hi sunt magistri qui nos instruunt, sine virgis et ferulis, sine cholorâ, sine pecuniâ. si accedis, non dormiunt; si inquiris, non se abscondunt; non obmurmurant, si oberres; cachinos nesciunt, si ignores.—richard de bury.
pour peu qu’il soit tenu loin du chaud et du frais,
qu’on y porte une main blanche et respectueuse,
que le lecteur soit calme et la lectrice heureuse ...
un livre est un ami qui ne change jamais.
jules janin.
have two chairs for my reading—a stiff one for books i have to read; a luxurious one for books i like to read. my luxurious chair is of dark-green leather, a seat to sink into, modeled after the easy arm-chair of the eversley rectory, known from its seductive properties as “sleepy hollow.” when i find a volume more than usually delightsome, i call in an extra chair for a foot-rest, so the body may possess the same ease as the mind. and yet the delight a volume affords depends largely upon the mood in which the leaves are 273turned, and the printer who has turned the leaves.
a fondness for reading the old book catalogues is apt to prove not only an expensive luxury, but consumes a great deal of time. for no catalogue may be hastily skimmed through. the least attractive list, composed largely, it may be, of works on theology, mineralogy, theosophy, or jurisprudence, may contain the precise book you are searching for. the most attractive lists must naturally be perused carefully. in fact, reading catalogues is like reading books—even with attentive reading one is liable to skip a title, or, at least, overlook its real significance, just as one may not always grasp the true meanings of an author upon first perusal. then, one subject or one title leads to another, and the catalogue must be reread. even when you have made out your list, it occurs to you that half or three quarters of the lot you have selected will undoubtedly be “sold”; and having left out a number you really desire, you go over the catalogue still more carefully a third time for “substitutes.” not only this, but the catalogue differs from a book in that it can not wait or be put off. it must be studied immediately it is received; or some one else gets the advantage, as some one else living nearer by generally does.
if the business you have on hand prevents 274your devoting the necessary time to the catalogue or catalogues, you are haunted with the feeling that it contains a prize, and that you may not catch the first mail. indeed, should any of the lists contain, at anything like a reasonable figure, that scarce old herbal, an ancient angling tome, or a certain edition of les caractères, which you have long been searching for, you ought to telegraph for it without a moment’s delay. you know smith will read his list the minute he receives it. he is already far richer in la bruyères than you are, and never ceases collecting them. and although he already has the edition you desire, it is ten to one if he sees it offered at a bargain in fine antique binding he will duplicate it. there is no such contingency as his skipping it. he never skips—he secures and exults. his library shelves groan with la bruyères. were he rich he might be forgiven; but all his prizes have been hooked by careful angling, and are a triumph to his skill and monumental industry.
charles asselineau, in the unique little volume l’enfer du bibliophile, draws a sharp line between the true book-hunter, who makes use of his own knowledge, patience, and industry, and the hunter by proxy, who bags his spoils through cunning other than his own-“the rich and lazy amateur who only hunts by procuration 275and trusts to the care of an accomplished professional to whom he gives carte blanche, and who despises him—ay, who despises him, as the game-keeper and poacher always despise the indolent and unskillful master who triumphs through their skill.” the opening sentence of the volume is worthy of sterne: “oui ... l’enfer! is it not there that one must arrive sooner or later, in this life or in the other; oh all of you who have placed your joys in voluptuousness unknown to the vulgar?”
on the other hand, you have the alternative of neglecting your business and attending to the catalogues. in any case, the book catalogue is an attraction and a bane. if you are niggardly and only order a volume or two, you are generally disappointed; if you are in a liberal mood, and order a number, thinking you will only obtain a few, you are likely to get a lot of books that will deprive you of getting others you really require. then the works one continually sees that one can not afford, the columns of temptations all crying, “farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing”—the paris catalogues in particular, so rich in their embarras de richesses. there is a stanza of clough’s that may be cited as pertinent to book-hunting:
they may talk as they please about what they call pelf,
and how one ought never to think of one’s self,
276how pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking,
my pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking
how pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
how pleasant it is to have money!
possibly the old book catalogues are sent as a lesson in self-control, and to teach one to endure disappointment as patiently as human nature will allow.
