There is no character in romance who has not or might not have lived, but we are thrown into grave doubts of the saintly Washington and the devilish Napoleon depicted three quarters of a century ago. We cast history aside in scepticism and disgust; we cling to romance with faith and delight
“The things that are seen are temporal; the things that are not seen are eternal.” So let the writer hereof sing a song in praise of
MY FRIENDS THE BOOKS.
riends of my youth and of my age
Within my chamber wait,
Until I fondly turn the page
And prove them wise and great.
At me they do not rudely glare
With eye that luster lacks,
But knowing how I hate a stare,
Politely turn their backs.
They never split my head with din,
Nor snuffle through their noses,
Nor admiration seek to win
By inartistic poses.
If I should chance to fall asleep,
They do not scowl or snap,
But prudently their counsel keep
Till I have had my nap.
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;
Swift makes due 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.
For what I owe Montaigne, no dread
To meet him on the morrow;
And better still, it must be said,
He never wants to borrow.
Paul never asks, though sure to preach,
Why I don’t come to church;
Though Dr. 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!
SO HERE ENDETH “IN THE TRACK OF THE BOOK-WORM.”
PRINTED BY ME, ELBERT HUBBARD, AT THE ROYCROFT SHOP