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Title: Confessions of a book-lover
Author: E. Walter Walters
Contributor: Coulson Kernahan
Release date: September 17, 2023 [eBook #71667]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Charles H. Kelly, 1913
Credits: Laura Natal and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONFESSIONS OF A BOOK-LOVER ***
CONFESSIONS OF A
BOOK-LOVER
CONFESSIONS OF A
BOOK-LOVER
BY
E. WALTER WALTERS
_With an Introduction by_
COULSON KERNAHAN
AUTHOR OF ‘THE FACE BEYOND THE DOOR,’
‘GOD AND THE ANT,’ ETC.
LONDON
CHARLES H. KELLY
25-35 CITY ROAD, AND 26 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
_First Edition, 1913_
To
THE MEMORY OF
MY FATHER
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
INTRODUCTION BY COULSON KERNAHAN 9
I. ‘HUMBLY TO CONFESS’ 17
II. BOOKS AND GARDENS 27
III. BOOKS THAT TEMPT 37
IV. ‘OUTSIDE THEIR BOOKS’ 47
V. BOOKS THAT CAPTIVATE 55
VI. PERSONALITIES IN ‘BOOKLAND’ 63
VII. SECOND-HAND BOOKS 73
VIII. ‘THE CULT OF THE BOOKPLATE’ 81
IX. BEDSIDE BOOKS 91
X. OLD FRIENDS 99
XI. THROUGH ROSE-COLOURED SPECTACLES 107
XII. WITH NATURE 117
XIII. A PILGRIMAGE 127
XIV. FAREWELL 137
INTRODUCTION
BY COULSON KERNAHAN
I
PART of the present volume appeared in _Great Thoughts_. Yet here
am I, whose name is associated--if at all--in the memory of readers
with ‘little thoughts,’ and with booklets impudent in the slenderness
of their matter, presumptuously standing forth to bow the public into
the writer’s presence, and essaying to introduce the one to the other.
The necessary explanation shall be brief. I must have been a young man,
and Mr. E. Walter Walters a boy, when he and I last met; indeed I am
not sure that I altogether remember him. But his father, who bore an
honoured name, I well remember.
The Rev. W. D. Walters and my own dear and honoured father were
personal friends; and when the former’s son sent me a manuscript of
a book, with the request that I should write an introduction, how
could I do otherwise than accede, and express myself honoured by the
invitation?
That I share all Mr. Walters’s whole-hearted bookish enthusiasm, I
may not pretend, for, as R. L. Stevenson says, in _An Apology for
Idlers_, ‘Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a
mighty bloodless substitute for life.’ So long, however, as the reading
of it be not allowed to deprive either man or woman of drinking deep
at the wells of life, there are few greater joys, for young or old,
than are to be found within the covers of a noble book; and to the
enthusiastic book-lover, Mr. Walters’s volume should prove treasure
trove indeed.
He drags (to use a phrase of Stevenson’s) with a wide net, but his
castings are made, for the most part, in the same waters. Of the
literature of the time of Elizabeth, or even of Anne, he tells us
little, and it is not until we come to Goldsmith, Lamb, De Quincey,
Leigh Hunt, and, later, to Jefferies, Thoreau, and Stevenson, that Mr.
Walters may be said to let himself go. What my friend Mr. Le Gallienne
calls The Lilliput of Literary London, he wisely leaves severely alone.
That Mr. Walters has a pretty sense of humour is clear from the
following passage:
‘Here is a copy of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, “hooked” in the deep
waters of a “penny tub.” It is calf-bound, mark you, and in fairish
condition, though much stained with the passing of years. My heart
leaps; it is very old--a first edition possibly! But no, it is anything
but that.... Many of the pages are entirely missing, and others
partially so. Judged by the books that surround me it is dear at a
penny ... _Paradise Lost_!’
The word-play is not unworthy of Mr. Zangwill; but when Mr. Walters
writes, ‘I have frequently trodden snow-covered ground with my nose a
few inches from an open book,’ I wish him, for the time being, ‘Good
afternoon’ and seek other company, preferably that of some lover of the
Emerson who wrote:
See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books,
Leave authors’ eyes, and fetch your own
To brave the landscape’s looks.
Or, better still:
Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the woodbell’s peal and cry?
Write in a book the morning’s prime?
Or match with words that tender sky?
II
‘I KNOW a pretty little edition of the _Religio Medici_,’ writes
Mr. Le Gallienne in his _Retrospective Reviews_, ‘which has
been quite spoiled for me by the astounding remark of its editor upon
Browne’s beautiful description of his life as “a miracle of thirty
years”--yet its actual incidents justify no such description!’
Mr. Walters will not thus spoil for his readers the work of the writers
he loves. He strikes no jarring note. On the contrary, he is capable,
when writing of books, book-making, and book-buying, of an enthusiasm
which I envy as much as I admire.
‘I have confessed,’ he says in his chapter on ‘Second-hand Books,’
‘that _I_ am of the company of book-lovers who delight in dipping
into the “lucky tubs” to be found outside booksellers’ windows. I know
of no pleasanter way of spending a spare half-hour. Give me a few
“loose” coppers, place my feet upon a likely road, and I am content. I
am now, let me say, of the happy company of _book-fishermen_. And
this, mark you, is fishing in real earnest, this effort to “hook” good
food for the mind, to place in one’s basket a “book that delighteth and
giveth perennial satisfaction.”’
The comparison of a book-seeker to an angler is as happy as it is
original, and the phrase--though phrase-making must not be confused, as
Leslie Stephen points out, with thought-finding--‘a book-fisherman’
has something of Charles Lamb’s own ‘self-pleasing quaintness.’
Lamb would, indeed, appear to be Mr. Walters’s favourite author. That
he knows his Elia intimately and can interpret him aright to others is
clear from the chapter on ‘Books and Gardens.’
‘We are told,’ says Mr. Walters, ‘that Lamb was a lover of towns and
crowded streets. Would it not be truer to say that he was a lover
of the conditions in which he chanced to be placed? London claimed
him--for the sanest reasons, no doubt--and, lo! under his pen, London
became a garden.’
This is truly and finely said. Of such acute and illuminative comment,
there is no lack in Mr. Walters’s delightful book, which should
assuredly find a place in the library of book-loving women and men.
I
‘HUMBLY TO CONFESS’
HOW ruthlessly Webster strips the word ‘confession’ of the tender
associations woven around it by the hand of the gentle essayist! A
confession, he informs us, is the acknowledgement of a crime or fault,
open declaration of guilt, &c. True, a brighter note is struck in
further definitions; but I cannot find in any book at my command a
definition of the word as used, for example, by Thomas De Quincey. The
fact that De Quincey took opium was, I believe, known long before he
wrote his _Confessions_. He personally avers that his object was
to emblazon the power of opium, not over bodily disease and pain, but
over the grander and more shadowy world of dreams. He desired
Humbly to confess
A penitential loneliness.
