Cobwebs from a Library Corner. Bangs John Kendrick

      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!

      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.”

      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.

      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,