BALLADS OF A X BOOK-WORM BY J$^i IRVING BROWNE University of California Berkeley From the Library of HELEN AND ALEXANDER MEIKLEJOHN Being a Rythmic Record of "Thoughts ', Fancies , @f Adventures a-collecting DONE INTO A PRINTED BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS AT THEIR SHOP, THAT IS IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW YORK, U. S. A. MDCCCXCIX -> t CONTENTS 1 Course of True Book- Buying * . *y g 2 Book Catalogues by Mail . . .12 3 An Alphabetical Misfortune . . . 15 4 Cesar Birrotteau . . . . .17 5 How a Bibliomaniac Binds his Books . 18 6 The Bibliomaniac's Assignment of Binders 21 7 On a Book Bound in Red Morocco . . 23 8 The Failing Books | j 4 .24 9 Suiting Paper to Subject . . . .26 10 The Book Seller . /t . . . . 28 11 The Stolid Auctioneer . . . . 30 12 The Prophetic Book . . . .32 13 The Attentive Book Seller . . .34 14 My Uncle . . . / ^ . . 36 15 The Annual Digests . , ; . . -38 16 The Shy Portraits . ^ ... 40 17 The Snatchers . . -< 43 18 The Public Librarian : . . . 45 19 The Librarian's Death . . . .48 20 The Sentimental Chambermaid . . 50 21 A Woman's Library . . 5* 22 Porthos* Library f , , . -55 23 Gordian . . . . . 1 s . 57 24 The Book- Worm Does Not Care for Nature 58 25 How I Go A-Fishing .... 60 26 Tityrus 63 27 Magdalen 67 28 The Guide Book 6 ag The Hymn Book * -- . . . 70 30 The Oath Book . * . . . 71 31 Reading Out of Doors ? . . . .72 32 Reading Menander's Songs . . . 75 33 The Modern Reader . .*' . . 76 34 " Reading Maketh a Full Man" . . 77 35 The Holy Man . ... . .78 36 The Decameron and the Heptameron . 80 37 Jane Gray . . . . . . . 82 38 Hamlet's Book * ;" . . . . 83 39 The Prosy Side of Life .... 86 40 The Two Books '. . . . . 89 41 A New England Act of Faith . . 91 42 Samuel Johnson's Penance ... 93 43 At Shakespeare's Grave .... 97 44 My Favorite Book 99 45 The Book-Thief 101 46 The Tramp, His Dog, and Their Book . 103 47 Cleaning the Library ' > . . . 106 48 A Literary Jettison . . .108 49 Ode to Caliph Omar . . . .no 50 My Friends the Books . . . *"3 51 The Fire in the Library . * . . 116 52 Companions in Death . . . . 118 53 The Doll Brought Up on Greek . .119 Of this edition there were printed and il- lumined by hand eight hundred and fifty copies. Each volume is signed and num- bered and this book is No. Copyright 1899 Elbert Hubbard THE NONPARIEL All day the patient printer stands, And agate, pearl and diamond Picks up with swift, untiring hands And weaves them in a storied bond. And minion, too, and eke brevier, Sometimes selects, for larger choice, And bourgeois also, which, I fear, He generally calls " burjoice." My wife lets me buy books, and so, If I survive her tale to tell. That all this rarest type may know, I '11 print her life in nonpariel. FOREWORD: BEING USEFUL HINTS TO THE GENTLE READER. | N LESS you love books aside from their contents, do not read this book at all. It is not meant for mere read- ers. Do not read it through religiously by course, nor put in a mark to tell where you left off. Do not first turn to the end to see how it " comes out." Do not censure the punning unless you yourself can make a good pun, for no one who could do that ever denounced the habit. Punning may be " the lowest form of wit," but it is a form, & was recognized and approved by Shakespeare, Lamb, Holmes, Hood, Saxe, while Dr. Johnson could not have made a pun to save his life. Do not suppose that the writer is always literal, and that what he has written is always his own real experience or serious opinion. Use a little im- agination, if you have it handy, and read between the lines now and then. Poets are not always talk- ing of themselves. When the writer puts words into the mouth of Ignatius Donnelly or Andrew Lang, do not rush to the conclusion that he approves what they are thus made to say, as some have done. Having read the book, do not write to the author or the publisher, saying you could make just as good verses yourself if you had a mind, for neither would believe it. If you feel moved to write to the newspapers or magazines about the book, do not say " the poems are of very unequal merit " ; for that is a rodent expression, and the poems were intended so to be. An unvarying plane of interest or merit is tedious. Besides, readers themselves are of unequal merit in power of appreciation. Finally, to the women, some of whom the author loves and many of whom he admires, when you read " A Woman's Library" or "Cleaning the Library," do not pronounce him "sarcastic" and " horrid," but understand that in those verses he merely let his imagination run riot in conjecture as to what would happen if women collected books or habitually put them back after cleaning the shelves. I. B. BALLADS OF A BOOKWORM OF TRUE BOOK-BUYING N daily walks adown the street A bookworm passed a shop Where tempting wares the vision greet, Sometimes compel a stop. Here cTay by flay for near a year In window fkir displayed, A book of aspect quaint and dear His active pate delayed. Its bnlliant Ink, jits leaves so white, Itslmarge unspiled by thumb, Its hu^Jnitisrfs colored bright Rare incunabulum Unto a Grolier pattern tooled On leather flushing meek In red like that which erstwhile ruled An ancient spinster's cheek ; Book And on eac h P a S e there was a border Worm f birds and beasts and insect things, Ballads w ^ich some old monk had set in order, Diversified with babes with wings. Its price, expressed in figures three, For him would never do, For in his humble treasury The figures were but two. He sold old clothes and shabby we nt, His tiresome clubs disused, His wife became quite discontent When he new rings refused. By prudence and economy His figures slowly grew, And when they mounted up to three The book declined to two. With beating heart he bought that tome, He hugged it to his breast, And sly conveyed it to his home And hid it with the rest. For months he just adored that book, Gazed, smelled, felt, almost read, 12 Braving his wife's suspicious look Book With ill-dissembled dread ; Worm But now he seldom takes it down, Ballads Its charms unheeded lie, He passes with an absent frown Or unregarding eye. Let me explain to curious men Why he 's indifferent grown : It was that other fellow's then, But now it is his own. Book Worm Ballads BOOK CATALOGUES BY MAIL X AM a victim of the " cat," It comes by every mail, Sometimes expressed in language that To comprehend I fail. These booksellers are so polite ; variety Of prefixes oft makes my sight Ache with satiety. The( Italia*^ alwfeys dubs me " Sig. 5 iat does iy signify ? For tnhJLsksfll not care a fig In the sweet buy and buy. The Germans write me down as " Herr,' Because they mean a him ; Their gender always makes me stare With glances cold and grim. 12 With " Mons." the Frenchman christens Book me ; Worm " My Lord," he means by that ; Ballads To Democrats, this seems to be Peculiarly flat. Even John Bull, so blunt and rude Reputed oft to be, Appears to think he may intrude Unless he " Misters " me. With " Esq." my name is tailed Which I do not admire For that which anciently was mailed Was not a low esquire. Sometimes the vendors dub me " Hon." With deferential cough ; But when that syllable I con It simply sends me off. Sometimes they open with "Dr." Strange compliment to send ! I 'd rather have it there by far Than at the other end ! 