Cobwebs from a Library Corner - John Bangs

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 wheneer 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
Thats 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 writers 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
Thats sure to startle you.
The good ideas have all been worked,
But while weve gum and paste
There shall be books and books and books
To please the public taste.

In my collection famed of curios
I have, as every bookman knows,
A pen that Thackeray once used.
To be amused,
I thought Id 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 wouldnt 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 youve guessed
My name, like Abou Bens, led all the rest!

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
Theyll do quite well, for, after all, soups 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 theres a deal of beef in him.
For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.

For game Ill have Boccaccio hes 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 youll 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
Theyre good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;
And through it all well quaff the wines that flow forever clear
From Avons vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.

Im in literary culture, and Ive opened up a shop,
Where Id like ye, gents and ladies, if youre passing by to stop.
Come and see my rich assortment of fine literary seed
That Im selling to the writers of full many a modern screed.

Ive bacilli for ten volumes for a dollar, in a bag
Not a single germ among em thats been ever known to drag.
Not a single germ among em, if you see theyre planted right,
But will grow into a novel that theyll say is out of sight.

I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay.
You can buy em by the dozen, or Ill 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 Ill 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 youll find that Ive 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 youll find the deed is done.

Ive a hundred comic packets that would make a Twain of Job;
I have Seeds of Tales Narcotic; Tales of Surgeons and the Probe.
Ive a most superb assortment, on the very cheapest terms,
Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my A 1 Trilby Germs.

So perchance if youre ambitious in a literary line,
Be as dull as eer you can be, you will surely cut a shine,
If youll only take advantage of this opportunity,
When youre 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 cant deny is rash,
Im 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!

Ive read your story of your friends 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.

Ive penned a score of essays bright,
In Addisons best style;
Ive taken many a lofty flight,
The Muses to beguile.

Of novels I have written few
I think no more than ten;
With history Ive had to do,
Like several other men.

And still, to my intense regret,
Through all my woe and weal,
Ive never penned a volume yet,
A foreigner would steal.

The style of man Id 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, Id snap my thumbs
Derisively at Fate.

Charles Lamb is good, and so is Thackeray,
And sos 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 Avons 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 dont care, the fact remains that he
Has won my admiration dear old Me.

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.

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 Shakespeares autographs?

If some one does not speedily indite
A volume that is worthy of my shelf,
Ill have to buy materials and write
A novel and some poetry myself.

My library oerflows with treasures rare:
Of Dickens firsts, a full, unbroken set;
And in a little nooklet off the stair
The whole edition of my novelette.

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

He was a poet born, but unkind Fate
Once doomed him for his verses to be paid,
Whereon he left the poet-borns estate
And wrote like one whod happened to be made.

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

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 Ive written only ten.

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.

He does not read at all, yet he doth hoard
Rich books. In exile on his shelves theyre stored;
And many a volume, sweet and good and true,
Fails in the work that it was made to do.
Why, een the dust theyve caught since he began
Would quite suffice to make a decent man!

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 meanings Greek;
But what of that? Tis mine, and its unique.
So Bah! to others,
Men and brothers
Bah! and likewise Pooh!
Ive got the best of you.
Go sicken, die, and eke repine.
That book you wanted Gad! thats mine!

Daudet to him is eer Dodett;
Dumas he calls Dumass;
But prithee do not you forget
Hes 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 mans 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.

Im also every bit as bright
As Walter Scott, the Scottish knight;

And in my own peculiar way
Im 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.

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.