And I take that to mean that he desired to admit us into the innermost
recesses of his heart, to speak to us as one speaks to a bosom friend.
I plead, therefore, for a wider definition of the word ‘confession’--a
definition that embraces those ‘gentle whisperings’ which pass between
bosom friends, the confidence that springs from the very roots of the
human heart.
An eminent essayist of our own day has been pleading for more
autobiographies of unknown persons. If I read him aright, he wishes
that more persons, however humble, however obscure, would set forth
their thoughts and experiences. He believes that such writings would
make better reading than much that finds its way into print. There is
an idea in some quarters that unless a person enjoys peculiar gifts
of expression, or has achieved distinction in some walk of life, his
thoughts and experiences are of no public interest. But there are, I
am certain, many who would rather have the unadorned expression of a
man’s innermost feelings than the thoughts that flit so lightly from
the mind of the accomplished _litterateur_. How many are they--men
whose names are emblazoned upon the roll of honour--who have confessed
to a love for conversing with the ordinary man, ‘the man in the
street’! As for your ‘men of letters,’ you are well aware of their love
for conversing with unknown and frequently humble persons, ‘casual
acquaintances.’ And who shall say to what extent we are indebted to
those persons for the thoughts which, having been selected and refined,
sparkle like jewels fresh from the cutter’s hands?
How numerous are the men who have read widely and thought deeply,
and yet hesitate before expressing an opinion upon the most trivial
matters! Fortunate is the person who can induce such men to talk
freely, to express their views, their secret thoughts, on this,
that, and the other subject--their beloved books, their likes, their
dislikes, their aspirations, their fears, their hopes. Such confessions
should make good reading. By dint of a little gentle persuasion I have
managed to glean ‘copy’ of this description, which I shall hope to set
down in these pages, carefully avoiding meanwhile any mention of names.
The mere thought of publicity would bring a blush to the cheeks of the
good gentlemen I have in mind. I must adopt the plan of those ‘Knights
of the Pen’ of whom mention has been made. But here the process will
be reversed. Here the rich thought of others will come forth in homely
attire.
I would, however, first inquire in what respect the lover of
books differs from the rank-and-file? What are his distinctive
characteristics? Langford has declared that no matter what his rank
or position may be, the lover of books is the richest and happiest of
men. But is that entirely true? I confess that I do not find it so.
The lover of books is, I fancy, grievously prone to hanker after the
moon, or, to put it another way, to build wondrous fairy palaces, which
he would fain inhabit and cannot. I fancy he is apt to suffer from a
‘glorious discontent.’ He is too imaginative, too sensitive, to enjoy
the distinction of being the happiest of men.
Indeed, is it not a fact that we book-lovers stand in danger of falling
out of sympathy with this rough-and-tumble old world? Certainly many
of us resent anything that threatens to come between us and our idols.
(I have friends, book-lovers, who as strongly resent an intrusion into
the sacred nook that holds themselves and a book as they would resent
the invasion of a foreign power.) Thus grows upon the book-lover an
ever-deepening desire for solitude, for the quiet life. Others may,
if they choose, jostle for the gilded things of life. He is for other
prizes, treasures of the mind and spirit. He, for his part, prefers to
saunter through quiet by-ways, knowing full well that prizes will rest
in his path, and that these, which he need but stoop to gather, will
prove abiding treasures.
Yes, certainly the lover of books is rich. Every true lover must in the
nature of the case be that. Listen to Gibbon: ‘My early and invincible
love of reading I would not change for the treasures of India.’ How
many have spoken in like manner! ‘You, O Books,’ cried Aungervyle, ‘are
the golden vessels of the temple, the arms of the clerical militia with
which missiles of the most wicked are destroyed; fruitful olives, vines
of Engedi, fig-trees knowing no sterility; burning lamps to be ever
held in hand.’
I have a friend, a book-lover, who confesses that he acquired this
love of his after having passed through the most painful experiences.
Often he stumbled, often he fell, seemingly never to rise again. But,
happily, he has reached safe ground at last. He is now the contented
owner of a rich storehouse of books. But he confesses that he is not
boisterously happy. He doubts not that others laugh more heartily than
he; that many have lighter hearts. But he, be it remembered, has passed
through deep sorrow, has lost friends, home, wealth--all that men hold
most dear. Without his books and all they have taught him his lot would
be that of a wanderer in a wilderness. ‘My books,’ he says, ‘are my
inseparable comforters--my friends, companions, teachers, consolers,
creators, amusers.’ But he makes no claim to being a student, or an
authority on books. He does not burn the proverbial midnight oil. There
is nothing of the book-worm about him. He is simply a book-lover, and
being such, enjoys the very best that books can give.
I confess that I envy the pleasure derived by this friend of mine from
the little ‘crackling’ sound caused by the opening of a new book. It
is the sweetest music in his ears--an overture composed of the most
pleasing notes. And with what relish he enters into the entertainment
that follows! With what zest he reads aloud the choice passages! The
four walls of his library must, I fancy, have peculiar knowledge of
‘the dainties that are bred in books.’ They are his only audience. When
friends are with him, it is they who must do the reading, whilst he
plays the better part.
How many a tale such as this might be told! How full of eccentricities
is the lover of books, aye, and how full, too, of whims and fads and
fancies! Each one is for a particular type of binding. In no two cases
can you find tastes exactly alike. One is for plain cloth, plainly
lettered, another is for calf or russia, another for parchment. And
each one has his own views as regards size. Some cry out for books
that can be handled with ease; others maintain that the size of a book
should suit the nature of its contents. And thus the battle wages,
quite a long and wordy affair, before any question arises as regards
the actual contents of a book. But are not these views concerning
the make-up of a book healthy and desirable? I seem to remember
having read of men held in high repute who had marked preferences
as regards the get-up of a book. Did not Charles Lamb maintain that
to be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume?
‘Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be afforded, is not
lavished upon all kinds of books indiscriminately. I would not dress
a set of magazines, for instance, in full suit. The deshabille or
half-binding (with russia backs) is _our_ costume. A Shakespeare
or a Milton (unless the first editions) it were mere foppery to trick
out in gay apparel.’
And what of the ‘inside’ of books? What of their contents? For my
own part, I confess that, when pressed for a list of my favourite
authors, I am at a loss for an answer, or, at least, for a satisfactory
answer. The question is so pointed, the answer resting quietly in
my mind so wide, so shadowy, so needful of explanation. So much
depends upon one’s mood and environment. I require the opportunity
to say why certain books appeal to me in certain moods and leave me
untouched at other times. I desire to show that certain books, in
order to be enjoyed to the full, must be read in certain seasons and
under certain conditions. I wish to hold forth upon, say, ‘Books and
Gardens,’ ‘Unknown Books,’ and so forth, and on the peculiarities of
certain authors, giving reasons why I like or dislike their works. I
wish to confess, to bare my heart. And that is too lengthy a process
to cram in a direct answer to a direct question. Only this much can
I confess ‘off-hand’: The books that please me most are _the books
that speak to the heart_. Such volumes are my most highly treasured
possessions.
