In the Track of the Bookworm

by Irving Browne

h, gentle thief!
I marked the absent-minded air
With which you tucked away my rare
Book in your pocket.
’Twas past belief—
I saw you near the open case,
But yours was such an honest face
I did not lock it.
I knew you lacked
That one to make your set complete,
And when that book you chanced to meet
You recognized it.
And when attacked
By rage of bibliophilic greed,
You prigged that small Quantin Ovide,
Although I prized it.
I will not sue,
Nor bring your family to shame
By giving up your honored name
To heartless prattle.
I’ll visit you,
And under your unwary eyes
Secrete and carry off the prize,
My ravished chattel.

t greatly rejoices me to observe that Mr. Blades does not include tobacco among the enemies of books. In one sense tobacco may be ranked as a book-enemy, for self-denial in this regard may furnish a man with a good library in a few years. I have known a very pretty collection made out of the ordinary smoke-offerings of twenty years. Undoubtedly there are libraries so fine that smoking in them would be discountenanced, but mine is not impervious to the pipe or cigar, and I entertain the pleasing fancy that tobacco-smoke is good for books, disinfects them, and keeps them free from the destroying worm. As I do not myself smoke, I like to see my friends taking their ease in my book-room, with the “smoke of their torment ascending” above my modest volumes. I know how they feel, without incurring the expense, and so to them I indite and dedicate

THE SMOKE TRAVELLER.

hen I puff my cigarette,
Straight I see a Spanish girl,
Mantilla, fan, coquettish curl,
Languid airs and dimpled face,
Calculating fatal grace;
Hear a twittering serenade
Under lofty balcony played;
Queen at bull-fight, naught she cares
What her agile lover dares;
She can love and quick forget.

Let me but my meerschaum light,
I behold a bearded man,
Built upon capacious plan,
Sabre-slashed in war or duel,
Gruff of aspect but not cruel,
Metaphysically muddled,
With strong beer a little fuddled,
Slow in love and deep in books,
More sentimental than he looks,
Swears new friendships every night.
Let me my chibouk enkindle,—
In a tent I’m quick set down
With a Bedouin lean and brown,
Plotting gain of merchandise,
Or perchance of robber prize;
Clumsy camel load upheaving,
Woman deftly carpet weaving;
Meal of dates and bread and salt,
While in azure heavenly vault
Throbbing stars begin to dwindle.
Glowing coal in clay dudheen
Carries me to sweet Killarney,
Full of hypocritic blarney;
Huts with babies, pigs and hens
Mixed together; bogs and fens;
Shillalahs, praties, usquebaugh,
Tenants defying hated law,
Fair blue eyes with lashes black,
Eyes black and blue from cudgel-thwack,—
So fair, so foul, is Erin green.
My nargileh once inflamed,
Quick appears a Turk with turban,
Girt with guards in palace urban,
Or in house by summer sea
Slave-girls dancing languidly;
Bow-string, sack and bastinado,
Black boats darting in the shadow;
Let things happen as they please,
Whether well or ill at ease,
Fate alone is blessed or blamed.
With my ancient calumet
I can raise a wigwam’s smoke,
And the copper tribe invoke,—
Scalps and wampum, bows and knives,
Slender maidens, greasy wives,
Papoose hanging on a tree,
Chieftains squatting silently,
Feathers, beads and hideous paint,
Medicine-man and wooden saint,—
Forest-framed the vision set.
My cigar breeds many forms—
Planter of the rich Havana,
Mopping brow with sheer bandanna;
Russian prince in fur arrayed;
Paris fop on dress parade;
London swell just after dinner;
Wall Street broker—gambling sinner;
Delver in Nevada mine;
Scotch laird bawling “Auld Lang Syne;”
Thus Raleigh’s weed my fancy warms.
Life’s review in smoke goes past.
Fickle fortune, stubborn fate,
Right discovered all too late,
Beings loved and gone before,
Beings loved but friends no more,
Self-reproach and futile sighs,
Vanity in birth that dies,
Longing, heart-break, adoration,—
Nothing sure in expectation
Save ash-receiver at the last.

n the early history of New England, when the town of Deerfield was burned by the Indians, Captain Dunstan, who was the father of a large family, deeming discretion the better part of valor, made up his mind to run for it and to take one child (as a sample, probably), that being all he could safely carry on his horse