13 Book * wish to state to those who write Worm ^ " P r f-" before my name, Ballads * '** kil * ' em certa i nl y on s ^ht, Without a fear of blame. The only one who has success Is he who sets me down Upon the catalogue's address, Merely as Irving Browne. AN ALPHABETIC^JL-MTSFORTU! ROM catalogues of dis- tant Bibliopole For many years I or- dered books by mail ; No purchaser on me a march e'er stole, And I but seldom found my order fail. I never wasWith him a friend or pet, Indeed we ihad acquaintance very slight ; But in the orcrer of the alphabet He thought flp mail his catalogues was right. And as my namdlis up among the B's I hadjio rivals [but the few in A, And ^wift uW>n this circumstance to seize, ire bacgkins/I obtained without delay. The Grbcft^slmd White's, and others lower down, Toiled panting after me, like Time, in vain; 15 look > Worm Ballads Book They failed to comprehend why lucky Worm Browne Ballads Should beat them all upon an equal plain. But one fell day we had a serious quarrel About a missing plate in one long set, In which we used some epithets immoral, And he swore he 'd get even with me yet. And since that time no bargains have I had, For now he starts his mailing clerk at Z ; I waste my postage and am driven mad There 's nothing left when he gets up *& to B. 16 CESAR BIRROTTEAU ALKING in gloom and almost in despair Upon the stony-hearted boulevard, The peasant saw, piled in a hamper there, Some books marked cheap upon the vendor's card. And leaning wearily against a tree He gleaned from one of those poor books the hints tat through the alembic of perfumery laised him to station of commercial prince. >' fall and failure came, yet one sweet scent Clung to his honored name, on all tongues rife, Owed to no book the honesty that lent Eternal fragrance to a noble life. Book Worm Ballads HOW A BIBLIOMANIAC BINDS HIS BOOKS 'D like my favorite books to bind So that their outward dress To every bibliomaniac's mind Their contents should express. Napoleon's fife should glare in red, John Calvin's gloom in blue ; Thus they womld typify bloodshed reliion's hue. : ringjrecord of the past be inblue and black ; r that is fast Would do for Derby track. The Popes in scarlet well may go ; In jealous green, Othello ; In gray, Old Age of Cicero, And London Cries in yellow. 18 My Walton should his gentle art Book In salmon best express, Worm And Penn and Fox the Friendly heart Ballads In quiet drab confess. Statistics of the lumber trade Should be embraced in boards, While muslin for the inspired Maid A fitting garb affords. Intestine wars I 'd clothe in vellum, While pigskin Bacon grasps, And flat romances such as "Pelham," Should stand in calf with clasps. Blind tooled should be blank verse and rhyme Of Homer and of Milton; But Newgate Calendar of Crime I 'd lavishly dab gilt on. The edges of a sculptor's life May fitly marbled be ; But sprinkle not, for fear of strife, A Baptist history. 19 B , Crimea's warlike facts and dates ^y Of fragrant Russia smell ; Ballad ^^ e su ^J u S ate ^ Barbary States In crushed Morocco dwell. I don't like Owen Meredith Perhaps it is a whim He so lacks energy and pith Lucile-skin does for him. But oh ! that one I hold so dear Should be arrayed so cheap Gives me a qualm ; I sadly fear My Lamb must be half-sheep ! THE BIBLIOMANIACS ASSIGN- MENT OF BINDERS ^^^r^ F I could bring the dead xjfyfo to " day ' / ml \^/ I would your soul with / * % wonder fill ^*^ 1 By pointing out a novel g^ I 1 way / \ For bibliopegistic skill. Or else I Matthews sh should take in hand, give him o 'er to Hering; ld make the Gospels stand A solemn wrning to the erring. Tb of e Inquisition, ith all its iabolic train Of cmeli^aila superstition, Should fitly be arrayed by Payne. A book of dreams by Bedford clad, A Papal history by De Rome, Should make the sense of fitness glad In every bibliomaniac's home. 21 Book Worm Ballads Book As our first mother's folly cost Worm Her sex so dear, and makes men grieve, Ballads So Milton's plaint of Eden lost Would be appropriate to Eve. Hayday would make " One Summer" be Doubly attractive to the view ; While General Wolf's biography Should be the work of Pasdeloup. For lives of dwarfs, like Thomas Thumb, Petit' s the man by nature made, And when Munchausen strikes us dumb It is by means of Gascon aid. Thus would I the great binders blend In harmony with work before 'em, And so Riviere I would commend To Turner's "Liber Fluviorum." 22 ON A BOOK BOUND IN RED MO- ROCCO HIS skin once invested an Indian goat, As he pranced in his mountain land ; It is not the natural hue of his coat, But conferred by a hu- man hand ; id yet we read in fashion notes Of Varments christened redingotes. Book Worm Ballads Book Worm Ballads THE FAILING BOOKS ^ HEY say our books will disappear, That ink will fade and paper rot I sha'n't be here, So I don't care a jot. The bdet of them I know by heart, As fonlhe rest they make me tired ; The viler part May well Nbe fired. Oh, what a hypbcritic show Will be the bibliomaniac's hoard ! Cheat as hollow As a backgammofl board. Just think of Lamb without his stuffing, And the icoifocl^etid Ho wells, Who spite of puffing Is destituteW bowels. 