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diff --git a/27534.txt b/27534.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97f363a --- /dev/null +++ b/27534.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2125 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Cobwebs from a Library Corner, by John Kendrick Bangs + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cobwebs from a Library Corner + +Author: John Kendrick Bangs + +Release Date: December 14, 2008 [EBook #27534] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER *** + + + + +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. + + +[Illustration: OUT IN THE COLD] + + + + +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." + + 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. + + + + +_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 philosophy + He shows a mind that's verily commanding. + + He'll stand before a painting, and without + A single instant's thought, or hesitation, + He'll tell the painter's name, nor any doubt + Is there he gives the proper information. + + The rocks, the hills and valleys, hold from him + No 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 each + Romance that round about the heavens lingers. + At dinner-time he oft delights to preach + On 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 adore + Should have a classic head; + Should have a form quite Junoesque; + A manner full of grace; + A wealth of hirsute picturesque + Above a piquant face. + + But I, alas! am perjured, for + I've wed a dumpy lass + I 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 scheme + I 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, + =Zoe mou, sas agapo,= + + Let me tell you this, my dear: + Though your lettering was clear, + Though the ancient sages Greek + Would be glad to hear you speak, + They would be replete with woe + At your =mou, sas agapo=. + + For, dear maiden most astute, + You have placed the mark acute + O'er omega. Take your specs. + See? It should be circumflex. + Still I love you, even though + You have written =agapo=. + + + + +_NOT PERFECT_ + + + HER eyes are blue--a lovely hue + For 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 me + Than any other girl's. + + Her figure's trim--it is petite-- + I like them just that way, + And truly, maiden half so sweet + You'd not find every day. + + And yet, alas! she's not my choice, + This creature of my rhyme-- + Because her soft and rich-toned voice + Is 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 grand + Would invent some single tree + With all these points well developed, and + Would send that tree to me! + + I'd plant it deep in the jardiniere + That 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 coats + That covered Will Shakespeare's back? + What has become of the old row-boats + Of 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 store + Of 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 cat + Would sooner set my spirit on fire-- + Or even Beau Brummel's hat. + + And when I reflect that there are spots + In 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 gold + To him that will bring to me + A glass, Earth's mysteries to unfold, + And show me where these things be. + + + + +_MEMORIES_ + + + YON maiden once a jester did adore, + Who early died and in the church-yard sleeps. + Once in a while she reads his best jokes o'er + And sits her down and madly, sorely weeps. + + + + +_A SAD STATE_ + + + I KNOW a man in Real Estate, + Whose pride of self's sublime. + He'd like to be a poet great + But "can't afford the time." + + + + +_AD ASTRA PER OTIUM_ + + + AS I read over old John Dryden's verse, + The rhymes of men like William Blake, and Gay, + The stuff that helped fill Edmund Waller's purse, + And that which placed on Marvell's brow the bay, + + It doth appear to me that in those times + The Muses quaffed not sparkling wine, but grog, + And that to grow immortal through one's rhymes + Was 'bout as hard as falling off a log. + + + + +_CONSOLATION_ + + + SHAKESPEARE was not accounted great + When good Queen Bess ruled England's state, + So why should I to-day repine + Because the laurel is not mine? + + Perhaps in twenty-ninety-three + Folks will begin to talk of me, + And somewhere statues may be built + Of me, in bronze, perhaps in gilt, + + And sages full of