Myself when young did eagerly peruse James, Meredith and Hardy--but to lose My Reason, trying to make Head or Tail; The more I read, the more did they confuse.
With them the Germs of Madness did I sow, And with "Two Magics" sought to make it grow; Yet this was all the Answer that I found-- "What it is all about, I do not know!"
Into the Library, and _Why_ not knowing, Nor _What I Want_, I find myself a-going; And out of it, with Nothing fit to Read-- Such is the Catalogue's anæmic Showing.
What, without asking, to be hypnotized Into a Sale of Stevenson disguised? Oh, many a page of Bernard Shaw's last Play Must drown the thought of Novels Dramatized!
Up from the Country, into gay Broadway I came, and bought a Scribner's, yesterday, And many a Tale I read and understood, But not the master-tale of Kipling's "They."
There was a Plot to which I found no Key; And Others seem to be as Dull as Me; Some little talk there was of Ghosts, and Such, Then Mrs. Bathurst left me more at Sea!
Kim could not answer--Sherlock Holmes would fail-- The most enlightened Browningite turn pale In futile Wonder and in blank Dismay; Say, is there ANY Meaning to that Tale?
Then of the Critic, he who works behind The Author's back, I tried the Clue to find; But he, too, was in Darkness; and I heard A Literary Agent say--"THEY ALL ARE BLIND!"
Then, from the lips of Editor, I learn, "This Story is the Kind for which I Yearn; Its Advertising brought us such Renown, We jumped Three Hundred Thousand, on that Turn!"
I think the man exaggerated some His increased Circulation,--but, I vum! If I could get Two Thousand for one Tale, I'd write him Something that would simply Hum!
For I remember, shopping by the way, I saw a Novel writ by Bertha Clay; And there was scrawled across its Title-Page, "This is the Stuff that Sells--so People say!"
Listen--a moment listen!--Of the same Wood-pulp on which is printed Hewlett's Name, The "Duchess" Books are made--in fifty years They both will rot asunder--who's to Blame?"
And not a Book that from our Shelves we throw To the Salvation Army, but shall go To vitiate the Taste of some poor Soul Who can get nothing else to read--go Slow!
As then the Poet for his morning Sup Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts That Someone may, before you burn them up!