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Read Ebook: The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne by Burgess Gelett
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Ebook has 34 lines and 4105 words, and 1 pages
The facile Scribbler writes; and, having writ, No Rules of Rhetoric bother him a Bit, Or lure him back to cancel half a Line, Nor Grammar's protests change a Word of it.
With Puck's first joke, they did the last Life feed, And there of Judge's Stories sowed the Seed: And the first jokelet that Joe Miller wrote The Sunday Comic-Section readers read.
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal, The first Plantation Ditty 'gan to roll Through Minstrel Troupes and Negro Baritones In its predestined race from Pole to Pole,
The Song had caught a Rag-Time girls could shout And Piano-Organs make a Din about; But syncopated Melodies at last Will pass away, and more shall come, no doubt.
And this I know: though Vaudeville delight, Musical Comedy can bore me quite; One act of Ibsen from the Gallery caught, Better than Daly for a festal Night!
What! out of senseless Show-Girls to evoke A Drama? Surely, I resent the Joke! For me, it is not Pleasure, but a Pain-- An Everlasting Bore for decent Folk.
What, must the Theatre Manager be paid-- Our Gold for what his Carpenter has made-- Must we pay Stars we never did Contract, And cannot hiss at?--Oh, the sorry trade!
LXXX
Oh Thou, who dost with cool sarcastic Grin Scorn the poor Magazine my Story's in, Though Thou impute to ignorance my Work, I know how bad 't will be, ere I begin!
Oh Thou, whose Taste demandeth silly Tales, Damning the Author when he Tries and Fails, Let us toss up to see which one is Worse-- Thy Fault or mine--Which is it, Heads or Tails?
As, for his Luncheon Hour, away had slipp'd The Editor, his Office-Boy I tipp'd, And once again before the Sacred Desk I stood, surrounded by much Manuscript.
Manuscripts of all Sizes, great and small, Upon that Desk, in Numbers to appall! And Some looked very interesting; some I saw no Sign of Merit in, at all.
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain My Author has exhausted all his Brain In writing me, to be rejected here-- I'd hate to have to be sent back again!"
Then said a Second--"Ne'er a Girl or Boy Such Stuff as I am really could enjoy: Yet He who wrote me, when I am return'd, Will me with Curse and bitter Wrath destroy!"
After a literary Silence spake A Manuscript of Henry James's make; "They sneer at me for being so occult: But Kipling's found such Stuff is going to Take!"
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell The luckless Tales he marr'd in making--Pish! He's a blamed Fool, Any Old Thing will sell!"
"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso write or buy, My words with long Oblivion are gone dry: But bind me new, let Christy illustrate, Methinks I'd sell at Christmas time; I'll try!"
So while the Manuscripts were wisely speaking, The Editor came in whom I was seeking: And then they signall'd to me, "Brother! Brother! Yours is rejected! You had best be sneaking!"
XCI
Though Carnegie for Literature provide, He tombs a Body whence the Life has died, And no one seems to turn a single leaf Upon the unfrequented Classic side,
XCII
Unless to see some First Edition rare, Or curious styles of Binding to compare; Art's True Believers know their Aldus well, But of the Author bound, are unaware!
Indeed, Rare Books that they have yearn'd for long Have done their Literary Taste much wrong: Reprints of Burton will not sell to-day for a Song!
XCIV
Indeed, such First Editions oft before I envied, but they proved to be a Bore. Why, are not Tenth Editions still more rare? Mine are! Why are they not worth even more?
XCV
And much as Art has play'd the Infidel And robb'd me of my Royalties--Ah, well, I often wonder what the Women read One half as clever as the Stuff I sell!
XCVI
Yet Ah, that Spring should come to bring our Woes! That Christmas Season's Sales should ever close! The Book whose praises loud the Critic sang, Is not the one that sells the most, God knows!
Would but these Book Reviewers ever yield One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd Of what the fainting Traveller can read Worth reading--but the Critic's eyes are seal'd.
Ah, Love! could you and I perchance succeed In boiling down the Million Books we read Into One Book, and edit that a Bit-- There'd be a WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE, indeed!
Oh, rising Author, read Me once again Before my Memory gradually wane! How oft hereafter you may look for me In this same Library--and look in vain!
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