i.
around the hardest cark and toil lies the imaginative world of the poets and romancists, and thither we sometimes escape to snatch a mouthful of serener air.—alexander smith, dreamthorp.
let that which i borrow be survaied, and then tell me whether i have made good choice of ornaments to beautify and set forth the invention.... i number not my borrowings, but i weigh them. and if i would have made their number to prevaile, i would have had twice as many.—montaigne, of bookes.
f my rugs and porcelains are a study and delight in color, what shall i say of my books, these manifold colors and hues of the mind that rejoice the inward eye? when what françois de sales terms a “dryness of soul” comes over me, are not the genii of the library alway ready to instruct and charm? not a myth, but a reality is the fabled lamp of aladdin, luminous still on many an immortal author’s page.
206“un bon feu, des livres, et des plumes, que de ressources contre l’ennui!” exclaims de maistre. with a well-chosen library, even sickness loses its sting, and often a good book may prove a more efficient remedial agent than a physician’s draught. somewhere among the volumes there exists a balm for nearly every ill—books to stimulate and books to soothe, books for instruction and books for ennui. every mood of the mind should be reflected from the library shelves, just as bacon holds it that in the royal ordering of gardens there ought to be gardens for every month in the year. books there should be in abundance that may be read again and again; books that may be taken in installments, every page of each one of which is a golden page; books to pore over as a miser conns his gold; books to be dipped into, or looked at “with half-shut eyes.” from each page or each chapter of a good book there should be extracted a beautiful thought, as the wind in passing through a wood draws from each tree a musical note. that we possessed the memory of scheherazade and could remember the books we have read!
no doubt, books are the great instructors, though gautier’s idea is an excellent one, that each college possess a well-equipped ship to make the voyage around 207the world to read the universal book, the best written book of all. unfortunately, every one may not sail round the world, but very many of us must be content, like de maistre, with a voyage around our room. and wise, far-seeing pascal long ago told us that nearly all our troubles arose from our not knowing how to remain in our own room. perhaps, on the whole, this is among the pleasantest ways of journeying. you have but to step on board one of the numerous crafts in waiting, and with no further trouble than that of turning over the pages, set sail for any port of the universe. all this with a merely nominal price for passage, and relieved of every discomfort of travel.
may i not, with symonds, muse upon the staircase of the propylæa and wander through the theatre of dionysus? do i not visit the most romantic of all castles with thomson? and what wood so cool and shadowy to stroll in as the forest of arden? with jennings i ramble among the derbyshire hills and breast the breeze of the sussex downs; with hamerton i float down the unknown river; and with higginson rock in a wherry and lounge about the oldport wharves. arm in arm with sweet mariette, murger again leads me through the latin quarter and the old lilac-scented gardens of the luxembourg. reposing 208in my easy chair, i may almost make the tour of the world in the sprightliest, most instructive company it is possible to imagine—dumas père, in his inimitable impressions de voyage, is my guide, philosopher, and friend. the delightful dinners he invites me to, the delicious wines he sets before me, the sparkling anecdotes that are ever bubbling from his entrancing pen! i mount his easy pegasus with de amicis, and exchange the blinding snow for soft andalusian sunshine. what an entertaining raconteur i have in francis francis to explain the traditions of manor and castle, and discourse upon british scenery; and what lovely trout i catch when, rod in hand, i follow him by lake and river! hawthorne raises his wand, and i am sauntering through the borghese gardens. with jefferies i accompany lovely amaryllis at the fair; and with robinson i wander through an indian garden and listen to the bulbul’s song. there is no dust, the sun does not glare, i require no waterproof or courier in these easy voyages. i turn the enchanted pages, and the sun shines for me at just the right angle. my rambles never fatigue, however long the lane or steep the hillside. i need not worry over the arrival or departure of trains, dispute with landlords, or bother with luggage. at a signal, my ship is in waiting, ready to 209stop at the port i designate; in an hour a smooth roadbed carries me across a kingdom, without a delay, without a jar. there can be nothing more delightful than these imaginary journeys.