'T would make me laugh to see the stare Book Of mousing bibliomaniac fond Worm At pages bare Ballads As Overreach's bond. Those empty titles will displease The earnest student seeking knowledge, Barren degrees, Like these of Western College. That common stuff, " Excelsior," In poetry so lacking, I care not for 'T is only fit for packing. Book Worm Ballads SUITING PAPER TO SUBJECT RINTERS the paper should adapt Unto the subject of the book, LUS making buyers wonder-rapt Before they at the con- tents look. erbohm's learned book on Eggs a l^id paper he should print, y's " Dutch Republic " begs er should its matter hint. That curiAus problem of what Man Inhabited the Iron Mask ThajrWlatman paper never can suggestive medium ask. of Dates," by Mr. Haydyn, Should be on paper calendered ; That Swift on Servants be arrayed on A hand-made paper is inferred. 26 Though angling-books have never been Book Accustomed widely to appear Worm On fly paper, 't would be no sin Ballads To have them wormed from front to rear. *% The good that authors thus may reap I '11 not pursue to tedium, But hint, for books on raising sheep Buckram is just the medium. 27 Book THE BOOK SELLER Worm lf[ E stands surrounded by Ballads mS^-^ ^^ rare tomes I Which find with him their transient homes, He knows their fragrant covers ; [e keeps them but a week or two, irs then their charming view fbliomaniac lovers. An enviable man, you say, To es ht think mat his volumes will disap- Unless ne shall keep me in view ? For fcis^upjiCHdate " issues he need not fear, I loathe every book that is new. I 'm looking for something he never has seen, Or perhaps for just nothing at all, In hope that some treasure my vision may glean As it ranges the cloth-covered wall. 34 " May I wait on you, sir ? " said a maid at Book my side, Worm For the twentieth time in a store ; Ballads "'No, madam, I thank you," I coldly re- plied, " I am married " I heard nothing more. But the bitterest pill that is ever prescribed, That throws me almost in a fit, Is showing, when everything good is de- nied, A volume that I have just writ ! 35 MY UNCLE ELL, vot haf you got, & how moosh do you vant? Pooks ton't good secur- ty seem. If you ton't reteem 'em, why sell 'em I can't, st you always reteem." is a famous historical book, Labelled Gibbon's Decline and Fall.' " " Shust put him one side, for I ton't like his look, Nor fancy his title at all." "Well, 'Smith's Wealth of Nations,' that sounds rather rich, His name was n't John Smith, but Adam." " Oh, dose vealths ! John or Adam, I ton't care vich, If I only shust vonce had 'em." 36 41 Here 's 'Ivanhoe ' tells of old Isaac the Jew, Who rather than part with his cash, Worm Surrendered his teeth, though he had but Ballads a few." " Dot 's right he could lif upon hash." " * Miscellaneous Sports, Including the Rules ' For this you should have many calls." " Let me see oh, I guess nopotty but fools Likes to read about ' three passed balls.' ' ' " Now here is the last one, I 'm sure it will please ; It 's all about you and your trade." " What 's his name ? oh, * Adventures among the Pawnees,' I takes him I see he got flayed." " Twelf folumes twelf shillin will pe apout right A shilling a volume is high Six tollar ! you 're shoking why, dot 's out of sight ! Call it tree no? well, den, coot pye." 37 Book WbrriiC Ballads THE ANNUAL DIGESTS nag no law Contained more words than twenty -two, The books which Gulliver there saw Seemed huge as hay- stacks to his view. They towered some twenty feet in height, And were proportionately wide, And he was given of steps a flight To mount and read from side to side. No end or limit know our laws, The annual digests swell and grow, Expanding swift, without a pause, Their huge impending shadows throw. These on our backs their authors pin, Like burden bound by Pharisee, Or Christian's wallet full of sin, Or Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea. 38 These books portentious threaten soon Book To make our bored profession sadder, Worm And publishers must grant the boon To give with every one a ladder. 39 THE SHY FOR' -*- -""**" , why do you elude me so Ye portraits that so long I 've sought ? That somewhere ye exist, I know Indifferent, good, and good for naught. Liicrezia, tiFtfes, poisoned cup, \Why (po you shrink away by stealth ? k ot view\$roujp " mjug " with you I 'd sup, AV"l /"I ATA*^ s4s**A&S> s4**4^1^ T T /"\ 1 I * V i <^ 1 4-V\ ^ WAkAA y vx v* ^ ^ u i, drink your health, Oh ! why so coy, Godiva fair ? You 're covered by your shining tresses, And I would promise not to stare At sheerest of go- diving dresses. Come out, old Bluebeard ; don't be shy ! You 're not so bad as Froude's great hero; Xantippe, fear no law gone by, When scolds were ducked in ponds at zero. 40 Not mealy-mouthed was Mrs. Behn, Book And prudish was satiric Jane, Worm But equally they both shun men, Ballads As if they bore the mark of Cain. George Barrington, you may return To country which you " left for good ; " Psalmanazar, I would not spurn Your language when 't was understood. Jean Grolier, you left many books They come so dear I must ignore 'em But there 's no evidence of your looks For us surviving ng and honored reign, But he was doomed, to our surprise, In fir^e~uteeks\to be foully slain. Gibtion infers, f &>m what survives, Heyhad a "various inclination," For he ctestgned both books and wives " For use instead of ostentation." In modern times kings ne'er collect A library except for show, And as to concubines, expect To hide what all their subjects know. 57 Book THE BOOK-WORM DOES NOT Worm CARE FOR NATURE /"W^ * FEEL no need of na- ture's flowers Of flowers of rhetoric I have store ; I do not miss the balmy . showers / \ When books are dry I o'er them pore. Why should iWt upon a stile And cause my aged bones to ache, When I can all the hours beguile Wittf1my\styl3 that I would take ? > WhyUhould I h&unt a purling stream, Or fiskoajaiasmatic brook ? O'er Euclid's angles I can dream, And recreation find in Hook. Why should I jolt upon a horse And after wretched vermine roam, 58 When I can choose an easier course Book With Fox and Hare and Hunt at home ? Worm Why should I scratch my precious skin By crawling through a hawthorne hedge, When Hawthorne, raking up my sin, Stands tempting on the nearest ledge ? No need that I should take the trouble To go abroad to walk or ride, For I can sit at home and double Quite up with pain from Akenside. 