THE RUBAIYAT OF

OMAR CAYENNE

BY

GELETT BURGESS

NEW YORK
FREDERICK A STOKES COMPANY
Publishers

Copyright, 1904,
BY
Gelett Burgess

Published December, 1904

THE RUBAIYAT

OF

OMAR CAYENNE

I

Wake! For the Hack can scatter into flight

Shakespere and Dante in a single Night!

The Penny-a-liner is Abroad, and strikes

Our Modern Literature with blithering Blight.

II

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 before

Greedily shouted—"Open then the Door!

You know how little Stuff is going to live,

But where it came from there is plenty More."

IV

Now the New Year reviving old Desires,

The Artist poor to Calendars aspires,

But of the Stuff the Publisher puts out

Most 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.

VI

Aldrich's lips are lock'd; but people buy

High-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 Way

Of praising—let The Times your praises sing.

VIII

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 New

Shall take The Pit and Mrs. Wiggs away.

X

Well, let it take them! What, are we not through

With 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 rude

That just divides the Rotten from the Good,

Where names of Poe and Dickens are forgot—

And Peace to Thackeray with his giant Brood!

XII

A Book of Limericks—Nonsense, anyhow—

Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow

Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue—

Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!

XIII

Some for the stories of The World; and some

Sigh for the Boston Transcript till it come;

Ah, take The Sun, and let The Herald go,

Nor heed the Yellow Journalistic scum!

XIV

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.

XVI

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 Magazine

Whose Covers are Soapette and Breakfastine,

How Author after Author with his Tale

Fills his fool Pages, and no more is seen.

XVIII

They say that now Miss Myra Kelly reaps

Rewards that Howells used to have for Keeps:

And Seton, that great Hunter of Wild Beasts

Has Coin ahead; Cash comes to him in Heaps!

XIX

I sometimes think that never Prose is read

So good as that by Advertising bred,

And every Verse Sapolian poets sing

Brings laurel wreaths once twin'd for Spenser's head.

XX

And this audacious Author, young and green

In Smart Set—surely you know whom I mean—

Ah, look upon him lightly! for who knows

But once in Lippincott's he wrote unseen!

XXI

Ah, my Belovèd, write the Book that clears

To-day of dreary Debt and sad Arrears;

To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may see

My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's.

XXII

For some we've read, the month's Six Selling Best

The Bookman scored with elephantine Jest,

Have sold a half a Million in a Year,

Yet no one ever heard of them, out West!

XXIII

And we, that now within the Editor's Room

Make merry while we have our little Boom,

Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set—

Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!

XXIV

Ah, make the most of what we yet may do,

Before our Royalties have vanish'd, too,

Book after Book, and under Book to lie,

Sans Page, sans Cover, Reader—or Review!

XXV

Alike for those who for To-day have Shame,

And those who strive for some To-morrow's Fame,

A Critic from anonymous Darkness cries,

"Fools, your Reward will fool you, just the Same!"

XXVI

Why, e'en Marie Corelli, who discuss'd

Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, is thrust

Like Elbert Hubbard forth; her Words to Scorn

Are scatter'd, and her Books by Critics cussed.

XXVII

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.

XXVIII

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!"

XXIX

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.

XXX

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!

XXXI

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."

XXXII

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!

XXXIII

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?

XXXIV

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!"

XXXV

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!"

XXXVI

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!

XXXVII

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!"

XXXVIII

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?"

XXXIX

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!

XL

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!

XLI

Perplex'd no more with editorial "Nay"

To-morrow's Reputation cast away,

And lose your College Education in

The flippant, foolish Fiction of To-day.

XLII

And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read,

End in the Garbage Barrel—take no Heed;

Think that you are no worse than other Scribes,

Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.

XLIII

So, when Who's-Who records your silly Name,

You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame;

And though ten thousand other Names are there,

You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!

XLIV

Why, if an Author can fling Art aside,

And in a Book of Balderdash take Pride,

Wer't not a Shame—wer't not a Shame for him

A Conscientious Novel to have tried?

XLV

Writing's a Trade where Newspapers pay best;

LeGallienne this Verity confess'd;

So join the Union, like the rest of us—

Who strikes for Art is looked at as a Jest.

XLVI

And fear not, if the Editor refuse

Your work, he has no more from which to choose;

The Literary Microbe shall bring forth

Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use.

XLVII

When Fitch's Comedies have all gone past,

Oh, the long Time Pinero's plays shall last,

Which of Belasco's little Triumphs heed

As Frohman's Self should heed a Bowery Cast!

XLVIII

A Moment's Halt—Pray see this charming, chaste

Ladies' Home Journal—"On the New Shirt Waist"—

"Advice to Girls," and so forth—here is reach'd

The Nothing women yearn for, undebased!

XLIX

Would you a hurried Lunch Hour wish to spend

About THE SECRET—hearken to me, Friend!

The Editors themselves must guess their Way—

And on their Wives' and Sisters' Hints depend!

L

A Hair perhaps divides the Good from Bad;

And Bok himself a Lot of Trouble had

Before he found Stenographers were Wise—

Then, as they laughed or wept, his Soul was glad.

LI

The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines;

For her the Home-and-Mother Tale, and Scenes

Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End—

The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.

LII

The Theme once guess'd, the Tale's as good as told,

Though Dialect and Local Color mould;

This Style will last throughout Eternity,

While Women buy our Books—if Books are sold.

LIII

But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot

Which these immortal Elements has not,

You gaze To-day upon a Slip, which reads:

"The Editor Regrets"—and such-like Rot.

LIV

Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use

That Subtle Touch which Editors refuse;

Better be jocund at two cents a word

Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!