Books with author John Kendrick Bangs

IN order that there may be no misunderstanding as to the why and the wherefore of this collection of tales it appears to me to be desirable that I should at the outset state my reasons for acting as the medium between the spirit of the late Baron Munchausen and the reading public. In common with a large number of other great men in history Baron Munchausen has suffered because he is not understood. I have observed with wondering surprise the steady and constant growth of the idea that Baron Munchausen was not a man of truth; that his statements of fact were untrustworthy, and that as a realist he had no standing whatsoever. Just how this misconception of the man’s character has arisen it would be difficult to say. Surely in his published writings he shows that same lofty resolve to be true to life as he has seen it that characterises the work of some of the high Apostles of Realism, who are writing of the things that will teach future generations how we of to-day ordered our goings-on. The note of veracity in Baron Munchausen’s early literary venturings rings as clear and as true certainly as the similar note in the charming studies of Manx Realism that have come to us of late years from the pen of Mr. Corridor Walkingstick, of Gloomster Abbey and London. We all remember the glow of satisfaction with which we read Mr. Walkingstick’s great story of the love of the clergyman, John Stress, for the charming little heroine, Glory Partridge. Here was something at last that rang true. The picture was painted in the boldest of colours, and, regardless of consequences to himself, Mr. Walkingstick dared to be real when he might have given rein to his imagination. Mr. Walkingstick was, thereupon, lifted up by popular favour to the level of an apostle—nay, he even admitted the soft impeachment—and now as a moral teacher he is without a rival in the world of literature. Yet the same age that accepts this man as a moral teacher, rejects Baron Munchausen, who, in different manner perhaps, presented to the world as true and life-like a picture of the conditions of his day as that given to us by Mr. Walkingstick in his deservedly popular romance, “Episcopalians I have Met.” Of course, I do not claim that Baron Munchausen’s stories in bulk or in specified instances, have the literary vigour that is so marked a quality of the latter-day writer, but the point I do wish to urge is that to accept the one as a veracious chronicler of his time and to reject the other as one who indulges his pen in all sorts of grotesque vagaries, without proper regard for the facts, is a great injustice to the man of other times. The question arises, why is this? How has this wrong upon the worthy realist of the eighteenth century been perpetrated? Is it an intentional or an unwitting wrong? I prefer to believe that it is based upon ignorance of the Baron’s true quality, due to the fact that his works are rarely to be found within the reach of the public: in some cases, because of the failure of librarians to comprehend his real motives, his narratives are excluded from Public and Sunday-School libraries; and because of their extreme age, they are not easily again brought into vogue. I have, therefore, accepted the office of intermediary between the Baron and the readers of the present day, in order that his later work, which, while it shows to a marked degree the decadence of his literary powers, may yet serve to demonstrate to the readers of my own time how favourably he compares with some of the literary idols of to-day, in the simple matter of fidelity to fact. If these stories which follow shall serve to rehabilitate Baron Munchausen as a lover and practitioner of the arts of Truth, I shall not have made the sacrifice of my time in vain. If they fail of this purpose I shall still have the satisfaction of knowing that I have tried to render a service to an honest and defenceless man.

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John Kendrick Bangs (May 27, 1862 – January 21, 1922) was an American author, humorist, editor and satirist.He was born in Yonkers, New York. His father Francis Nehemiah Bangs was a lawyer in New York City, as was his brother, Francis S. Bangs.He went to Columbia College from 1880 to 1883 where he became editor of Columbia's literary magazine, Acta Columbia, and contributed short anonymous pieces to humor magazines. After graduation in 1883 with a Bachelor of Philosophy degree in Political Science, Bangs entered Columbia Law School but left in 1884 to become Associate Editor of Life under Edward S. Martin. Bangs contributed many articles and poems to the magazine between 1884 and 1888. During this period, Bangs published his first books.

An excerpt:THERE are moments of supreme embarrassment in the lives of persons given to veracity, indeed it has been my own unusual experience in life that the truth well stuck to is twice as hard a proposition as a lie so obvious that no one is deceived by it at the outset. I cannot quite agree with my friend, Caddy Barlow, who says that in a tight place it is better to lie at once and be done with it than to tell the truth which will need forty more truths to explain it, but I must confess that in my forty years of absolute and conscientious devotion to truth I have found myself in holes far deeper than any my most mendacious of friends ever got into. I do not propose, however, to desert at this late hour the Goddess I have always worshipped because she leads me over a rough and rocky road, and whatever may be the hardships involved in my wooing I intend to the very end to remain the ever faithful slave of Mademoiselle Veracite. All of which I state here in prefatory mood, and in order, in so far as it is possible for me to do so, to disarm the incredulous and sniffy reader who may be inclined to doubt the truth of my story of how the manuscript of the following pages came into my possession. I am quite aware that to some the tale will appear absolutely and intolerably impossible. I know that if any other than I told it to me I should not believe it. Yet despite these drawbacks the story is in all particulars, essential and otherwise, absolutely truthful.