59 I Book ^JIOW I GO A-FISHING ^BUg^l ^^. Worm ^ ^h^^^IS sweet to sit in shady Ballads ^ 9$* nook, Or wade in rapid crystal G brook, Impervious in rubber boots, And wary of the slippery roots, To sAare the swift evasive trout Or eke\he sauntering horn-pout ; Or in thevcold Canadian river To see theyglorious salmon quiver And them with tempting hook inveigle, Fit viand for \ table regal ; Or after an exiting bout To snatch the pfke with sharpened snout. Or with some patient ass to row To troll for bass with motion slow. Oh ! joy supreme wdien they appear Splashing above theWater clear, And drawn pluchanily to land Lie gasping on tne yellow sand ! 60 But sweeter far to read the books Book That treat of flies and worms and hooks, Worm From Pickering's monumental page. Ballads (Late rivaled by the rare Dean Sage), And Major's elder issues neat, And Burnand's funny ' Incompleat." I love their figures quaint and queer, Which on the inviting page appear, From those of good Dame Juliana, Who lifts a fish and cries hosanna, To those of Stothard, graceful Quaker, Of fishy art supremest maker, Whose fisherman, so dry and neat, Would never soil a parlor seat. I love them all, the books on angling, And far from cares and business jangling, Ensconced in cosy chimney corner, Like the traditional Jack Horner, I read from Walton down to Lang, And hum that song the Milkmaid sang. I get not tired nor wet nor cross, Nor suffer monetary loss If fish are shy and will not bite, 61 Book And shun the snare laid in their sight Worm In order home at night to bring Ballads A fraudulent, deceitful string, And thus escape the merry jeers Of heartless piscatory peers; Nor have to listen to the lying Of fishermen while fish are frying, Who boast of draughts miraculous Which prove too large a draught on us. I spare the rod, and rods don't break ; Nor fish in sight the hook forsake ; My lines ne'er snap like corset-laces ; My lines are fallen in pleasant places ; And so in sage experience ripe, My fishery is but a type. 62 TITYRU! sharp hill Between two streams with Indian names, Which meet and fill he basin of a western Thames, Arose abelfried school- house old, ine, of Doric mold. Book Worm Ballads frth for many a mile, billowy afrain And grStss-aad^treaked poppies smile Where Uncas lies in honored rest Near the white faces he loved best. And through the trees I see the Yantic shimmering leap And the rock heaves Frowning above the torrent deep, Where Uncas hurled his painted foe Into the seething pool below. 63 Book Worm Ballads A giant elm O'er hung the gently sloping roof, And in that realm Of discipline and stern reproof For boys so often in the lurch, How fortunate 't was not a birch ! In summer time, The studious youth, in squads of four, Were let to climb Up to that roof, and bade to pore Over their Latin and their Greek, And not above their breath to speak. And in that day There first was opened up to me The classic lay Of Tityrus underneath his tree, And half awake and half asleep I watched the snowy sloops acreep. And on the breeze The din of lawyers slfouting high, To earn their fees, 64 Rose fitful from the court-house nigh, Book Like Virgil's ploughman on the beam Worm Encouraging his panting team. Ballads And in the jail Still higher up, through iron bands One prisoner pale Stared all day long on those fair lands Poor wretch ! who ne'er could read the tale Of Tityrus in his shepherd vale. And we drove trade In knives and balls and other toys, Or planned a raid On stores of barrels other boys Were making for Thanksgiving fires, As for two centuries did our sires. 'T is fifty years Since there I lay in boyish dreams, Yet on my ears There comes the murmur of those streams, And the south wind blows softly past As I am locked in slumbers fast. 65 Book Afar I dwell Worm Upon a low and level shore, Ballads And hear the swell Of Erie and Niagara's roar, And there Red Jacket dusky stands In bronze fair-wrought by friendly hands. Grandson of mine ! Schooled on a noisy, dusty street, That classic line May chance some day your eyes to meet But you can ne'er the spirit reach Of Tityrus underneath his beech. Though youth is lost, Yet who shall say it is not worth All it has cost In long unwontedness of mirth, To have such memories and dreams Of Norwich and its Indian streams ? 66 LED from the haunts of Worm unforgiving men, Ballads And hidden in a rocky desert cave, In stress of agony lies Magdalen Imploring some unearth- ly power to save. Her fatal bekuties that made man to lust ^Are covere^ by the skin of some wild beast, er haggard fsJipe obscured by tears and dust, And dates and Water for her only feast. That h^iTwith wpich she wiped the Sav- ior's feet On which hei/tears repentant she had sh*4^^ When his inspiring words her heart made beat, Pours like a cloud of woe dishevelled. 67 Book Worm Ballads From morn till night one precious book reads she In which a message from the opening heaven Lights up her woeful face with ecstasy ; " Thou lovedst much and therefore art forgiven/ 1 And is it so, oh Christ ? if I love thee And hate my sins, wilt thou forgive them all? The love of mortal creature seems to be For love immortal a return too small. 68 THE GUIDE BOOK URRAY and Baedeker share equal fame As guide books over this terrestrial ball ; But if you 'd know the worst one of this name, Tupper's Philosophy's worst guyed book of all. Book Worm Ballads Book Worm Ballads H T- HE sang aloft in the vil lage choir, And down in the pew saw him Staring at her with such loving fire That she trembled in every limb. stared so long and he stared so hard, e tried to think of the sacred bard, she found it difficult to look ather more than she could do once at the holy hymn in the book d also at him in the pew. X>ATBOOK Book TRANGE that a volume Worm all made up of truth Ballads Should be promotive of ^ so many lies ! So men, with Judas kiss- es, void of ruth, Betray by their com- mercial perjuries thumbed and greasy court-house testament, t long has sanction to the devil lent. Worn! Ballad OUT OF DOORS HEN one was but a dreaming boy He loved " to snatch a fearful joy," And shirk the close and humdrum school, And loiter by some shad ed pool here water lilies faintly lent, To tree and mossy bank their scent. And having feasted full of cherries, On apples hard or acid berries, b lie upon his tense abdomen, (To counteract uneasy omen,) And read forbidden books by hours, tfninterrupted by the showers f Crusoe and his desert island, Wallace, chieftain of the highland, Or that renowned Swiss Family Who lived in cave or up a tree And nothing palled and nothing ailed Until his food and daylight failed, 72 And he went home to milk the