quips and quirks + Will wonder if I wrote my works. + So why should I repine to-day + Because my brow wears not the bay? + + + + +_SATISFACTION_ + +ON READING "NOT ONE DISSATISFIED," BY WALT WHITMAN + + + GOD spare the day when I am satisfied! + Enough is truly likened to a feast that leaves man satiate. + The sluggishness of fulness comes apace; the dulness of a mind that + knows all things. + The lack of every sweet desire; no new sensation for the soul! + To want no more? + What vile estate is that? + What holds the morrow for the soul that's satisfied? + What holds the future for the mind content? + Is aspiration worthless? + Is much-abused ambition then so vile? + What is the essence of the joy of living? + Must yesterday, to-morrow, and to-day all be the same, + With nothing to be hoped for? + Is not a soul athirst a joyous thing? + Where lies content to him whose eye doth rest on higher things? + What satiation can compare to hope? + Yet who among the satisfied hath need of hope? + What can he hope for if he's satisfied? + 'Tis but conceit, and nothing more, to prate of satisfaction! + God spare the day when I am satisfied! + I do not want the earth, + Yet nothing less will leave me quite content; + And once 'tis mine, + I'm very sure you'll find me roaming off + After the universe! + + + + +_TO A WITHERED ROSE_ + + + THY span of life was all too short-- + A week or two at best-- + From budding-time, through blossoming, + To withering and rest. + + Yet compensation hast thou--aye!-- + For all thy little woes; + For was it not thy happy lot + To live and die a rose? + + + + +_THE WORST OF ENEMIES_ + + + I DO not fear an enemy + Who all his days hath hated me. + + I do not bother o'er a foe + Whose name and face I do not know. + + I mind me not the small attack + Of him who bites behind my back: + + But Heaven help me to the end + 'Gainst that one who was once my friend. + + + + +_JOKES OF THE NIGHT_ + + + BLESSED jokes of my dreams! Your praises I'd sing. + No mirth can compare to the mirth that you bring. + I've read London _Punch_ from beginning to end, + On all comic papers much money I spend, + But naught that is in them can ever seem bright + Beside the rich jokes that I dream of at night. + + How I laugh at those jests of my brain when at rest, + The gladdest and merriest, sweetest and best! + And how, when I wake in the morning and try + To call them to mind, oh how bashful, how shy + They seem, how they scatter and hide out of sight-- + Those jokes of my dreamings, those jests of the night! + + Take the one that came to me to-day just at dawn: + The Cable-Car turns and remarks to the Prawn, + "The Crowbar is seasick; but then what of that, + As long as the Camel won't wear a silk hat?" + I laughed--why, I laughed till my wife had a fright + For fear I'd go wild from that joke of the night. + + And they're all much like that one--elusive enough, + Yet full of facetious, hilarious stuff-- + Stuff past comprehension, stuff no man dares tell; + For nocturnal jests, e'en told ever so well-- + 'Tis odd it should be so--are not often bright, + Except to the dreamer who dreams them at night. + + + + +_AN AUTUMNAL ROMANCE_ + + + A LEAF fell in love with the soft green lawn, + He deemed her the sweetest and best, + And then on a dreary November dawn + He withered and died on her breast. + + + + +_THE COUNTRY IN JULY_ + + + WHERE glistening in the softness of the night + The vagrant will-o'-wisps do greet the sight; + Where fragrance baffling permeates the breeze + That gently flouts the grasses and the trees; + Where every flying thing doth seem to be + Instinct with sweetly sensuous melody; + Where hills and dales assume their warmest phase, + With here and there a scarf of opal haze + To soften their luxuriant attire; + Where one can almost hear the elfin choir + Across the meadow-land, down in the wood, + In songs of gladness--there are all things good. + Ah! ye who seek the spot where joys abide, + Awake! Awake! Seek out the country-side, + And through the blue-gray July haze see life + All free from care, from sorrow, and from strife. + + + + +_MAY 30, 1893_ + + + IT seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say + That 'twas not part of Nature's own sweet way, + + That on the field where once the cannon's breath + Lay many a hero cold and stark in death, + + Some little children, in