II
BOOKS AND GARDENS
The mind relaxing into needful sport,
Should turn to writers of an abler sort,
Whose wit well-managed, and whose classic style
Give truth a lustre and make wisdom smile.
COWPER.
I have confessed that the books which please me most are the books that
speak to the heart--books that greet one with the ease and familiarity
of a friend. I desire to feel the humanity, the heart of an author.
I desire to know that he is genial, kindly, well-disposed. I have no
inclination for angry, fretful men of letters. I no more desire to
meet such through the medium of a book, than I desire to make the
acquaintance of quarrelsome individuals in the flesh. I, too, ‘find
myself facing as stoutly as I can a hard, combative existence, full of
doubts, difficulties, and disappointments, quite a hard enough life
without dark countenances at my elbow.’ Give me pleasant company. Give
me _gentlemen of letters_. Still, I have no taste for the company
of the maudlin or weak-kneed. Robert Louis Stevenson says that ‘we are
all for tootling on the sentimental flute in literature; and not a man
amongst us will go to the head of the march to sound the heady drums!’
Note with what grace he makes the observation! It is more in the nature
of a good-tempered laugh than a growl. How gracefully he wears the
title--a Gentleman of Letters! How pleasantly he addresses us! Little
wonder if, in his presence, our failings are as open wounds. He has no
need to probe. His gentlest touch is sufficient, more effective by far
than the rough treatment of the irascible author.
Yes, for friends give me gracious authors. Give me the gentle Elia.
Give me Jefferies, Goldsmith, Leigh Hunt, and De Quincey. These are
the writers I would take into a garden on a summer’s afternoon. I need
have no fear, whilst in such company, of the flowers being robbed of
their fragrance. The song of the birds will not be silenced. The gentle
whisperings of the trees will still be audible. The writers in mind are
of the company who claim kinship with Nature. Whilst with them I may
read and yet meditate. I may learn and yet hear and feel.
Where is the nature-lover who will not readily confess that when in a
flowering-garden he is frequently torn between his devotion to the
book in his hand and the beauties that surround him? I confess that I,
for one, like to mix ‘the dainties that are bred in books’ with the
wondrous attractions of Nature. I am ready enough to take my favourite
authors into a garden, but not so ready to give them my undivided
attention. Another book--which must for ever remain unrivalled--claims
my eyes, my attention. Richard Jefferies is pleasing, but not so
pleasing as the beauties to be found in a garden. Goldsmith brings a
warm glow, but see! the sun shines in the heavens. Lamb puts me in
playful vein, but his tune is not so gay as the song of the birds in
yonder bushes. The light touch of Leigh Hunt is delightful, but not so
pleasing as the quickly shifting lights upon the tree-tops.
But it is good to have old friends at one’s elbow. And if I am able to
enjoy myself without them on a summer’s afternoon, it is because they,
on some winter’s evening, have opened my eyes and quickened my senses.
It is they, I say, who have taught me to love the beauties of Nature.
I am familiar with their golden passages, and whilst seated beneath
the trees can recall them at my pleasure, or, should the mood arise,
read them again, and yet again. How good, for example, to read such
a passage as this: ‘There is something beyond the philosophers in the
light, in the grass-blades, the leaf, the grasshopper, the sparrow on
the wall. Some day the great and beautiful thought which hovers on the
confines of the mind will at last alight. In that is hope, the whole
sky is full of abounding hope.’
Still, one does not always experience a sense of loss when reading in
the open. Far from it! The heavens are not always blue. And prate as we
will about the subtle beauty of grey skies and leafless trees, we are
at times willing enough to escape from them. I, for one, am glad under
such conditions to warm myself by the light of a printed page. Happily,
I am of the company of men who can walk and read, and have frequently
trodden snow-covered ground with my nose a few inches from an open
book. Believe me, he who can read whilst walking has a long pull over
the book-lover who must needs have quietude and a bended knee upon
which to nurse his beloved books.
There is a worthy and distinguished company of book-lovers to whom
reading whilst afoot is not only uncongenial but impossible. I seem
to remember a passage in which that great book-lover Charles Lamb
speaks of his inability to enjoy a book whilst out of doors. These, I
find, are the words in mind: ‘I am not much a friend to out-of-doors
reading. I cannot settle my spirits to it. I knew a Unitarian minister
who was generally to be seen upon Snow Hill (as yet Skinner’s Street
was not) between the hours of ten and eleven in the morning studying
a volume of Lardner. I own this to have been a strain of abstraction
beyond my reach. I used to admire how he sidled along, keeping clear of
secular contacts. An illiterate encounter with a porter’s knot, or a
bread-basket, would have quickly put to flight all the philosophy I am
master of, and have left me worse than indifferent to the five points.’
Thus the gentle Elia playfully dismissed the person who is pleased to
boast of his ability to read whilst walking. Was there ever a writer
so fastidious, yet so tolerant, so playful as he? Speaking of the
conditions under which certain books should be read, he says: ‘Much
depends upon _when_ and _where_ you read a book. In the five
or six impatient minutes before the dinner is quite ready, who would
think of taking up the _Faerie Queene_ for a stop-gap, or a volume
of Bishop Andrewes’ sermons? Milton almost requires a solemn service
of music before you enter upon him. Winter evenings--and the world
shut out--with less of ceremony the gentle Shakespeare enters. At such
seasons _The Tempest_, or his own _Winter’s Tale_. Books of
quick interest, that hurry on for incidents, are for the eye to glide
over only.’
I wish it was possible to add a few words from the same whimsical pen
upon reading in a garden on a summer’s afternoon. I have a friend who
is disposed to think that such writing would contain little about books
and _much_ about Nature. We are told that Lamb was a lover of
towns and crowded streets. Would it not be truer to say that he was
a lover of the conditions in which he chanced to be placed? London
claimed him--for the sanest reasons, no doubt--and lo! under his pen
London became a garden.
It is well that some brave souls can make-believe that the noise of the
traffic of a London thoroughfare makes good music!
It is well that some have the spirit to sound the ‘heady drums.’ But
for my own part, give me a garden removed from the turmoil of a big
town. I shall not then be over-particular as regards my reading. Let me
drop in my breast-pocket a volume by one of the authors named, and I
shall be content. I too shall then be able to say, ‘It matters nothing
to me that the earth and the solar system are whirling through space
at a rate of sixty miles a second, from no one knows where to no one
knows whither, if I may sit in my garden (with a book for company) on a
summer’s afternoon.’
III
BOOKS THAT TEMPT
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to
be chewed and digested.--BACON.