not the least interesting volume of my library is my herbarium. still every pressed flower retains much of its original color, reviving the scene of many a pleasant ramble. commencing with the first cluster of spring beauty and white shad-blow spray, and ending with the last purple aster and blue gentian of autumn, it is thus a sentient floral calendar—a fragrant anthology of the seasons. it is one of my pleasantest volumes for winter reading, every flower of which is a chapter written by nature herself. this involucre of white dogwood, for instance, becomes a vernal landscape riotous with bloom, while these feathery mespilus blossoms bring up the april hillsides sprinkled with hepaticas and violets. this bunch of trilliums recalls a distant beechwood in early may carpeted with the snowy triangular flowers and misty with the beech’s unfurling leaves.
and this pink lady’s-slipper!
once more i trace the sinuous curves of the wiscoy and am lulled by the drowsy 277murmur of the stream. how cool the water swirls beneath the overarching hemlocks, and how it is churned into foam in the deep, dark pool at the tail of the rapid, where i know the big trout i hooked and lost the previous year is waiting for another taste of my “cochybondu”! it is just at the base of the steep shaded hillside where the sun never penetrates. if my trout chooses to display his rubies and chrysoberyls he must thread his way up the current or float down to the meadow far below. when i have hooked and basketed him, another big fellow will occupy his place in the same deep, dark pool.
it is the choice spot of the stream within a reach of half a mile, and invariably holds the strongest fish and most accomplished taker of ephemeræ. his pannier must needs be large, so many flies and midges and worms and bugs and beetles drift past his lair, and are sucked in by the eddy into his awaiting maw. the sudden dive of a water-rat proclaims a rival angler, who may also have his eye on my trout, and bring him to bag, perchance, if i miss him to-day.
an aroma of mint, mingled with the fragrance of wild flowers and ferns, follows me along the banks; and there, in the swamp where the partridge drums, my pink lady’s-slipper gleams. the twisting roots of the hemlock plunge deep into the 278pool; and with a slap of his red tail the big trout rises just beyond them in the foam-flecks of the eddy, precisely where he rose the previous year. how the water growls round the bank it has mined, and chafes and scolds at the obtruding prongs! and how picturesquely, too, the old hemlock leans over the stream, shading the trout for the last time! another athlete and trained fly-catcher must lead the somersault acts hereafter; for a day at least the small fry may rest secure. but, alas! with a sudden rush, my trout has wound the leader fast around the hemlock’s roots, as he has wound so many leaders before; and, with a farewell flash of his encarmined sides, i seem to hear his parting message: “multæ lapsæ inter truttam et bascaudem sunt!” the pressed flower remains to remind me of the struggle and my june holiday.
looking now at the pink lady’s-slipper from the wiscoy woods, i am glad, after all, i did not take my trout, however great a triumph his capture might have afforded me at the time. for, if the water-rat has not caught him meanwhile—and the maxim the trout flung at me virtually precludes this possibility—he is undoubtedly still swimming in his favorite pool. granting i had caught him and that a fish of equal size had taken his place, it would yet be another trout, not my trout which i hooked and lost. 279the stream flows more musically and more limpid to me knowing he is still stemming the current, and that he regained his freedom.
this spike of cardinal flowers carries me a hundred miles away; and once more am i drifting down the oswego river on a hazy autumnal afternoon, indifferent whether the great green bass rise or not, so golden is the september day. it is enough to be idling beneath the roar of the rapid, to mark the different hues of the water, the play of the slanting sunbeams, the undulations of the wooded shores. surely the landscape needs no more. ah, yes! just that bit of color skirting a still bayou, the flame of cardinal flowers and their reflected images below. what an illustrated volume! the imperial folio of the seasons! and what a succession of illuminated pages it discloses from the rubric and the preface until the last leaf is turned! every subject indexed and paged by the grand author, nature; its types as fresh as if they had only run through one, instead of thousands of editions.
in dreams do i behold in all the great libraries the procession of the books that nightly emerge from the seclusion of their shelves—countless flowers from the muse’s hill and garlands from the meadows of the classics. at a signal from the most antiquated tome, i see a sudden movement 280among their ranks, and hear a rustling of innumerable leaves, as the souls of the immortals are quickened into life, and the spirits of old authors assemble for converse. platoons of majestic folios, some in calf, some in sheep, and some in stamped pigskin appear, columns of venerable and vellumed quartos, tiers of tall octavos, troops of lovely elzevirs, aldines, and sedate black-letter editions file by with measured tread. volumes black with age move with step as elastic as those clothed in more modern garb. indeed, old and young seem to be indiscriminately mingled, without regard to costume or richness of attire. only, i observe that the procession is composed solely of the dead.
