Excerpt
OMAR CAYENNE
I
Wake! For the Hack can scatter into flightShakespere and Dante in a single Night!The Penny-a-liner is Abroad, and strikesOur Modern Literature with blithering Blight.Before Historical Romances died,Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried,"When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale,Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?"
III
A cock-sure Crew with Names ne'er heard beforeGreedily shouted—"Open then the Door!You know how little Stuff is going to live,But where it came from there is plenty More."Now the New Year reviving old Desires,The Artist poor to Calendars aspires,But of the Stuff the Publisher puts outMost in the Paper Basket soon suspires.
V
Harum indeed is gone, and Lady Rose,And Janice Meredith, where no one knows;But still the Author gushes overtime,And many a Poet babbles on in Prose.Aldrich's lips are lock'd; but people buyHigh-piping Authoresses, boomed sky-high."How Fine!"—the Publisher cries to the Mob,That monumental Cheek to justify.
VII
Come, fill the Purse, to Publishers, this Spring,Your Manuscripts of paltry Passion bring:The New York Times has oft a little WayOf praising—let The Times your praises sing.Whether by Century or Doubleday,Whether Macmillan or the Harpers pay,The Publisher prints new books every Year;The Critics will keep Busy, anyway!
IX
Each Morn a thousand Volumes brings, you say;Yes, but who reads the Books of Yesterday?And this first Autumn List that brings the NewShall take The Pit and Mrs. Wiggs away.Well, let it take them! What, are we not throughWith Richard Calmady and Emmy Lou?Let Ade and Dooley guy us as they will,Or Ella Wheeler Wilcox—heed not you.
XI
With me despise this kind of Fiction rudeThat just divides the Rotten from the Good,Where names of Poe and Dickens are forgot—And Peace to Thackeray with his giant Brood!A Book of Limericks—Nonsense, anyhow—Alice in Wonderland, the Purple CowBeside me singing on Fifth Avenue—Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!
XIII
Some for the stories of The World; and someSigh for the Boston Transcript till it come;Ah, take The Sun, and let The Herald go,Nor heed the Yellow Journalistic scum!Look to the blowing Advertiser—"Lo,Booming's the way," he says, "to make Books go!I advertise until I've drained my Purse,And huge Editions on the Market throw."
XV
And those who made a Mint off Miss MacLane,And those who shuddered at her Jests profane,Alike consigned her to Oblivion,And buried once, would not dig up again.Anthony Hope men set their hearts upon—Like Conan Doyle he prospered; and anon,Remained unopened on the dusty Shelf,Delighting us an Hour—and then was gone.
XVII
Think, in this gaudy monthly MagazineWhose Covers are Soapette and Breakfastine,How Author after Author with his TaleFills his fool Pages, and no more is seen.They say that now Miss Myra Kelly reapsRewards that Howells used to have for Keeps:And Seton, that great Hunter of Wild BeastsHas Coin ahead; Cash comes to him in Heaps...!