WHAT are the books that tempt? Are they the old, familiar volumes, old
friends in old clothes--well-worn editions of the classics? Or are
they those same old friends decked in rich and fanciful bindings? I am
acquainted with a book-lover who confesses that he has no taste for the
fanciful modern reprint. You may show him Lamb, or Hazlitt, or Hunt,
or Jefferies, or Stevenson in the richest of binding, and tempt him
not. He is not, he declares, to be caught that way. As well might the
reader go arrayed in frills and furbelows to a masculine friend and
expect to be received with decorum. This friend of mine, I say, is as
contemptuous of the modern, richly-bound classic as of any other form
of foppery. He insists on meeting his friends, whether it be in print
or in the flesh, in unaffected, homely attire.
He will tell you that the ‘gentle Elia’ was of the same way of
thinking, and that he wrote in effect: ‘How beautiful to a genuine
lover of reading are the sullied leaves and worn-out appearance,
nay, the very odour (beyond Russia) if we would not forget the kind
feeling in fastidiousness, of old circulating library volumes! How
they speak of the thousand thumbs that have turned over their pages
with delight! of the lone seamstress, whom they cheered (milliner or
hard-working mantua-maker) after her long day’s needle-toil, running
far into midnight, when she has snatched an hour, ill spared from
sleep, to steep her cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling out
their enchanting contents! Who would have them a whit less soiled? What
better condition could you desire to see them in?’
Fastidious readers who insist upon having new books, or books ‘good
as new,’ must, I fancy, feel a ‘twinge of guilt’ in the face of such
humane sentiments. I confess, to my shame, that I am of the guilty
company; that I am fastidious as regards the condition of a book; that
torn, well-thumbed books do not tempt me, whatever their contents. And
not only am I guilty, but would seek to defend my guilt. I protest that
it is the pleasurable duty of the book-lover to keep his treasured
volumes in goodly condition; that a cover is but a new home, and
that when the old one has served its purpose it should be replaced
as readily as one would find a worthy dwelling-place for a beloved
relative. I like to see my friends in the best possible circumstances.
I like to see them bearing a well-cared-for, well-favoured appearance.
I do not forget the ‘lone sempstress’ spoken of so tenderly by Lamb.
I would have torn volumes repaired and shabby ones replaced in all
circulating libraries. In no circumstances would I permit a treasured
classic to go forth in a shabby condition. I would place new volumes,
or volumes good as new, within the reach of all.
But it cannot be denied that many tender associations are woven around
numerous aged, _well-preserved_ volumes. Where is the true
book-lover who could not give a list of such? ‘Their very odour,’ he
will tell you, ‘is beyond Russia.’ How sacred their well-preserved
pages! Your up-to-date reprints, with their fanciful covers, are no
company for such. Their gaiety is shamed by stately calf-bound volumes.
Yes, there is a grave and sober dignity about old well-preserved books.
It matters not whether they be bound in morocco, calf, or russia. The
sacred associations of old age are theirs. If we do not love them, at
least we reverence them. ‘What a place to be in is an old library! It
seems as though all the souls of the Bodleians were reposing here as in
some dormitory or middle state.... I seem to inhale learning, walking
amid their foliage; and the odour of the old moth-scented coverings is
fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grow amid
the happy orchard.’
Yes, to many the old ‘moth-scented’ volumes are the books that tempt.
I have a friend who has placed a standing order with a bookseller to
supply him with all old calf-bound volumes to be procured at a certain
sum. Dare I state the sum fixed? It is counted in pence--pence only,
mark you! But as my friend has made no stipulations as regards the
contents of the desired volumes, he has a goodly array of books, each
one ‘moth-scented,’ each one a model of dignity.
My friend, however, is not a great reader. He is not, I venture to
assert, a book-lover. I fancy he should be called an antiquarian.
Certainly his liking for antiquities is greater than his love for the
contents of books. Books to him are rather furniture for rooms than for
minds. Show him an example of skilfully ‘tooled’ calf, and you will
please him better than if you had voiced an inspiring thought. But
wait! I must hold my pen. Who can say to what depths of thought and
feeling my friend is moved by the sight of his well-filled shelves?
Has it not been said that there is inspiration in a mere glance at old
volumes; that they seem to exhale learning?
Still, I, for one, am ready enough to confess that old calf-bound
volumes as such leave me unmoved. Too often have I, together with other
lovers of books, found them dry, as well as dusty. I respect their
age. I consider the mellowed calf in which they are bound admirable
material. I admire their durability. But such features do not greatly
tempt me. I am for volumes of homely appearance. My own coat being of
simple homespun, I am more at home with volumes bound in cloth. Give me
for my daily companions unpretentious books. Many in my possession cost
no more than from two to three pence. For I, too, am of the company of
book-lovers who dip at times into the ‘lucky-tubs’ to be found outside
booksellers’ shops. I confess, moreover, that I belong to the class ‘of
street reader who, not having the wherewithal to buy or hire a book,
filch a little learning at the open stalls.’ Often and often have I
been tempted by the well-worn volumes--so unpretentious without, so
rich within--that await the attention of the leisurely passer-by. Two
humble pence, and a mine of wisdom becomes one’s own.
So much, then, for old volumes. Now, what of the new? What of the
many dainty volumes sent out daily by modern makers of books? I am
thinking at the moment of the men whose business it is to bind and
print, who with amazing ingenuity send forth volumes having the
appearance of jewel caskets--wondrous designs of every tint to be
found on a painter’s palette. I confess that I find such productions
exceedingly attractive. I confess that I am frequently tempted by them.
It would be good, I feel, to be the possessor of a volume of Selected
English Essays bound in ‘leather soft as velvet.’ I am more fanciful
in my tastes than that friend of mine who insists upon seeing his old
comrades in well-worn attire. I like to see Charles Lamb strutting
forth in purple and gold. I am touched when I behold the great men who
reign in the ‘world of the classics’ standing shoulder to shoulder,
arrayed in ‘gorgeous confections’ upon a shelf in a bookseller’s window.
But I have no desire to possess the large and weighty volume that falls
under the title _Edition de Luxe_. I am not tempted by bulky
volumes, however elaborately they may be adorned. I have no desire
to undergo the painful experience of a certain gentleman pictured in
_Punch_, who, after making valiant efforts to handle one such
volume, was finally reduced to an abject state of exhaustion. Give me
volumes of convenient size. Give me, I pray, volumes I can master.
IV
‘OUTSIDE THEIR BOOKS’
The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had
gained a new friend.--GOLDSMITH.
I HAVE confessed that I like to feel the heart, the humanity, of an
author. How natural, then, if I desire to know something about his
home-life, his family, his manner of living, his favourite means of
recreation. Surely such curiosity is free from censure. Of what stuff
are the fine gentlemen made who tell us that we have no business with
the private affairs of our great writers? Does not our curiosity spring
from respect, from admiration--from _love_? Am I to be blamed if
I desired to know how the affairs of this world went with the writer
who has charmed and instructed me, who has led me into new worlds of
thought and feeling? If I have learned to love an author through his
books, may I not be permitted to ask whether he was happily situated?
