Chapter 1
Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
These verses of Mr. Bangs's have appeared from time to time in the various Harper Periodicals, and elsewhere.
COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER
By
John Kendrick Bangs
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS
MDCCCXCIX
Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
All rights reserved.
TO SISTER ANNE
CONTENTS
BOOKISH
A PESSIMISTIC VIEW THE MASTER'S PEN--A CONFESSION BOOKWORM BALLADS (A LITERARY FEAST) IDEAS FOR SALE THE AUTHOR'S BOOMERANG TO AN EGOTISTICAL BIOGRAPHER NO COPYRIGHT NEEDED INGREDIENTS OF GREATNESS A COMMON FAVORITE THEIR PENS AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM THE BIBLIOPHILE'S THREAT MY TREASURES A POET'S FAD THE POET UNDONE A WANING MUSE MODESTY MY LORD THE BOOK THE BIBLIOMISER THE "COLLECTOR" A READER FATE! A PLEASING THOUGHT BOOKS _vs._ "BOOKS," BY A BIBLIOMANIAC A CONFESSION THE EDITION DE LOOKS
WISE AND OTHERWISE
NAPOLINI'S ERROR MY COLOR CONTENTMENT IN NATURE THE HEROIC GUNNER THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY GARRULOUS WISDOM THE PERJURY OF A REJECTED LOVER MAID OF CULTURE NOT PERFECT A CITY DWELLER'S WISH WHERE ARE THEY? MEMORIES A SAD STATE AD ASTRA PER OTIUM. CONSOLATION SATISFACTION ON READING "NOT ONE DISSATISFIED," BY WALT WHITMAN TO A WITHERED ROSE THE WORST OF ENEMIES JOKES OF THE NIGHT AN AUTUMNAL ROMANCE THE COUNTRY IN JULY MAY 30, 1893 THE CURSE OF WEALTH THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT POPULIST ONE OF THE NAMELESS GREAT IN FEBRUARY DAYS A CHANGE OF AMBITION MESSAGE FROM MAHATMAS THE GOLD-SEEKERS ODE TO A POLITICIAN SOME ARE AMATEURS
BOOKISH
_A PESSIMISTIC VIEW_
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.
_THE MASTER'S PEN--A CONFESSION_
IN my collection famed of curios I 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 grand Inspired 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 tried To 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 FEAST
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 _entree_, 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. Khayyam 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."
_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 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.
_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 beloved 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-pourri Of Poe and Thackeray;
Of Horace, Edison, and Lamb; Of Keats and Washington, Gerome and blest Omar Khayyam, 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.
_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 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.
_THEIR PENS_
THE poet pens his odes and sonnets spruce With quills plucked from the ordinary goose, While critics write their sharp incisive lines With quills snatched from the fretful porcupines.
_AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM_
IF Bacon wrote those grand inspiring lines At which alternately man weeps and laughs, Who was it penned those chirographic vines We know these times as Shakespeare's autographs?
_THE BIBLIOPHILE'S THREAT_
IF some one does not speedily indite A volume that is worthy of my shelf, I'll have to buy materials and write A 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 stair The 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 Fate Once doomed him for his verses to be paid, Whereon he left the poet-born's estate And 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 whereat To 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 hoard Rich 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 began Would 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 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."
_FATE!_
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 PLEASING THOUGHT_
THEY speak most truly who do say We have no writing-folk to-day Like 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 BIBLIOMANIAC
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.
_A CONFESSION_
MY epic verse, my pet production, which I deemed Sufficient to advance me to the highest peak Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which I've dreamed For many a weary year, came back to me last week. The Editor I cursed, that he should stand between My dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self; Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseen My 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 flame The name of him I'd cursed was writ; and when I cried, "What portent this?" the rare celestial dame Replied: "Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou'st cursed. The very man of all men who should be the first Thy love and lasting gratitude to know, since he Still 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 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 _edition 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.
WISE AND OTHERWISE
_NAPOLINI'S ERROR_
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 COLOR_
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 _puree_ 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.
_CONTENTMENT IN NATURE_
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.
_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 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!_"
_THE PATHETIC TALE OF THE CADDY BOY_
"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."