the after-years, + Had come to play among the grassy spears, + + And, all unheeding, when their romp was done, + Had left a wreath of wild flowers over one + + Who fought to save his country, and whose lot + It was to die unknown and rest forgot? + + + + +_THE CURSE OF WEALTH_ + + + "WHAT shall I put my dollars in?" he asked, in wild dismay. + "I've fifty thousand of 'em, and I'd like to keep 'em too. + I'd like to put them by to serve some future rainy day, + But in these times of queer finance what can a fellow do? + + "A railway bond is picturesque, and the supply is great, + But strangely like a novel that upon occasion drags, + Of which the critics of the time in hackneyed phrases state, + 'The work has certain value, but the int'rest often flags!' + + "The same is true of railway shares, 'tis safer to invest + In ploughshares, so it seems to me, in this unhappy time. + Some think great wealth a blessing, but it cannot stand the test; + He's happier by far than I who's but a single dime. + + "He does not lie awake at night and fret and fume, to think + Of bank officials on a spree with what he's toiled to get. + He is not driven by his woe quite to the verge of drink + By wondering if his balance in the bank remains there yet. + + "He does not pick the paper up in terror every night + To see if V.B.G. is up, or P.D.Q. is down; + It does not fill his anxious soul with nerve-destroying fright + To hear the Wall Street rumors that are flying 'bout the town. + + "Ah, better had I ta'en that cash that I have skimped to save, + And spent it on my living and my pleasures day by day! + I would not now be goaded nigh unto my waiting grave, + By wondering how the deuce to keep those dollars mine for aye. + + "I'd not be bankrupt in my nerves and prematurely old, + These golden shackles must be burst; I must again be free. + What Ho without! My ducats--to the winds with all my gold, + That I may once again enjoy the rest of poverty." + + + + +_THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT POPULIST_ + + + IT was an ancient populist, + His beard was long and gray, + And punctuated by his fist, + He had his little say: + "This is the age of gold," he said, + "'Tis gold for butter, gold for bread, + Gold for bonds and gold for fun; + Gold for all things 'neath the sun." + Then with a smile + He shook his head. + "Just wait awhile," + He slyly said. + "When we get in and run the State + We'll tackle gold, we'll legislate. + We'll pass an act + And make a fact + By which these gold-bugs will be whacked + Till they're as cold + As is their gold. + We're going to make a statute law by which 'twill be decreed + That standards are abolished, for a standard favors greed. + This is the country of the free, and free this land shall be + As soon as we the 'people' have our opportunity, + And he who has to pay a bill + Can pay in whate'er suits his will. + The tailor? Let him take his coats + And pay his notes; + Or if perchance + He's long on pants, + Let trousers be + His _L. s. d._ + The baker! Let his landlord take + His rent in cake, + Or anything the man can bake. + And if a plumber wants a crumb, + He may unto the baker come + And plumb. + A joker needing hats or cloaks + Can go and pay for them with jokes, + And so on: what a fellow's got + Shall pay for things that he has not. + If beggars' rags were cash, you'd see + No longer any beggary; + In short, there'd be no poverty." + "A splendid scheme," quoth I; "but stay! + What of the nation's credit, pray?" + "Ha-ha! ho-ho!" he loudly roared. + "We'll leave that problem to the Lord. + And if He fails to keep us straight + Once more we'll have to legislate, + And so create, + Confounding greed, + As much of credit as we need." + + + + +_ONE OF THE NAMELESS GREAT_ + + + I KNEW a man who died in days of yore, + To whom no monument is like to rise; + And yet there never lived a mortal more + Deserving of a shaft to pierce the skies. + + His chiefest wish strong friendships was to make; + He cared but little for this poor world's pelf; + He shared his joys with every one who'd take, + And kept his sorrows strictly to himself. + + + + +_IN FEBRUARY DAYS_ + + + FAIR Nature, like the mother of a wayward child + Who needs must chide the offspring of her heart, + Disguiseth for a season all the sweet and mild + Maternal softness for an austere part. + + And 