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 Pasquarelle

Sought 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 appeared

Fitzjohn 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 went

And humbly asked his master for two dollars that he’d spent

In 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 best-loved color? Well, I think I like

A 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 of

This hue also for soft Italian skies.

For blushes, give me red, nor hesitate

To pile it on; I like it good and strong

Upon 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 through

The effervescent fizz; and wondrous spells

It casts o’er me when coined in dollars, too.

Hence, friend, it is I cannot specify

What hues particular my joys enhance.

I like them all; their popularity

At special times depends on circumstance.

I would not change my joys for those

Of Emperors and Kings.

What has my gentle friend the rose

Told 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 mysteries

Of butterflies and honey-bees,

Who whisper in my ears?

What says the sunbeam unto them?

What tales have brooklets told?

Is there within their diadem

A single rival to the gem

The dewy daisies hold?

What sympathy have they with birds

Whose songs are songs of mine?

Do they e’er hear, as though in words

’Twas lisped, the message of the herds

Of grazing, lowing kine?

Ah no! Give me no lofty throne,

But just what Nature yields.

Let me but wander on, alone

If need be, so that all my own

Are woods and dales and fields.

At the battle of Manila,

In the un-Pacific sea,

Stood a gunner with his mad up

Just as far as it could be—

Stood a gunner brave and ready

For the hated enemy.

Near the Isles of Philopena

Raged the battle all the morn,

And the plucky Spanish sailors

By the shot and shell were torn;

And the flag that floated o’er them

To oblivion was borne.

Every cannon belched projectiles,

Every cannon breathed forth hell,

Every cannon mowed the foeman

From the deck into the swell,

When amid the din of battle

Rang the silvery breakfast-bell.

“Stop your shooting! Come to breakfast!”

Cried the gallant Commodore.

“After eating we will let them

Have 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 coffee

Till 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 it

When through Mobile Bay he sped.

Why then, Dewey, should we breakfast

Till we’ve plunked ’em full of lead?

Let our motto be as his was—

Damn the fishballs! Go ahead!”

“Come here,” said I, “oh caddy boy, and tell me how it haps

You 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 bag

While 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 fact

That you are so attentive to the game; your every act

Doth 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 sport

Came 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 night

My 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 roam

In search of little golf-balls in the sunlight and the gloam;

“For some day we are hoping that our eyes again will see

Our 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 lad

I 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.