cow, And tell his anxious parents how The master kept him after school For violation of some rule, Unfearing Ananias 1 fate, Nor emulous of the estimate Of Georgie and his little hatchet, But only dreading lest he " catch it." Such joys are for the age of ten One is a happy being then. But when one comes to six times ten, And lays aside his weary pen And seeks a tree by pool or brook, And painfully his limbs will crook In search of easy attitude, And cons a book to suit his mood O'er Herbert Spencer, Ibsen, Browning, Or Meredith or Eliot frowning He yawns, and yet he cannot sleep, But hand in motion he must keep To ward off flies and sharp mosquitoes While reading one of Cleveland's vetoes ; The slippery moss is deadly damp 73 Book And threatens a rheumatic cramp ; Worm The sun persistent chases him Ballads * n course f time from limb to limb, Because he 's lost the boyish knack Of turning up his aged back ; Whichever way he face, the wind The bald spot on his crown will find ; And worms and bugs and busy ants Make merry on his whole expanse, Like those small folk, in best of fables, Who on the traveller turned the tables. Maddened at length he stiffly rises, Nor waits till evening him surprises, And painfully he hobbles home, And vows he ne'er again will roam From curtains, rugs and cushioned chair, And tempt the inclement summer air In the romantic expectation Of out-door reading in vacation ; For 't is a weary, useless pain To try to be a boy again. 74 READING MENANDER'S SONGS pic- ture!" cry aloud The gallery visitors ; two girls of Greece, Their heads quite close, white gowned and classic browed, " Reading Menander's of Golden Fleece, Cupid. That old poet, Christians read, unto allusion/bn Mars Hill will owe it. 'ere wicked to read him at all. And so those read of heroes & of lovers, But, Artist, you have made an error droll ; They should not read a modern book with covers, But rather from an ancient parchment roll. Book Worm Ballads 75 Book Worm Ballads THE MODERN READER ON QUIXOTE read ro- mances till his wits, By nature weak, be- came extremely hazy; The modern reader quite collected sits, It is the writer only wrx> is crazy. MAKETH A FULL MAN" Book " HY should reading make Worm a man- full" ? Unless by possible chance He managed to addle his skull By " intoxicating ro- mance." 77 Ballads THE HOLY MAN Y AN open window, in easy chair, Where the sun and the breeze stream thro', Sits a monk, ignoring the prospect fair, He sits with his back to the view. His eyes are engaged in a volume quaint Of vellum, witp clasps, whose creamy pages Are gay with the hues of various paint Monk middle-aged in the middle ages. Unheeding the buzzing of busy bees And the scent of the climbing vine, The lowing of herds on the windy leas, And rustle of poplar and pine. A smile benignant illumines his cheek And tenderly shines in his eyes, And deep satisfaction, well fed and sleek, The place of contrition supplies. 78 Doth he read in a book of piety ? Book A Kempis, Jerome or Dominic Worm Or possibly one of diet, he ? Ballads Or receipts for healing the holy sick ? Peep over his shoulders big and burly And observe what his saintly eyes rest on: Oh, fie ! at this hour so calm and early Perusing the naughty Decameron ! He relishes every satiric joke Slyly aimed at the priestly frock, And sympathy feels with the erring folk Of whom the romancer makes mock. He likes this much better, this book of tales, Than the writings of saints or of sages ; To keep him from nodding it never fails This middle-aged monk of the middle ages. After all, 't was not a terrible crime No worse, I would venture to say, Than to catch a clergyman of our time With Hardy, Dumas or Daudet. 79 Book Worm Ballads THE DECAMERON AND THE HEPTAMERON HE ten gay Italians have fled from the pest, To chat in a garden serene ; Audacity lends to enjoy- ment a zest And shuts death and care from the scene. Queen ^[argaret sits in a bower with her maids, And tellV them her tales by the hour ; But story and landscape and bit ds in the glades To unwrinkte their brows have no power. The tales are not Jpng, but then they are broad, For this era-ajrifte too " tart " 80 But why did the latter elicit no laud, g . While the former delighted the heart ? vVorm Ballads The reason is simple and clear as the light To the thickest inquisitive skull Boccaccio though bad is unfailingly bright, * Queen Margaret sleepily dull. At all stupid people this moral I level, With vital significance big : Far better ten days in the courts of the devil Then seven in the courts of a prig. 81 Book JANE GRAY Worm frftady Jane, the sun is Ballads 4 high, The hawk is mounting the glowing sky, The horses are champing impatiently, And the hounds are bay- ing noisily, courtiers are trooping by sport to-day ! has hawk or hound, tsses me; My spfrit^aapsr^eyond earth's bound, And Immortality In Plato's page can banish sorrow That threatens every worldly morrow. Sweet friends, enjoy to-day, But leave me while I may Some solace for life's trouble borrow." What would a bibliomaniac pay For the Plato read by sweet Jane Gray ? 82 / J HAMLET'S BOOK HAT book was that Prince Hamlet read When "words, words, words! " he cried, And vehemently shied The volume at the inquir- ing courtier's head? cl Hamlet lived in this our day Of book-producing fame, By almost any name He might have called the thing he flung \ away. Of medicine, law, theology, . There is a growing heap j Of words impelling sleep ^ jDr rage, for which there 's no apology. The writers suck our blood like leeches If we submit to bleed ; But then there is no need To read the whole of Mr. Evarts' speeches, 83 Book Nor those of Chauncy M. Depew, Worm i n which a candid mind Ballads Regrets that it can find No fun in jokes which are so seldom new. The same old weary grist is ground, And covers up the field Which nothing more can yield Unless by chance an acre bare is found. The lexicon-compiler, too, Makes it a special boast That he unearths a host Of words unknown, to make old things sound new. Let that benevolent man be blessed Whose meaning in a word Or two may be inferred, Like Solomon's sweet wisdom well com- pressed. Oh, bless the godly minister Who finds but half an hour Sufficient for the power To warn his flock of influence sinister. And pardon wily Aaron Burr For duel and for treason, Because no court had reason To his short pithy speeches to demur. Was Hamlet