i notice, moreover, that it is only the books of real merit or great renown that are called to take part in the pageant; and that the participants vary with each succeeding night, appearing entirely without regard to chronological order, though all the beautiful world of belles-lettres, philosophy, and science that has charmed and instructed mankind throughout the ages, forms the processional. thus a copy of plato and a first folio of shakespeare pass by, side by side, followed by the canterbury tales and the faerie queen, hand in hand. or is it goethe’s faust and plutarch’s lives? it is sometimes difficult to 281catch the titles, so numerous are the volumes that take part. as the eye becomes accustomed to the dimness, the titles are more easily traced, and i distinctly recognize horace and virgil, milton and keats, herrick and hood, montaigne and pascal, lamb, thackeray, cervantes, molière, theocritus, dante, schiller, balzac, dumas the elder, pope, burns, goldsmith, addison, hawthorne, bulwer, dickens, irving—until the eye is dazed at the multitudinous names. night after night the procession forms and the participants vary—there are so many volumes to take part, so many that may not be overlooked. richard jefferies, his beautiful thoughts scarcely dry on the page, i note has just been called forth from the shelves, and thoreau has already marched with walton and gilbert white.
although not assisting in the pageant itself, there are, i perceive, numerous volumes that, nevertheless, appear to be in communication with such of their companions as have responded to the signal. beckoning glances from those below are answered every now and then by faint responses from the volumes above, their leaves as yet unfoxed by time. of these latter there are many, and i soon perceive that they bear the names of living authors of note who must wait until their earthly life is spent ere they too may answer the 282roll-call and take rank with the immortals. how, apparently without volition of their own, as if touched by an unseen hand, the leaves of in memoriam rustle and the pages of the autocrat flutter!
the only participants i see that seem to be out of place assemble once a year in solemn conclave, conversing, it is true, but wearing a dejected look. countless volumes, these, principally first and rare editions, many bound in lovely leathers, exquisitely gilded, lettered, and tooled, bearing innumerable stamps and monograms, coats-of-arms, and ancient book-plates. many of them i recognize as having seen before in high spirits, discoursing with their companions during the hour of the nightly pageants. this yearly and unusually large gathering, characterized by its extreme gravity, puzzled me at first, until i discovered it was composed of the ghosts of borrowed books, unhappy in their covers, lamenting the loss of their former possessors who had once cherished them so fondly. i see, too, boccaccio’s il decamerone, brantôme’s dames galantes, balzac’s physiologie du mariage, la fontaine’s contes with the eisen, de hooge, and fragonard plates, and in yonder soiled, foul-smelling tome i perceive the smutty old satirist and doctor-franciscan rabelais. why he should be called out at all, seems a mystery, his pitch 283is so defiling, and his boluses are so nauseating.
some participants there are which at first baffled my comprehension. these, though perfectly composed themselves and mingling freely with their fellows, nevertheless appear to excite an inordinate curiosity among their companions which is never gratified. the titles they bear are plainly discernible; but only when the march becomes sufficiently animated to cause a violent fluttering of the leaves can i catch a glimpse of the author’s name on the title-page. then i discover these numerous tomes invariably reveal the name of a most voluminous and versatile author, whose personality it is impossible to fathom, an author writing with equal facility in all languages and on all topics, in poetry and in prose, persistently preserving his incognito under the name of “anon.”
i see, also, participating in the pageant semi-annually, and on these occasions directing, as it were, the imposing march of the volumes, numerous men of middle and advanced age that seem to exhale an odor of musty tomes. occasionally these pause in their march before some one of the shelves to take down a volume which i have not before seen in the procession, handling it with reverential care, as if conscious of the gems it enshrined. sometimes it is a volume 284by a living author of note; again it is an encyclopædia or concordance, or a special number of some dusty periodical that has long lain unopened. on inquiry of my informant, i learned that this human element consists of the painstaking custodians who had the volumes in keeping, the scholarly and unappreciated librarians who devoted so much labor to the cataloguing and classification of their charges.
abruptly close the clasps of the most venerable tome. again i hear the rustling of pages and folding of covers, as each volume returns to its accustomed place and once more sinks into hallowed slumber. the librarian of one of the great libraries where the nightly pageant forms scouted the idea of his charges leaving their retreats. “would i not hear them?—besides the dust remains undisturbed!” he replied. but a dead author makes no noise and leaves no tell-tale traces when he quits his tenement of print. books, so eminently human, in the natural course of things must have their ghosts. of course, the librarian’s candle would dissipate them, as mists are dispersed by the sun.