“the ever-widening realm of books!” over two centuries ago, echoing the voice of the ancients, henry vaughan decried against their constantly increasing multitude:
... as great a store
have we of books as bees of herbs, or more;
and the great task to try, then know the good,
to discern weeds and judge of wholesome food,
is a rare scant performance.
what a sifting there must be among them some day, as the volumes continue to accumulate—the mediocre cast aside to make room for the meritorious! will there not eventually be some invention to preserve old books, an enamel for musty tomes, as wood is vulcanized or bodies are embalmed? or must many works now existing in numerous volumes be reduced to extracts to find shelf-room for them all?
but to those who may be anxious regarding the accumulation of books, de merrier offers this consolation: “the indefatigable hand of the grocers, the druggists, the butter merchants, etc., destroy as many books and brochures daily as are printed; the paper-gatherers come next; and all 210these hands, happily destructive, preserve the equilibrium. without them the mass of printed paper would increase to an inconvenient degree, and in the end chase all the proprietors and tenants out of their houses. the same proportion is to be observed between the making of books and their decomposition as between life and death—a balm i address to those that the multitude of books worries or grieves.”
what works will survive, and what books shall we read? “if the writers of the brazen age are most suggestive to thee, confine thyself to them, and leave those of the augustan age to dust and the bookworms,” says the transcendentalist of walden. “something like the woodland sounds,” the same author observes, “will be heard to echo through the leaves of a good book. sometimes i hear the fresh emphatic note of the oven-bird and am tempted to turn many pages; sometimes the hurried chuckling sound of the squirrel when he dives into the wall.” “in science read by preference the newest works; in literature the oldest. the classic literature is always modern. new books revive and redecorate old ideas; old books suggest and invigorate new ideas,” says bulwer. for knowledge of the world and literature, for polished grace of diction, for elevated and refined thought, and for the rhythm of 211beautiful prose, bulwer might have called attention to his own essays, individual in the language. the publisher is yet to be thanked who will present life, literature, and manners in a worthy and convenient form.
we read and learn and forget from the classics and the modern novelist as well. i sometimes wonder how posterity will regard the great writers of the present generation—whether holmes will hold a more exalted place a century hence, or the scarlet letter fade. will a mightier shakespeare rise, and a sweeter tennyson sing? and instead of sending posterity to addison and goldsmith for beautiful style, will the twenty-first century mentor refer the reader to a spectator of an age that is yet to dawn?
the multitude of books one should read! it takes one’s breath away to think of the titles. they are as innumerable as the buttercups of the meadow. think of them! the miles and leagues of folios, quartos, octavos, duodecimos, 16, 18, 24, and 32 mos. on every conceivable subject that are sent out every year! the rows and rows of shelves, fathoms deep, of old books in numberless editions, cut and uncut, in cloth, parchment, sheep, pigskin, and calf, reposing in the book-stalls and libraries! books grave and gay, comic and serious, 212storehouses of knowledge that are constantly shifting hands; others precious beyond price that are buried out of sight, their beautiful thoughts unread! the tons and tons of printed pages, in poetry and prose, awake and asleep in the public and private libraries of the great cities! they are as clover-tops in a field.
“the best hundred books!” who shall single them out from the mighty multitude? it is like attempting to name the most beautiful flower, the most lovely woman—no one may know them all, and every one has his preferences. in life, art, and the study of literature it is at best a difficult question to point out the right way, as there are numerous considerations which require to be left largely to the discrimination of the person most concerned.
to decide on the merits of a work one may not take another’s opinion; one must needs read, mark, and digest it for himself. the reader who blindly submits to the dictum of another rarely does so to advantage. far better to please one’s self and scout the arbiters. every person should form his own estimate of the merits or demerits of a work. when robert buchanan terms the author of such exquisite verse as les tâches jaunes, and such finished prose as la morte amoureuse “a hair-dresser’s dummy of a stylist,” how is one to be governed in the 213choice of his reading, save from the standpoint of his own taste! because sir oracle admires gil blas and the pantagruel, is no reason why you should do so, and because a taine may proclaim pope a purloiner and a mere juggler of phrase it does not necessarily follow that the essay on man is not one of the brightest jewels of the language. wisest is he who maps out his own course of study and reading. the predication of others can not make that pleasing to him which is in utter variance to his tastes and sympathies. “a literary judgment is generally supposed to be formed by canons of criticism,” remarks van dyke, “but the canons are generally individual canons, and the criticism is but the synonym of a preference.”
