John Bangs - Cobwebs from a Library Corner

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.

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 Shakespeare’s autographs?

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 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.

He writes bad verse on principle,
E’en 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-born’s estate
And wrote like one who’d happened to be made.

“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.”

“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.”

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 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!

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!

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.

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.