Cobwebs from a Library Corner

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 édition 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.