often the bell-wether leads the flock astray. carlyle would have had a midsummer night’s dream written in prose, and declared that tennyson wrote in verse because the schoolmaster had taught him it was great to do so, and had thus been turned from the true path for a man. emerson was always interested in hawthorne’s fine personality, but could not appreciate his writings, while, equally strange, the author of the exquisite prose idyls extols the labored recreations of north. holmes “never felt to appreciate irving as the majority look upon him,” and 214thinks the sketch-book “an overrated affair.” fitzgerald did not like in memoriam, the princess, or the idyls, and wished there were nothing after the 1842 volume. in memoriam has the air, he says, of being evolved by a poetical machine of the very highest order. voltaire thought the æneid the most beautiful monument which remains to us of all antiquity. peignot, in his erudite traité du choix des livres, terms the georgics the most perfect poem of antiquity, thereby echoing the opinion of montaigne, who pronounced it “the most accomplished peece of worke of poesie.”
edmund gosse finds tristram shandy dull; bulwer asserts that only writers the most practiced could safely venture an occasional restrained imitation of its frolicsome zoneless graces. possibly horace walpole comes nearer the mark in referring to it as a very insipid and tedious performance, though he might have defined it as a remarkable work on obstetrics.
skipping don quixote and the vicar of wakefield, and not having read die wahlverwandtschaften, jane eyre, my novel, rob roy, the three musketeers, the scarlet letter, charles o’malley, and how many others! la harpe terms tom jones “the foremost novel of the world” (le premier roman du monde). so, i believe, does lowell. wilkie collins, shortly before 215his death, gave the honor to the antiquary. the same renowned critic (la harpe), considered the divine comedy “a stupidly barbarous amplification” (une amplification stupidement barbare); mézières, another french critic, thinks it deserves to be termed “the epopee of christian peoples” (elle mérite d’être appelée l’épopée des peuples chrétiens).
“we read the paradise lost as a task,” growls dr. johnson. “nay, rather as a celestial recreation,” whispers lamb. “i would forgive a man for not reading milton,” lamb naïvely adds, “but i would not call that man my friend who should be offended with the divine chit-chat of cowper.” again, though i myself may see much to praise but less to please in paradise lost, infinitely preferring lycidas, the allegro, and the penseroso, i may, nevertheless, admire lamb; and though i may recognize the worth of mézières, i may dislike the divine comedy. all of us may not care for the pilgrim’s progress or hudibras; and some may prefer cellini’s or rousseau’s autobiography to boswell’s biography,—it is not always so easy to read and admire the books one should read and admire from another’s standpoint.
what two persons look at things precisely the same? human thought and human opinion are as varied as the expression 216of the human face. “there never was in the world two opinions alike, no more than two hairs or two grains. the most universal quality is diversity,” observes montaigne. “an opinion,” says the sparkling author of bachelor bluff, “is simply an angle of reflection, or the facet which one’s individuality presents to a subject, measuring not the whole or many parts of it, but the dimensions of the reflecting surface. it is something, perhaps, if the reflection within its limits is a true one.” there are particular writers that, never widely popular, will always have their particular admirers, and we all of us have our special subjects or predilections that we wish to know most about, or are most interested in.