'neath her frown the errant earth in winter seems + Prostrate to lie, and petulant of mood; + Restrained in icy fetters all the babbling streams, + Like naughty babes who're learning to be good. + + Then, in this second month, most motherlike again, + The frown assumed gives now and then a place + To soft indulgent glances, lessening the pain, + And hints of spring and pardon light her face. + + + + +_A CHANGE OF AMBITION_ + + + HORATIUS at the bridge, and he + Who fought at old Thermopylae; + + Great Samson and his potent bone + By which the Philistines were slone; + + Small David with his wondrous aim + That did for him of giant frame; + + J. Caesar in his Gallic scraps + That made him lord of other chaps; + + Sweet William, called the Conqueror, + Who made the Briton sick of war; + + King Hal the Fifth, who nobly fought + And thrashed the foe at Agincourt; + + Old Bonaparte, and Washington, + And Frederick, and Wellington, + + Decatur, Nelson, Fighting Joe, + And Farragut, and Grant, and, oh, + + A thousand other heroes I + Have wished I were in days gone by-- + + Can take their laurels from my door, + For I don't want 'em any more. + + The truth will out; it can't be hid; + The doughty deed that Dewey did, + + In that far distant Spanish sea, + Is really good enough for me. + + The grammar's bad, but, O my son, + I wish I'd did what Dewey done! + + + + +_MESSAGE FROM MAHATMAS_ + + ONSET BAY, MASSACHUSETTS, _May 24, 18--._--Theosophists and + others at Onset Bay Camp Grounds have been greatly excited of + late by a message which has been received from the Mahatmas, + Koot Hoomi, and his partner, who are summering in the desert of + Gobi. The message is of considerable length, and contains much + that is purely personal.--_Daily Newspaper_. + + + SOUND the timbrel, beat the drum! + Word from the Mahatma's come. + Straight from Hoomi Koot & Co. + Comes the note to us below, + Full of joy and gossiping. + Hoomi Koot is summering + In the desert waste of Gobi, + In a cottage of adobe. + All the little Koots are well. + Tommy Koot has learned to spell. + Mrs. Koot is busy on + Papers on "The Great Anon," + Which by special cable soon, + From her workshop in the moon, + Will be sent to us below + By grand Hoomi Koot & Co. + + We are told that Maggie Koot + Looks well in her golfing suit; + And her brand-new Astral Bike + Is the best they've seen this cike-- + Cike is slang for cycle, so + I have learned from Koot & Co. + Soon she's going to take a run + Out from Gobi to the sun, + After which she thinks to race + For the Championship of Space, + And a trophy given by + The Grand High Pasupati. + + Baby Koot has learned to walk, + And likewise, 'tis said, to talk; + But, to Mrs. Koot's dismay, + Seems to have a funny way: + Full of questions, "Why and How," + All about the sacred cow. + Questions of a flippant ilk, + Like "Is Buddha made of milk?" + Questions void of answers spite + Of his parents' second sight. + What to do with Baby Koot + Worries all the whole cahoot. + + Finally the message ends + With best love to all our friends. + Give our enemies a twist. + Let each true theoso-fist + Strike a thunder-hitting blow + For the firm of Koot & Co.; + Strike till black is every eye + Doubting our theosophy. + And impress on every tribe + _Now's the season to subscribe._ + Guard against the coming storm; + Keep our astral bodies warm. + Give us bonnets for the head; + Keep our spirit stomachs fed. + Let your glad remittance go + Out to Hoomi Koot & Co., + Through their Agents on the earth, + Men and women full of worth; + And when next a message comes + From the Koots down to their chums, + Those who've paid their money down + Will receive a harp and crown. + + Step up lively! now's the time + For your nickel and your dime, + To provide for winter suits + For the grand Mahatma Koots. + Furthermore, be not too brash, + Send it up in solid cash. + Astral money, it may be, + Circulates in theory; + But 'tis best to give us cold, + Bilious, drossy, filthy gold. + + All our blessings to you go. + Yours, for health, + H. Koots & Co. + + + + +_THE GOLD-SEEKERS_ + + + GOLD, gold, gold! + What care we for hunger and cold? + What care we for the moil and strife, + Or the thousands of foes to health and life, + When there's gold for the mighty, and gold for the meek, + And gold for whoever shall dare to seek? + Untold + Is the gold; + And it lies in the reach of the man that's bold: + In the hands of the man who dares to face + The death in the blast, that blows apace; + That withers the leaves on the forest tree; + That fetters with ice all the northern sea; + That chills all the green on the fair earth's breast, + And as certainly kills as the un-stayed pest. + It lies in the hands of the man who'd sell + His hold on his life for an ice-bound hell. + What care we for the fevered brain + That's filled with ravings and thoughts insane, + So long as we hold + In our hands the gold?