We speak glibly enough of the ‘friendship of books,’ and what, pray,
does that mean but the friendship of _authors_? I have still to
learn that it is no part of a man’s duty to take an interest in the
home-life of his friends.
‘We are not all hero-worshippers,’ says Alexander Smith, ‘but most of
us are so to a large extent. A large proportion of mankind feel a quite
peculiar interest in famous writers. Concerning such men no bit of
information is too trifling; everything helps to make out the mental
image we have dimly formed for ourselves. And this kind of interest
is heightened by the artistic way in which Time occasionally groups
them. We think of the wild geniuses who came up from the Universities
to London in the dawn of the English drama. Greene, Nash, Marlowe--our
professional men of letters--how they cracked their satirical whips,
how pinched they were at times; how, when they possessed money, they
flung it from them as if it was poison; with what fierce speed they
wrote, how they shook the stage.’
Wherefore I say let the fine gentlemen who boast of their superiority
to the so-called trivialities of life go their way, whilst I go
mine. Let them stand upon their lofty pedestals, whilst I inquire
how my favourite authors lived, how they spent their days, how they
divided their time, how many hours were given to work and how many
to recreation. I have no fear that such knowledge will lessen my
admiration for my heroes. I look up, it is true, with feelings akin
to awe at the great men who have influenced me. But I desire at times
to have a clearer view, I like to walk round and about them, to peer
through the brilliant glow by which they are surrounded, to see the
_men_, to feel their humanity, to learn how they met the ‘common
daily round.’
And I confess that it matters little to me how I glean the desired
information. But for preference give me the records of a trained
observer. For how much better to see with the eyes of one whose vision
is clear, keen, and penetrating! How good, for instance, to accompany
Alexander Smith on a visit to the ‘Mermaid’ in session, and there
behold the great ‘Shakespeare’s bland oval face, the light of a smile
spread over it, and Ben Jonson’s truculent image, and Beaumont and
Fletcher sitting together in their beautiful friendship!’ And how good
to think that we may go in the company of the same gracious guide, to
the famous Literary Club, and there find Burke and Johnson and Garrick
and Goldsmith. ‘The Doctor has been talking there for a hundred years,
and there will talk for many a hundred more.’ And then, so highly
are we favoured, we may go (and who would not?) to Charles Lamb’s
snug little room in Inner Temple Lane, and there find ‘the hush of a
whist-table in one corner, the host stuttering puns as he deals the
cards, and sitting about; Hunt, whose every sentence is flavoured with
the hawthorn and the primrose, and Hazlitt maddened by Waterloo and
St. Helena, and Goodwin with his wild theories, and Kemble with his
Roman look. And before the morning comes, and Lamb stutters yet more
thickly--for there is a slight flavour of punch in the apartment--what
talk there has been of Hogarth’s prints, of Izaak Walton, of the old
dramatists, of Sir Thomas Browne’s _Urn Burial_, with Elia’s
quaint humour breaking through every interstice, and flowing in every
fissure and cranny of the conversation.’
Ah, yes! it is good to have such glimpses as these, to find the
authors who have charmed and instructed us free from the ‘fetters of
the pen’--their own good or bad, sweet or petulant, always brilliant
selves. And how true it is that such glimpses lend peculiar interest
to written words! The book-lovers who like to feel the humanity of an
author must surely form a vast and ever-increasing company.
You know how it fares with the superior individual who bears himself
as though unmoved by feelings common to the average mortal. He does
not inspire friendship, or admiration, or, for that matter, any feeling
worth the having. Knowing the frailty of human nature, we suspect him
of playing a double part. And so it is, surely, with the author who
addresses us in the manner of one who is a stranger to the feelings
that mould this mortal clay. We know better. We know full well that
‘the writer is not continually dwelling amongst the roses and lilies
of life; he is not continually uttering generous sentiments and saying
fine things. On him, as on his brethren, the world presses with prosaic
needs. He has to make love, and marry, and run the usual matrimonial
risks. The income-tax collector visits him as well as others. Around
his head at Christmas drives a snow-storm of bills.’ Outside of his
books he is pretty much the same as other men. And so, I say, we have
greater sympathy with an author if he takes us into his confidence,
allows us to bear a part of his burdens--to feel that he, too, is
subject to human trials and difficulties.
It is interesting to note that authors themselves are of the same way
of thinking. They, too, like to get at the hearts of men. Speaking of
a visit paid to Coleridge at Highgate, Emerson complained that he was
in his company for about an hour, but found it impossible to recall the
largest part of his discourse, which was often like so many printed
paragraphs in his books--perhaps the same--so readily did the great
Coleridge fall into certain commonplaces.... ‘The visit was rather a
spectacle than a conversation.’
And so, you see, we who desire at times to meet authors outside their
books are in good company. And if we are not so fortunate as to play
Boswell’s part, if we cannot sit at the feet of our heroes, if we
cannot mourn or make merry in their company, we can, at least, approach
them through the medium of a printed page. And that, I hold, is as
good a way as any other--if not the best. Few are the books so deep
in human interest as biographies of men of letters. This, it is said,
arises from the pictures of comparative defeat which, in almost every
instance, such books contain. ‘We see failure more or less--seldom
clear, victorious effort. Like the Old Guard at Waterloo, they are
fighting bravely on a lost field. In literary biography there is always
an element of tragedy, and the love we bear the dead is mingled with
pity.’
V
BOOKS THAT CAPTIVATE
If thought unlock her mysteries,
If friendship on me smile,
I walk in marble galleries,
I talk with kings the while.
EMERSON.
THE world of books is full of friendly voices. Where is the book-lover
who has not at times felt like a sulky guest in genial, well-disposed
company? Many authors who await our attentions have no other desire
than to entertain, to please, to delight, ‘All authors are not
preachers.’ I confess, however, that for my part I like to be ‘preached
at.’ But my preacher must be of the gentle, captivating type--one
who employs the beckoning finger. I am willing enough to be led, but
immediately adopt a proverbial stubbornness at the touch of a rod.
This reminds me of a certain book-lover who declares that he is only
influenced by authors who preach from his own pulpit. That is his way
of saying that the authors who captivate him are the authors who touch
a responsive chord in his nature, who view affairs from his standpoint.
How greatly tastes differ! I know of many persons, book-lovers of a
kind, who must have what they are pleased to call original books. But
where, I ask, are such books to be found? Is it not true that there is
no such thing as original thought? A writer expresses his views with
regard to this, that, or the other subject, only to find that the same
observations have been made before, or were made at the same moment
by some other person in some other quarter of the globe. ‘Ideas march
along in extended order. They are not isolated discoveries made by
specially brilliant individuals. Their influence is in the air. It is
felt by numbers of thinkers at the same time. Often it is by no means
the greatest of them who first announces that he has felt it.’