“l’histoire c’est mo gibier en matière des liures, ou la poësie que i’ayme d’vne particulière inclinatio” (history is my game in the chase for books, or poetry, which i especially dote upon), again observes montaigne. montaigne is so quaint he should be mused over in an old edition; it is like gathering mushrooms from an old pasture on a hazy autumn day. plainly, it is out of the question to read everything even on a single subject, and many good books are practically unattainable. the book-worm, perched upon his ladder with a duodecimo in one hand, a quarto under his arm, and a folio between his knees, has 217at least four sealed volumes. each person will read preferably such books as are in keeping with his tastes and line of thought, though he will greatly stimulate and enlarge his thought by also reading books diametrically opposed to his taste. the somewhat prosy mind will be benefited by familiarity with the poets; the super-poetic is improved by the balance and adjustment to be found in the study of works of reason and criticism.
but even then we may not read “the best hundred books” of some one else’s choosing. “we are happy from possessing what we like, not from possessing what others like,” la rochefoucauld remarks; and his maxim is pertinent to the library. tastes will ever differ in books and in bindings, in epics and in lyrics. many nice people one knows, but one has not the time, neither does one care to make bosom friends of them all. or, to cite goldsmith, “though fond of many acquaintances, i desire an intimacy only with a few.” seldom do we admire in age that which captivates us in youth, and that which moves us in one mood may not appeal to us in another.
the most omnivorous book-worm can read comparatively little. those who read slowly and digest what they read—if there is time in life to read slowly—may read still less. there is much in bulwer’s sentence: “reading without purpose is sauntering, 218not exercise. more is got from one book on which the thought settles for a definite end than from libraries skimmed over by a wandering eye. a cottage garden gives honey to the bee, a king’s garden none to the butterfly.”
a happy remark with reference to the best-hundred-books controversy is that credited to herman merivale-“those books which everybody says everybody else must read, but never reads himself.” “we praise that which is praised much more than that which is praisable,” is a pithy saying of la bruyère. charles lamb included in his catalogue of “books which are no books generally all those volumes which ‘no gentleman’s library should be without.’” the author of that delicious anonymity, a club of one (a. p. russell), the failure to read which should send the delinquent to coventry, is more of a philosopher than many of the professed literary law-givers. it is true he presents a list of his favorite books, but the list numbers considerably over two hundred, and these are delicately suggested, and not dictated in a perfunctory way; i have no doubt he has since added two hundred more. he must have read and remembered ten times a hundred to write the volume in question, and ransacked whole libraries to compose the companion volumes, library notes and 219in a club corner, veritable mines of sparkling sayings, sententious precepts, and literary anecdote.
dana and johnson have selected fifty perfect poems with excellent judgment, no doubt, though who was responsible for the insertion of numbers forty-three and fifty is not stated in the preface. the elegy, the ode on a grecian urn, the lotus eaters, and a half-dozen other selections every one must have included in a similar collection. but beyond this dozen or so of immortal poems that by no possibility might be omitted, it is safe to say that almost any other anthologist would have gathered chrysanthema totally different—so varied are individual tastes both in poetry and prose. the fifty best poems and the hundred best books to dobson may not be the hundred best books and the fifty best poems to gosse or lang. the marvel is how johnson and dana could agree.
the scholar and the student who live for their books, the author, the man of elegant leisure, or the bibliophile may be benefited by a very large library, and share their benefits with the world; though there is often no little truth in what gérard de nerval said of the latter in a perverted sense of the term: “a serious bibliophile does not share his books; he does not even read them himself for fear of fatiguing them.”
220“the amateur is born,” derome goes on to say in le luxe des livres; “he holds the muses captive. if books could speak they would pronounce him a hard jailer. the bibliophiles ruin themselves in their calling, neglecting their duties to their families. such are not men of letters, they are bibliotaphes. they bury their books, they do not possess them.... the luxury of bindings is extended to profusion. it is the fête of red morocco and tawny calf.” la rousse thus defines the term bibliotaphe: “from the greek biblion, book; taphô, i inter, i hide. 1. he who lends his books to no one, who buries them, inters them in his library. 2. a reserved portion of a library where precious works or works that one does not wish to communicate are locked up.” nodier made still another discrimination, that of the bibliophobe whom he thus describes: “the bibliophobe would see nothing out of the way in burning libraries. he sells the copies that are dedicated to him, and does not return the service.”