mad, or did he feign ? Here scholars disagree, But it appears to me There was organic trouble in his brain. His nature sensitive and sad The poet clearly meant To make it evident That "words, words, words " had driven poor Hamlet mad. Book Worm Ballads Book Worm Ballads E PROSY SIDE OF LIFE WO heads incline to- gether Like neighboring can- dle flames ; One can't determine whether They grow on separate frames. The li^ht of love is playing Upon their faces fond ; Young Love awhile is staying, Until he welds his bond. They are not Raul and Frances, Of sad Italian, fame, Although one boak their glances Devour devoid W shame. In hell they, Before t 86 floating twain, But o'er the pages gloating Book Unmoving they remain. Worm Ballads Is 't Howells' " Wedding Journey/ 1 Or John the Second's book, Or tale of knights and tourney That wins their steadfast look ? The book that these young spouses Enchains so close and still, Is " Furnishing of Houses For just what price you will." No need to con romances They find their fiction here, And if they test the chances They buy their reading dear. Munchausen and Sapphira Such lies did not invent ; Dumas does not require a Reliance so content. p. , Though each for each these lovers w Their life would gladly give, A foul suspicion hovers, It costs still more to live. 88 THE TWQ^BeeKSx Book F OLD in Edinborough Worm town, Ballads The houses opposite in Dickson's Close, With timbered gables frowning down, Approached each other nearer as they rose, k without a spasm touch across the dizzy chasm. O ) Avgrandam helcl an open book Out olSU^Lwil^ow, half across the way, That grandsire opposite might look Through glasses that supplied the exclud- ed day ; And so he sat and scanned the pages A pretty picture at their ages. They disappeared, and quick a boy Leaned from grandma's window and was met 89 Book ^7 a young girl ; to them, 't was joy Worm To kiss and clasp the example recent set Ballads ^V ^ ^^ * n eac ^ neighboring gable To lend a hint to youth was able. The book the elder ones perused, One could not read its name so far below ; But that the other pair amused Its title plainly on the street did show ; 'T was writ in Latin, full of stories Pleasing to youth, called " Ars Amoris," Ballads &-~Q&~PAtt J fr-^Qk MINADAB, my precious son, Tell me, what book is that?" " Mother, the ' Life of Whittington And his amusing Cat.' " [y son, * tis an ungodly book, cat's tale is not true ; >n such pictures do not look, Though gaudy to the view. Lord Mayor's shows are vanities And baits to catch the soul ; Gold-getting cats are Satan's lies To turn you from the goal. " Go read of Christian and the Lion, And of the dreadful Giant ; That is a book to live and die on, Of Satan's wiles defiant. 91 Book " Because you ' ve done this naughty thing, Worm To read upon the sly, Ballads To-day no turkey but the wing, Nor any pumpkin-pie. " I '11 burn this book as they of old Burned theirs, of all men seen, Converted by St. Paul the bold See Acts nineteen, nineteen." And so she threw, with aspect sinister, That chap-book on the coals, Whose present price would ship a minister For saving heathen souls. SAMUEL JOHNSON'S PENANCE Book A Ballad for Bafl Boys Worm CENTURY & a half ago, Ballads When times were primi- tive and slow, In Uttoxeter, on market days, 1 (Called Uxeter, in English \> <* phrase), At junction of the country ways, A book-seller, who failed in trade, A small, precarious living made By setting up a petty stall For sale of books at profit small. Michael Johnson was a name Plebeian and unknown to Fame, But he was father of one Sam, Who came in time to be the Cham Of men of letters over sea ; But surly, vain ; pragmatic he, Purblind and twitching nervously, Clumsy in frame, ugly of face, 93 Book And proud above his humble race Worm He was the tyrant of his school, Ballads So absolute his petty rule That he to school was daily borne In pomp like that by satraps worn, Upon one classmate's stalwart back, While two on either hand the pack Of pride and obstinacy propped As in the dust they humbly hopped. Although his shoes were out at toes, And patched his coat and darned his hose, As much above well-meant advice As a white bear on polar ice. So when his father, quite worn down By age and sickness, asked the clown To tend the book-stall in his stead, He waxed with anger hot and red, With all the pride of sour sixteen He would not let himself be seen To deal out humble books and ballads To country louts mixed up with salads, Bringing their cows and squeaking swine And thinking mainly how to dine, 94 Clowns only fit to drive an ox, Book And country squires to chase a fox. Worm So he refused that cry for help Ballads A most unnatural willful whelp, , Unlike the son in the Testament, Who said he would not go, but went ; Too big and strong a cub to lick, And Michael could not wield a stick. Fifty years had passed away, Again 't was Uttoxeter's market day. In the noisy stony square, Head bent down and gray and bare, Ursa Major, blinking, tall, Stood where once had stood the stall, Stood at noon and muttered prayer Of penitence and penance there, Heedless of the gaping crowd Who grinned and commented aloud, Heedless of the pelting rain That fell upon his head amain ; So was penance meekly done By the disobedient son, 95 Book Worm Ballads Few there knew the penitent, None the sin he did repent. Such was Samuel's superstition, Such his physical condition, Who when he walked must touch each post And credited the Cock Lane ghost. Had this happened in our day, Skeptic folk would surely say He was either drunk or mad, Or it was a clever " ad " ; And most likely right would be, So strange such filial piety. AT SHAKESPEARE'S GRAVE (Ignatius Donnelly Loq.) ISMISS your apprehen- sion, pseudo bard, For no one wishes to disturb these stones, Nor cares if here or in the outer yard They stow your impu- dent, deceitful bones. Your foolish-colored bust upon the wall, With its preposterous expanse of brow, Shall /rival Humpty Dumpty's famous fall, And cheat no cultured Boston people I now. Steal deer, hold horses, act your third- rate parts, Hoard money, booze, neglect Anne Hathaway, You can't deceive us with your stolen arts ; 97 Book Like many a worthier dog, you 've had Worm your day. Ballads I have expressed your history in a cypher, I 've done your sum for all ensuing time, I don't know what you longer wish to lie for Beneath these stones or in your dogger- el rhyme. Get up and dust, or plunge into the river, Or walk the chancel with a ghostly squeak, You were an ignorant and evil liver, Who could not spell, nor write, nor read much Greek. Though you enslaved the ages by your spell, And Fame has blown no reputation louder, Your cake is dough, for I by sifting well Have quite reduced your dust to Bacon- powder. Y FAVORITE BOOK Book HAT is my favorite book ? Worm you ask Ballad? A question that would puzzle most ; For me it is an easy task To point it out among my host. This book is but a single tome, But of a size that 's quite unique ; other countries or at home Its match 't would be in vain to seek. tils book is not so very old, e print is brilliant on the page, u1j| it would need a questioner bold o try to ascertain its age. This book, although in muslin bound, Apparently at outlay slight, Requires before the year comes round Fresh covers to preserve it bright. 