Thus we come to see that style is the immortal thing in literature. The
style that echoes a charming personality is ever fresh. Who can deny
that many an author has earned popularity by expressing in a winsome
manner thoughts that are common to every thinking mind? I confess that
I, as in the case of many others, am not so anxious to come across
fresh and startling views as I am to find writers who bring fresh
light to bear upon the old problems. I would rather dwell upon the
descriptive passages quoted elsewhere in these pages than keep company
with a mental acrobat. Too often one finds that the so-termed original
author is a mere trickster, who does not hesitate to employ any means
that promise to produce a startling effect. I am of the same opinion as
the book-lover who declares that ‘any merry-andrew can blow down the
wrong end of a trumpet.’
But it does not follow that the style that captivates me will captivate
my neighbour. I am for a ‘mellow style’ in letters, for delicate
phrasing--the polite manner. My neighbour may prefer ‘the style that
has a sting in it.’ I am acquainted with a book-lover who confesses
that he has no objection to being driven by an author. He likes to feel
that an author has a firm hand upon the reins, and will use a whip
if the need arises. Gentle, conciliatory authors bore this friend of
mine. Others are for whimsical authors; others again are for writers
who ‘play’ with their readers’ emotions, now drawing forth tears, now
causing laughter. A few are for grave and solemn teachers. Many are for
the authors whose only ambition is to entertain. There is no limit to
the world’s requirements. But, happily, ‘of the making of books there
is no end.’ We need have no fear of the supply running short, or of
our own peculiar needs going unsupplied. ‘Books,’ says Langford, ‘are
always with us, and always ready to respond to our wants.’ ‘As you grow
ready for it,’ adds another, ‘somehow or other you will find what is
needful for you in a book.’
A wise man will select his book with the utmost care. ‘He will not wish
to class them all under the sacred name of friends.’ For my own part,
I confess that I like to turn at times to authors of ‘humbler sorts.’
I like to dip into the volumes which booksellers label ‘Remainders.’
How frequently one finds in such books the very features that
captivate--the style and matter that immediately touch a responsive
chord in one’s temperament! Many a book labelled ‘Remainder’ deserves
our warmest gratitude. ‘Learning,’ says Fuller, ‘has gained most by
those books by which the printers have lost.’
But it must not be supposed that I crave for ‘new’ books. I beg leave
to be of the same opinion as Lowell, who says in his _Fables for
Critics_: ‘Reading new books is like eating new bread. One can bear
it at first, but by gradual steps he is brought to death’s door of a
mental dyspepsy.’
The truth is, no hard-and-fast rule can be set down with regard to
the books that captivate. But it is, I fancy, pretty safe to affirm
that the books that please us most are the books that reflect our own
thoughts and feelings. There has been a ‘run’ of late upon authors who
are wise enough to recognize that the majority of persons are more
or less simple and unaffected at heart, nursing their pet aspiration
as a child nurses a beloved toy. For my own part, I desire to retain
a certain youthfulness of heart and mind. I am, therefore, willing
enough to confess that the books that captivated me in early life are
the books that captivate me still. We ‘grown-ups’ make a brave outward
show, but at the back of it there is still the old craving for a
friendly hand, a kindly word, a sympathetic friend.
And when it comes to the question of fiction, I confess that my own
liking is for books that introduce pleasing characters. I have no
desire to meet again in novels the type of individual who glares at me
from the ‘police columns’ of the daily press. Murderers, thieves, and
adulterers are not to my mind less unpleasant because they happened
to occupy a ‘romantic platform.’ Give me, I pray, congenial company.
And if, as some declare, we must needs have all types represented,
then let the artist who draws them employ the touch that convinces
and yet spares. I do not desire to see black laid upon black. To
dwell unduly in fiction upon sin and sinners is neither instructive
nor entertaining, and it is, as inferred, a poor sort of artist whose
pictures are all shade.
I beg leave to be of the company of book-lovers who prefer a pleasant
flavour to their fiction, and, happily, we are well supplied.
‘Bookland’ is rich in winsome personalities, both as regards authors
and their creations. When we speak of the books that captivate, how
often we have in mind the charming persons who in the working out of
this, that, or the other story played so noble and inspiring a part!
VI
PERSONALITIES IN ‘BOOKLAND’
Give me leave
T’ enjoy myself; that place that does contain
My books, the best companions, is to me
A glorious court, where hourly I converse
With the old sages and philosophers;
And sometimes for variety, I confer
With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
IT is good to think of the many captivating personalities one has met
on one’s rambles through ‘Bookland’--to greet again with extended hands
the genial Vicar immortalized by Goldsmith, to ponder in one’s mind
his godly charity, to listen enthralled to his delicate and gracious
observations. It is good, I say, to set forth on a ‘mental pilgrimage’
to the homes of the entertaining folk who were first made known to
us through those ‘little sheets of paper,’ and who are ever ready to
‘amuse us, teach us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers.’
One may select one’s own company, and may, as the mood takes one, be
learned or flippant, grave or gay. One may visit the famous Vicarage,
or, in another mood and with another end in view, go in the enchanting
company of Goldsmith to the home of Beau Tibbs, there to laugh at poor
Tibbs’ foibles, to learn from his old Scotch servant that his good lady
is away washing his ‘twa shirts’ at the next door, because they have
taken an oath against lending their tub out any longer. But eventually
the good lady presents herself, making ‘twenty apologies’ for the
carelessness of her attire, and explaining in a grand manner that she
had stayed the night at Vauxhall Gardens with a certain countess.
We are invited to dinner, something elegant being suggested by Mr.
Tibbs--a turbot or an ortolan. Whereupon Mrs. Tibbs cries, ‘What do
you think, my dear, of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and
dressed with a little of my own sauce?’ ‘The very thing!’ cries Mr.
Tibbs. ‘I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over;
extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high
life.’ But we do not remain for the dainty morsel. For, as our guide
whispers, ‘the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last
never fails of rendering us melancholy.’ And so we take our leave,
assured by Beau Tibbs that had we remained, dinner would have been
ready in less than two hours.
And thus one may journey from house to house, from street to street,
from county to county, and from country to country, to wellnigh any
spot between the two Poles, there to find some old friend or other
whom one has met in Bookland. And how varied is the company, how
representative, how cosmopolitan, how sure one may be of finding just
the very persons one wishes to meet! The child, still in the ‘Age of
Innocence,’ looking for a playmate, may find one in Bookland. The youth
whose blood runs hot and strong, and who desires a companion who can
speak of mighty enterprises, may make his choice. The young woman who
desires lessons in deportment and manners will find many good souls
waiting to instruct her. And what company, what models of virtue and
loveliness, await the young man whose ‘fancy lightly turns to thoughts
of love’!
Yes, in Bookland there are persons to suit all ages, and all types, and
all moods. Can we who have read with delight from our childhood days
onward ever forget our dear old friends? Can we forget the characters,
some simple, sweet, and charming, others strange, wild, grotesque,
with whom we became acquainted in our nursery days? Can we forget Alice
and her adventures in Wonderland, or the army of whimsical beings found
in books of the same alluring order? Do they not still influence us and
guide our morals?