between the bibliophile and the bibliomane nodier draws this distinction: “the bibliophile chooses his books, the bibliomane entombs them; the bibliophile appreciates, the other weighs; the bibliophile has a magnifying glass, the other a fathom measure.” but the close consanguinity which exists between the book-lover and 221the book-collector; the narrow strip dividing terra firma from the dangerous marsh ever lighted by ignes-fatui that lure the pursuer on and on, is well defined by burton in the introduction to the book hunter, where, referring to the class for whom the volume was written, he finds it difficult to say whether he should give them a good name or a bad, whether he should characterize them by a predicate eulogistic or a predicate dyslogistic.
we all know of the man who paid a fabulous sum for a copy of a very rare work, only to consign it to the flames on receiving it, in order that his own copy might have no duplicate. this is an exceptional form of the bibliolythist, or book-burner. among this class are included authors ashamed of their first writings, authors who have changed their political or religious views, or who have eulogized a friend who has become a bitter enemy. there exists another form of the bibliolythist which fitzgerald has omitted from his romance of book-collecting—the “burking” of a work by one who has been assailed. i know of a standing offer from a gentleman of three dollars apiece for every copy that booksellers send him of a certain volume which retails for a fifth of the price. the work contains a reflection on one of his ancestors, and as soon as the volumes are received they are 222burned. but the book-burner is by no means a modern institution, nero and caliph omar still remaining the greatest of bibliolythists.
i would suggest as another desirable term to add to the lexicon of the bibliopholist the term bibliodæmon, or book-fiend—a designation expressive of something more than the ordinary significance of “book-borrower,” innocent enough, no doubt, in some of his milder forms, but exasperating to the last degree in his most depraved phases. the borrowing of a reference book or a volume, a chapter or a page of which may touch upon a subject that one desires to consult merely for the time being, is a matter apart. so also is the exchange of books between friends, or the borrowing of a work not readily procurable, the recipient on his part standing ready to return the courtesy, and forthwith restoring the volume unsullied.
promptness in returning and scrupulous care of a volume are the tests which distinguish the comparatively harmless form of the borrower from the aggravated and exasperating one. the miserly practice of borrowing books, books from which the well-to-do borrower seeks to derive pleasure or benefit without returning a just equivalent, simply to shirk the trifling cost of the volume he covets, deserves the severest 223stricture. such are library dead-heads and defaulters to publishers and authors. it is this form of the bibliodæmon who retains desumed copies for an indefinite period, trusting the loan may be forgotten; and who, deaf to all ordinary appeals and reminders, only relinquishes the volume—frequently maltreated—when virtually wrested from him at his home. the celebrated french bibliophile pixérécourt had inserted on the frontal of his library-case these pertinent lines:
tel est le triste sort de tout livre prêté:
souvent il est perdu, toujours il est gâté.
each book that’s loaned the same sad fate o’ertakes—
’tis either lost or sent back with the shakes.
there really exists no reason why books should be loaned—there are always the public libraries in which the borrower may ply his trade.
a former shepherd of the printed flocks in the library of a neighboring town relates an incident illustrating a singular form of book borrowing, the offender being a divine. passionately fond of books, he would take them home, forgetting to return them, and when interrogated would always find a happy excuse, the store of borrowed books meanwhile accumulating. “a scholar and a man of exemplary character and fine sensibilities, i did not wish to wound his 224feelings by an imperative demand, being convinced from what i knew of him, that it was a slight lesion rather than a fracture of the mind which caused the delinquency. i therefore awaited his departure, and one morning, driving to his home with a buggy and a basket, i took possession of the borrowed volumes. he never referred to it. i do not think he even missed them. his passion was the joy of first readings, and he was proverbially forgetful.”
my scintillant and learned friend the doctor, who for years graced the greek chair at the university, and whose name is a household word among scholars, as his presence is a ray of sunlight wherever he appears, contributes this supplement to the lexicon of the book-lover. the general reader will skip this passage; the bibliophile will thank him:
bibliodæmon: a book-fiend or demon.
bibliophage }
bibliocataphage } a book-eater or devourer.
biblioleter }
bibliopollyon } a book-destroyer, ravager, or waster.
bibliophthor }
biblioloigos: a book-pest or plague.
bibliolestes }
biblioklept } a book-plunderer or robber.
bibliocharybdis: a charybdis of books.
biblioriptos: one who throws books around.
