Cobwebs from a Library Corner

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. 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—
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 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!

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;