And what of the book-born acquaintances of our youth? Is it not true
that ‘the books that charmed us in youth recall the delight ever
afterwards’? What a time for reading is that period when the blood
runs warm and strong, and the mind is vigorous--one’s whole nature
keen and impressionable! Ah! youth is the time to meet a maiden in a
book, to feel--just as the author, no doubt, felt himself--that she is
wonderfully fair to look upon, charming alike in manners, voice, and
looks. One may venture to suspect that many a young man has lost his
heart to the maidens who flit so gracefully through the pages of books.
The young women of Bookland are not, however, all of fairy-like
type. Who can forget the many whose goodness of heart surpass their
bewitching looks--heroic women, true as steel, and faithful unto death?
Ideals must surely have been formed by readers from such as these, and
their like sought no doubt in real life. And one may go further and
venture to hope that they have been found and have given their hearts
to noble seekers, and lived with them, as the story-books say, ‘happily
ever after.’
Then what of the more staid, and, it may be, more serious, period in
life? We are, let us say, now beginning to settle down, to feel a
sense of responsibility. Father Time with his scythe has not greatly
concerned us up to now; but we fancy that we see his figure, faint and
shadowy, and, it may be, only just discernible, coming towards us from
over the horizon.... We are ready for serious books now.
But, bless you! that is just a stage--a period in our pilgrimage
through life. The old loves return. The volumes that charmed us in
childhood and in youth again claim our affections. And with what zest
we re-read those precious volumes! How heartily we greet our dear old
friends! How grateful we are to the authors who have introduced us to
this or that genial fellow, to this sedate and scholarly gentleman, to
this winsome maid, to that noble man, to this gracious lady! And how
many more await us!
Yes, the persons one meets in Bookland form an ever-increasing
army--so vast, so numerous, that when meditating upon them and their
characteristics, their virtues, their weaknesses, their foibles, their
whimsicalities, their sins, and their noble deeds, one is led to divide
them into classes and place them under the names of their creators--to
set apart the delicately but firmly pictured characters of Jane Austen
in a line running parallel with, say, the creations of Mrs. Gaskell and
other lady novelists, taking care to keep them some little distance
apart from the creations of Fielding and Sterne. For in Bookland, as
in real life, it is unreasonable to expect persons of widely different
temperaments to live on amicable terms.
That was a good plan, surely, of the book-lover who not only
classified the characters of his favourite authors under the name of
their creators, but also, after carefully considering their various
characteristics, grouped them in little compartments. It is good,
however, to feel that the characters of many of our famous novelists
may be left to mix freely. One cannot, for example, doubt that the
great majority of the creations of Charles Dickens were meant to ‘rub
shoulders.’ So wide were the sympathies of that great delineator of
human life that few indeed are the children of his imagination who
are lacking in some point or other of common interest. Tapley, Pinch,
Micawber, Toots, and the lovable Pickwick, and a host besides, may be
left safely in one compartment.
But all this may lead you to suppose that the persons who played a part
in real life as well as in Bookland are being forgotten. That can never
be. For who can forget the chief characters in the historical works
of our great novelists? These, in a sense, are more real to us than
children of the imagination. For we may first study the conditions in
which this or that great figure played a part in life, and then look
upon them in the searching light of the skilful novelist.
How natural, however, if the lover of books should at times overlook
the greatest of figures in a company so vast! He will do well if he
but keeps a warm corner or two in his heart for old friends and an
open place for new ones. And if meanwhile he can manage to keep his
mind fresh and active, ready to receive new ideas and eager for fresh
knowledge, he may surely rest content. Happily for the makers of books
we have not all the same taste. Some are for this class of book; others
for that. Some seek knowledge; others seek entertainment.
But I am running away from the vein in which this little book was
started. I am forgetting to set forth my own little likes and
dislikes. There is a reason, however, and it is this: I have nothing
more exciting to confess at this point than the plain fact that I am of
the company of bookmen who read _simply for the love of it_.
VII
SECOND-HAND BOOKS
The love of books is a love which requires neither justification,
apology, nor defence.--LANGFORD.
I HAVE confessed that I am of the company of book-lovers who delight
in dipping into the ‘lucky-tubs’ to be found outside booksellers’
windows. I know of no pleasanter way of spending a spare half-hour.
Give me a few ‘loose’ coppers, place my feet upon a likely road,
and I am content. I am now, let me say, of the happy company of
_book-fishermen_. And this, mark you, is fishing in real earnest,
this effort to ‘hook’ good food for the mind, to place in one’s basket
a ‘book that delighteth and giveth perennial satisfaction.’
Ah! it is a good road I am on--one of London’s happiest
thoroughfares--a road rich in book-shops. Here for a humble penny one
may dip into tub or barrel and perchance pick out a volume worth its
weight in gold! We hear so frequently of marvellous ‘catches.’ You know
how this, that, or the other fine sportsman boasts of landing fish of
amazing weight--well, it is so with your _book-fisherman_. Has he not
told you of first editions procured for a single copper? And who shall
say what fine day may not find us among Fortune’s favoured ones?
And so now to our fishing! Here is a copy of Milton’s _Paradise
Lost_, ‘hooked’ in the deep waters of a ‘penny tub.’ It is
calf-bound, mark you, and in fairish condition, though much stained
with the passing of years. My heart leaps; it is very old--a first
edition possibly! But no; it is anything but that, and alas! like the
egg that has grown into a proverb, it is only good in parts. Many of
the pages are entirely missing, and others partially so. Judged by the
books that surround me, it is dear at a penny ... _Paradise Lost_!
Yes, I confess that this fishing has its distressing side. One is
frequently disappointed. And how heart-rending it is to find great
works in a soiled and tattered condition, to discover, on drawing one’s
hand from some ‘lucky-tub,’ that one holds the remains, a few pages,
it may be, or the cover only, of a book that has played a part in the
making of this world’s history! And how touching to find a winsome
companion like the gentle Elia soiled, torn, bereft of covering,
showing yellow gum and coarse stitching! I confess that such a sight
almost moves me to tears. Fair wear and tear would never have reduced
the gentle Elia to so pitiable a state. I suspect hands as callous
as those of the butcher in the slaughterhouse across the way. Alas!
that there should be men to whom books are merely so much paper and
cloth. ‘A book,’ you tell them, ‘is the precious life-blood of a
master-spirit, embalmed and treasured upon purpose, to a life beyond.’
And their answer is a smile. But this is no time for repining. The
great army of book-lovers swells with each passing year. From all sides
come recruits, often from the most unexpected quarters, from mill and
factory, mean street and slum. Yes; ’tis a great day for books, and
soon _Everyman_ will have his library, in fact as well as in name.
And who dare say, who can guess, what treasures his library will hold?