Charon, the Ferryman of renown, was cruising slowly along the Styx onepleasant Friday morning not long ago, and as he paddled idly on hechuckled mildly to himself as he thought of the monopoly in ferriagewhich in the course of years he had managed to build up."It's a great thing," he said, with a smirk of satisfaction--"it's agreat thing to be the go-between between two states of being; to have theexclusive franchise to export and import shades from one state to theother, and withal to have had as clean a record as mine has been.Valuable as is my franchise, I never corrupted a public official in mylife, and--"Here Charon stopped his soliloquy and his boat simultaneously. As herounded one of the many turns in the river a singular object met hisgaze, and one, too, that filled him with misgiving. It was anothercraft, and that was a thing not to be tolerated. Had he, Charon, ownedthe exclusive right of way on the Styx all these years to have itdisputed here in the closing decade of the Nineteenth Century? Had nothe dealt satisfactorily with all, whether it was in the line of ferriageor in the providing of boats for pleasure-trips up the river? Had he notreceived expressions of satisfaction, indeed, from the most exclusivefamilies of Hades with the very select series of picnics he had given atCharon's Glen Island? No wonder, then, that the queer-looking boat thatmet his gaze, moored in a shady nook on the dark side of the river,filled him with dismay."Blow me for a landlubber if I like that!" he said, in a hardly audiblewhisper. "And shiver my timbers if I don't find out what she's therefor. If anybody thinks he can run an opposition line to mine on thisriver he's mightily mistaken. If it comes to competition, I can carryshades for nothing and still quaff the B. & G. yellow-label benzine threetimes a day without experiencing a financial panic. I'll show 'em athing or two if they attempt to rival me. And what a boat! It looks forall the world like a Florentine barn on a canal-boat."Charon paddled up to the side of the craft, and, standing up in themiddle of his boat, cried out,"Ship ahoy!"There was no answer, and the Ferryman hailed her again. Receiving noresponse to his second call, he resolved to investigate for himself; so,fastening his own boat to the stern-post of the stranger, he clambered onboard. If he was astonished as he sat in his ferry-boat, he wasparalyzed when he cast his eye over the unwelcome vessel he had boarded.He stood for at least two minutes rooted to the spot. His eye swept overa long, broad deck, the polish of which resembled that of a ball-roomfloor. Amidships, running from three-quarters aft to three-quartersforward, stood a structure that in its lines resembled, as Charon hadintimated, a barn, designed by an architect enamoured of Florentinesimplicity; but in its construction the richest of woods had been used,and in its interior arrangement and adornment nothing more palatial couldbe conceived."What's the blooming thing for?" said Charon, more dismayed than ever."If they start another line with a craft like this, I'm very much afraidI'm done for after all. I wouldn't take a boat like mine myself if therewas a floating palace like this going the same way. I'll have to see theCommissioners about this, and find out what it all means. I supposeit'll cost me a pretty penny, too, confound them!"A prey to these unhappy reflections, Charon investigated further, and themore he saw the less he liked it. He was about to encounter opposition,and an opposition which was apparently backed by persons of greatwealth--perhaps the Commissioners themselves. It was a consoling thoughtthat he had saved enough money in the course of his career to enable himto live in comfort all his days, but this was not really what Charon wasafter.

The trouble with Harrowby Hall was that it was haunted, and, what was worse, the ghost did not content itself with merely appearing at the bedside of the afflicted person who saw it, but persisted in remaining there for one mortal hour before it would disappear. It never appeared except on Christmas Eve, and then as the clock was striking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in that originality which in these days is a sine qua non of success in spectral life. The owners of Harrowby Hall had done their utmost to rid themselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the best bedroom floor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried stopping the clock, so that the ghost would not know when it was midnight; but she made her appearance just the same, with that fearful miasmatic personality of hers, and there she would stand until everything about her was thoroughly saturated.

Excerpt from The IdiotBecause they are the sort Of views to which suffocation is the most appropriate end, snapped the School Master. Any man who asserts, as you have asserted, that life on a canal-boat has its advantages, ought to go further, and prove his sincerity by liv ing on one.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.comThis book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

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