Cobwebs from a Library Corner

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,