99 Book It has some clasps both strong and rare, Worm To take them off would hurt the book, Ballads But I admit, to be quite fair, Their absence would not spoil its look, I 've owned this book for many a year, But never yet could read it through, For when I think the end is near, There rise fresh pages still to view. Though all my other books I sell, To this I will forever cling ; None other so much lore can tell, No other so much pleasure bring. Now after all these candid hints You ought my favorite to guess ; Enhanced by most attractive prints, It is my wife, my much conned Bess. loo H, gentle thief! I marked the absent- minded air With which you tucked ]away my rare Book in your pocket. 'T was past belief I saw you near the open case, But yours was such an honest face I did not lock it. 1 I knew you lacked That one to make your set complete, And when that book you chanced to meet You recognized it. Wonm Ballads And when attacked By rage of bibliophilic greed, You prigged that small Quantin Ovide, Although I prized it. 101 Book ! will not sue, Worm Nor bring your family to shame Ballads By giving up your honored name To heartless prattle. I '11 visit you, And under your unwary eyes Secrete and carry off the prize, My ravished chattel. 102 THE TRAMP, HIS DOG, AND Book THEIR BOOK Worm ATE I saw a vagabond, Ballads Lolling on a seat In the park ; Reading he with vision fond In a volume neat Until dark. Dog was squatting at To his master dear Nestled cl< Not a quiver Save when Twitching) ^- ' As his master turned a leaf He from page to page Gave it heed ; Surely 't was beyond belief At his tender age Dog could read ! 103 Book Master hungry, poor and thin, Worm D was J ust the same > Ballads ^ nc * ** seemed Bones were almost through their skin ; Sore they were and lame While they dreamed. For an hour I watched them there, Partly hid from view By a copse ; Crackers were their only fare, Doggie with ado Licked his chops. " What d' ye call your dog, my friend ? Questioned, he replied : " Argos, sir ; If our fortunes ever mend, Better I '11 provide For the cur." And the book he so much prized Smilingly he showed 104 To me quick ; Book I was almost paralyzed Worm Horace ! at the ode Ballads "Lydia, die! " Tramp and dog that night slept soft, And I gave the pair Solaces Victual and a cleanly loft (And displayed my rare Horaces.) L,' ENVOI Now the rarest of the lot Is erased from my Catalogue ; Tramp, I think, purloined it not, But 't was pilfered by That 'ere dog. 105 NING THE LIBRARY ITH traitorous kiss re- marked my spouse, " Remain down town to lunch to-day, For we are busy cleaning house, And you would be in Minnie's way." hen I came home that fateful night, found within my sacred room Trie wretched maid had wreaked her spite ith mop and pail and witch's broom. books were there, but oh how changed ! ey startled me with rare surprises, they had all been re-arranged, And less by subjects than by sizes. Some volumes numbered right to left, And some were standing on their heads, 106 And some were of their mates bereft, And some behind for refuge fled. The women brave attempts had made At placing cognate books together ; They looked like strangers close arrayed Under a porch in stormy weather. She watched my face that spouse of mine Some approbation there to glean, But seeing I did not incline To praise, remarked, " I 've got it clean." And so she had and also wrong ; She little knew she was but thirty I entertained a preference strong To have it right, though ne'er so dirty. That wife of mine has much good sense, To chide her would have been inhuman, And it would be a great expense To graft the book-sense on a woman. 107 Book Worm Ballads A LITERARY JETTISON. *^-** mouth of Santiago bay, Through hot & weary weeks, The good ship " Texas " watching lay For the crafty Spanish sneaks. For chase and fight the ship made light Her decks ; her library, That cheered her crew by day and night, She threw into the sea. Thus she without too much ado To meet the foe was able, And swiftly o'er the water flew Because she slipped her Cable. The volumes once considered dry Are now become quite wet, 1 08 And none are drawn excepting by Book A hook and line or net. Worm Ballads Omar his books by fire destroyed, And since these had to vanish, Why were they not as shot employed 'Gainst the unlettered Spanish ? Books can no entertainment lend To fish, nor tale can tell, And 't is superfluous to send Roe to the mackerel. To pitch A. Pope into the ocean Would surely seem to be A very ill considered notion 'T was not a Papal see. One finds as o'er the world he looks, The potent men are they Who have thrown overboard their books And give their brains fair play. 109 _. ODE TO CALIPH OMAR * |< ^ Worm TffilAR, who burned (if Ballads *\ thou didst burn) The Alexandrian tomes, I would erect to thee an urn Beneath Sophia's domes. exemplary torch blaze again, anuYactories scorch men ! So many Dooks I can't endure, The dull and commonplace, The dirty, trifling, and obscure, The realistic race. The poets who write "dialect," Maudlin and coarse by turns, Most ardently do I expect Thou 'It wither up with Burns. no All the erotic, yawping class Condemn with judgment stern Worm Walt Whitman's rotten "Leaves of Grass" Ballads And elegant Swinburne. Of commentators make a point, The carping, blind, and dry ; Rend the " Baconians " joint by joint, And throw them on to fry. Especially I 'd have thee choke Law-libraries in sheep, With fire derived from ancient Coke, And sink in ashes deep. Destroy the sheep don't save my own I weary of the cram, The misplaced diligence I 've shown But kindly spare my Lamb, Fear not to sprinkle on the pyre, The woes of " Esther Waters ; " They '11 only make the flames burn higher, And warn Eve's other daughters. in Book Beware of Howells and of James, Worm Of Trollope and his rout ; Ballads The first would dampen down your flames, The others put them out ! The man who writes but hundred pages Where thousands went before, Deserves the thanks of weary sages, And Omar should adore. 