-- + The glistening, glittering, ghastly gold + That comes at the end of the hunger and cold; + That comes at the end of the awful thirst; + That comes through the pain and torture accurst + Of limbs that are racked and minds o'erthrown, + The gold lies there and is all our own, + Be we mighty or meek, + If we do but seek. + For the hunger is sweet and the cold is fair + To the man whose riches are past compare; + And the o'erthrown mind is as good as sane, + And a joy to the limbs is the racking pain, + If the gold is there. + And they say, if you fail, in your dying day + All the tears, all the troubles, are wiped away + By the fever-thought of your shattered mind + That a cruel world has at last grown kind; + That your hands o'errun with the clinking gold, + With nuggets of weight and of worth untold, + And your vacant eyes + Gloat o'er the riches of Paradise! + + + + +_ODE TO A POLITICIAN_ + + + ALL hail to thee, O son of AEolus! + All hail to thee, most high Borean lord! + The lineal descendant of the Winds art thou. + Child of the Cyclone, + Cousin to the Hurricane, + Tornado's twin, + All hail! + The zephyrs of the balmy south + Do greet thee; + The eastern winds, great Boston's pride, + In manner osculate caress thy massive cheek; + Freeze onto thee, + And at thy word throw off congealment + And take on a soft caloric mood; + And from afar, + From Afric's strand, + Siroccan greetings come to thee! + The monsoon and simoom, + In the soft empurpled Orient, + At mention of thy name + Doff all the hats of Heathendom! + And all combined in one vast aggregation, + Cry out hail, hail, thrice hail to thee, + Who after years, and centuries, and cycles e'en, + Hast made the winds incarnate! + To thee + The visible expression in the flesh, + Material and tangible, + Of all that goes to make the element + That rages, blusters, blasts, and blows! + And if the poet's mind speaks true, + If he can penetrate their purposes at all, + It is not far from their intent + To lift thee on their broad November wings + So high + That none but gods can ever hope + Again to gaze upon thy face! + + + + +_SOME ARE AMATEURS_ + + + SHAKESPEARE was partly wrong--the world's a stage, + This is admitted by the bard's detractors. + Had William seen some Hamlets of this age + He'd not have called _all_ men upon it actors. + + + + + LITTLE BOOKS + BY FAMOUS WRITERS + + + THE FIRST CHRISTMAS (From "Ben-Hur") + _By Lew. Wallace_ + + THE STORY OF THE OTHER WISE MAN + _By Henry van Dyke_ + + TWO GENTLEMEN OF KENTUCKY + _By James Lane Allen_ + + EPISODES IN VAN BIBBER'S LIFE + _By Richard Harding Davis_ + + GOOD FOR THE SOUL + _By Margaret Deland_ + + EVELINA'S GARDEN + _By Mary E. Wilkins_ + + COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER (Verses) + _By John Kendrick Bangs_ + + THE WOMAN'S EXCHANGE + _By Ruth McEnery Stuart_ + + THE CAPTURED DREAM + _By Octave Thanet_ + + STORIES OF PEACE AND WAR + _By Frederic Remington_ + + + Uniform with this Volume--with Frontispiece + _Fifty Cents a Volume_ + + + HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS + + NEW YORK AND LONDON + + + [Pointing hand] _Any of the above works will be sent by mail, + postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or + Mexico, on receipt of the price._ + + + + + Transcriber's note: Words originally in Greek are set off by + equal signs like so: =agapo=. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cobwebs from a Library Corner, by +John Kendrick Bangs + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS FROM A LIBRARY CORNER *** + +***** This file should be named 27534.txt or 27534.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/5/3/27534/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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