112 BOOKS -Book RIENDS of my youth Worm and of my age Ballads Within my chambers wait Until I fondly turn the page, And prove them wise and great. At me they &o not rudely glare With eye mat lustre lacks, But knowing how I hate a stare Politely turmtheir backs. They never splilj my head with din, N/irsnuffle through their noses, Nor admiration/seek to win inartisue poses. If I should chance to fall asleep They do not scowl nor snap, Book But prudently their counsel keep Worm Till I have had my nap. Ballads And if I choose to rout them out Unseasonably at night, They do not chafe nor curse nor pout, But rise all clothed and bright. They ne'er intrude with silly say, They never scold nor worry ; They ne'er suspect and ne'er betray, They 're never in a hurry. \ Anacreon never gets quite full, Nor Horace too flirtatious, And Swift makes fun of Johnny Bull, And Addison is gracious. Saint-Simon and Grammont rehearse Their tales of court with glee ; For all their scandal I 'm no worse They never peach on me. 114 For what I owe Montaigne, no dread Book To meet him on the morrow ; Worm And better still, it must be said Ballads He never wants to borrow. Paul never asks, though sure to preach, Why I don't come to church ; Though Doctor Johnson strives to teach, I do not fear his birch. My Dickens never is away Whene'er I choose to call ; I need not wait for Thackeray In chill palatial hall. I help to bring Amelia to, Who always is a-fainting ; I love the Oxford graduate who Explains great Turner's painting. My memory is full of graves Of friends in days gone by, But Time these sweet companions saves These friends who never die ! Book Worm Ballade THE FIRE IN THE LIBRARY T WAS just before mid- night a smart con- flagration Broke out in my dwell- ing and threatened my books; \ Confounded and dazed with a great con- sternation I gazed at mV treasures with pitiful looks. " Oh ! which sMall I rescue ? " I cried in ^ee^feelilag ; I Wished I weiie armed like Briareus of (yore, 7 WhilVsharper^dnd sharper the flames kepFfevealing The sight of my bibliographical store. " My Lamb may remain to be thoroughly roasted, My Crabbe to be broiled and my Bacon to fry, iii My Browning accustomed to being well toasted, Worm And Waterman Taylor rejoicing to dry." Ballads At hazard I grasped at the rest of my treasure, And crammed all pockets with dainty eighteens ; I packed up a pillow case, heaping good measure, And turned me away from the saddest of scenes. But slowly departing, my face growing sadder, At leaving old favorites behind me so far, A feminine voice from the foot of the lad- der Cried, " Bring down my Cook-Book and Harper's Bazar! " 117 Book Worm Ballads COMPANIONS IN DEATH HE star-eyed poet of the Briton's land, Companioned by the old dramatic Greek, 'Whelmed in the south- ern waves he loved to seek Was burned with him upon the Italian strand ; An elemental ending wild and grand ; And Later, with expiring fingers weak The tale\pf Imogen, the chaste and meek, Was tracecl by him who sang the Idyls bland. \ Such books turri sudden death to benison ; And if I solitary fall asleep, May my expiring vision rest upon The wisdom oA the Preacher calm and deep, Or fervor of St. Paul or sweet St. John ; of friends who can THE DOLL BROUGHT UP ON GREEK HP* child, but eight years old, Who ne'er had done her father harm, A book in one small hand did hold, A dolly on her other arm. The book was Homer in the Greek, And till she learned her stated task, To dolly she was not to speak Nor for the smallest favor ask. That dolly was the confidante Of most unusual complaints ; The sufferings of childhood can't Be less than those of grown-up saints. The child's poor frame grew very slow, And not much bigger than her dolly 119 Book Book She was for years in bed laid low, Worm The victim of paternal folly. Ballads But Robert came along one day, With love her patient learning crowning. Cried " Maiden, rise and come away ! ' And Lizzie Barrett turned to Browning, That father was extremely wroth The doll was not half full of Greek But when true lovers plight their troth Mere fathers have a hole to seek. Love 's the beginning and the end, The alpha and omega too, But this is all that Greek can lend To aid a life begun anew. 120 DIED, Feb. 6, 1899, IRVING BROWNE, aged 58 years. 3RVING BROWNE was not a great man as the world counts such. He was too generous to ever become rich, and he did not grow famous at the practice of law, simply because he had a bad habit of considering the position of the other fellow. Irv- ing Browne was an excellent lawyer, but a poor prac- titioner. "You cannot have both the law and the profits," he once said. And yet Irving Browne al- ways had all he needed, and perhaps that is enough. ^ Irving Browne possessed the heart of a true Col- lector tender, sympathetic, kind. He made no pre- tense of loving his enemies he had none. Physically, Irving Browne was frail and slight ; his manner mild and gentle; but in his breast there dwelt a lion's heart : not even Death could fright him. He went down into the shadow without a trem- or, & when too weak to speak aloud, feebly pressed my hand and whispered Mercutio's pun, "It 's a grave subject ! " and smiled with the mist of death in his eyes. Conscious, sane, grateful he was, to the very moment when his spirit took its flight. He was the incarnation of Charles Lamb in instinct, wit and disposition, and down to the day of his death carried with him the buoyant, lavish heart of youth. Earth is poorer for the passing of Irving Browne. E. H. SO HERE ENDETH BALLADS OF A BOOK-WORM, BY IRVING BROWNE. DONE INTO A BOOK BY ME, ELBERT HUBBARD, AT THE ROYCROFT SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, NEW YORK, U. S. A., & COMPLETED THIS TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF APRIL, MDCCCXCIX <3 a \