Now back to our fishing. Here is a tub that promises well; the price
per volume, as aforetime, is only one penny. See! Here is a dainty
volume, slim and shapely of form, and clothed in a delicate green. A
minor poet, you guess. Yes; the work of a minor poet, published, no
doubt, at the author’s own expense. But do not turn aside. Do not say
that such books are of no value. I confess that I am for lingering over
this slender booklet. Its cover is very pleasing; the type is large and
clear; the paper is of good texture. And what anxiety, what patient
care, probably went to the making of its contents! Brave minor poet!
You have withstood many rebuffs. The road you travel holds, I doubt
not, many pure delights: you walk, it may be, beneath a star-strewn
sky. But star-gazing has proved in your case a dangerous occupation.
‘He who raises his eyes to the heavens forgets the stones and puddles
at his feet.’ Alas! you have had many falls. And when perchance you
have come to the ground, it has often been to the accompaniment of
heartless laughter. ‘Here,’ cry the critics, ‘is another minor poet on
all fours.’ And with ill-timed jests they proceed to point out your
weaknesses; how that you have not the feet to walk aright, much less
run; and as for wings, there is not, ’tis frequently said, so much as
a sign of their sprouting. But for all that you have scrambled to your
feet, and marching bravely forward, continued to give generously of
your gentle fancy. Long may you live! In you we have (and here is my
strongest point in your favour) many a great and worthy poet in the bud.
And so I confess gladly, and, indeed, with a proud heart, that in my
bookshelves you hold a warm, well-sheltered corner. I love to handle
your slender volumes, to pore over your early fancies, ill-expressed
at times, it may be, but with a sincerity that is refreshing, and a
simplicity that is delightful. And if your work is poor from cover to
cover--which is rarely, if ever the case--well, you have given us a
book.
Yes, I am of the company of book-lovers who revere anything in the form
of a book. Lovers are made that way; and it is futile to inquire how I
can bring myself to love books of ‘all sorts and conditions.’ As well
might you ask the nature-lover why he speaks so tenderly of, say, the
worm that peeps through the tender green of some sun-lit lawn. ’Tis
simply love--love for the humblest children of dear Mother Earth. And
so it is with the true book-lover; for the humblest volume he has a
tender thought.
But what of our fishing? This is, I take it, a fitting place to record
how on such and such a day I had the good fortune to ‘hook’ a copy of
this or that desirable work for a few humble pence--a ‘mere song’!
Well, so it has been, ‘day in and day out.’ But those books, I would
remind you, are now my companions, my friends, and I can no more
associate money with their value than I can judge a friend in the flesh
by the contents of his purse. To me they are _priceless_.
VIII
‘THE CULT OF THE BOOKPLATE’
YOU have often heard the cry, and know full well its meaning, ‘My books
are priceless.’ What wonder, then, if you and I--lovers of books--take
lively interest in what an ingenuous man of business has called ‘_The
Cult of the Bookplate_.’ ‘The mission of the bookplate,’ he advises
us, ‘has always been, and must always be, primarily to indicate
ownership of the books in which they are placed. They may be ornate
or simple, as the taste or means of the owner may indicate; they may
incorporate crests, arms, motto, or other family attribute; or, again,
they may reflect the personal interests or occupations of the owner;
but the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same--a reminder to
those who borrow.’
Pretty ground this for contemplation--for doubts, counsels, hopes,
fears, regrets; aye, and for _rejoicing_! How my mind leaps,
first this way, then that, when I meditate upon that rich circle of
friendship in which I may borrow from a fellow book-lover’s treasured
volumes, and, of course, lend of my own! Yet by what unspeakable
regrets am I possessed when I think of certain treasured volumes lent
in wildly generous moments to good but ‘short-minded’ friends! I have
in mind a little volume of essays--a first and only edition--by an
unknown but charming writer, which is now in the possession of that
restless fellow K----. May he see these words and repent! And what of
that treasured edition--once mine, but, alas! mine no more--of certain
writings of Dr. Johnson? Oh, that I could send the good doctor in quest
of the volume! What blushes of shame he would bring to the cheeks of
the heartless borrower! ‘Sir!’ he would cry. And what words would
follow! Very speedily should I be in a position to fill the gap in my
shelves.
And there is that dainty little calf-bound volume of Lamb’s essays,
borrowed some months back by J----. Where are you and my little volume
now, good friend? For reasons known to ourselves alone I address you
tenderly. But I would that I could send the gentle Elia to recover my
lost gem. Very gently would he deal with you, with quaint phrases,
puns, and happy jests. Aye, and with little speeches uttered with that
fascinating lisp of his. Indeed, I fear, now that I come to give the
matter careful thought, that he would leave you empty handed. It would
be so like his charming ways to console, comfort, and amuse you, and
leave with you, after all, my volume of his incomparable essays.
The truth is, this work of restoring borrowed volumes to one’s shelves
calls for a stout heart. I confess that I am wanting in the necessary
qualifications. I have not the courage to speak harshly to a fellow
book-lover. So firm is his hold on my affections that I am as wax in
his hands. Yet book-lovers to a man agree that the borrower who never
repays stands in dire need of correction. I must call another to the
task--one of stronger metal.
Listen! ‘Even the fieldmouse,’ cries my champion, ‘has a russet gown to
match the mould, but the book-lover who has let loose a borrower in his
library is as forlorn as the goat tied up for tiger’s bait. True, that
to spare your Homer you may plead you are re-acquainting yourself with
the _Iliad_, but that is to save Homer and lose Virgil. You cannot
profess that you study all the classics simultaneously; and who knows
that better than the borrower? Snatch your Browning from his grip,
and his talons sink into Goethe instead. What does it matter to him?
He is out for books, and he will not be placated until he has left
gaping rents in your shelves, like the hull of a bombarded battleship.
These chasms shall burden your soul with the weight of many unkindly
maledictions, but the borrower will return no evil thought, for the
simple and satisfactory reason that he will now think no more either
of you or of your books. Stabled securely upon his shelves, they will
remain on one of those perpetual leases that amount to a freehold. It
is useless to invade his lair with the hope of bringing back the spoil.
Are you not instructed that he has not yet had time to read them,
but that they are yours again whenever you will? Outgeneralled and
outflanked, you retreat empty-handed.
‘Books are gentle, lovable company. Why should the lust of them
corrupt human nature, turning an amiable citizen into that hopeless
irreclaimable, the inveterate book-borrower? Is it that law of
contrasts which associates with the noble steed the ignoble
horse-coper, and with the gentle dove the cropped head and unshaven
jowl of the pigeon-flyer? But truce to theories! It is the hour of
action. Will not a benignly reforming Government insist that lent
books shall be registered like bills of sale, and a list drawn up of
notorious borrowers, with compulsory inspection of their dens, to
protect our defenceless libraries from the ravages of the book-pirate?
If it is hopeless to look for his cure, shall we not at least petition
for his prevention?’
You will allow that all this bears directly upon the subject in mind.
Does not the ingenuous gentleman whom I have quoted at the head of
this chapter aver that the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the
same--‘a reminder to those who borrow.’ Here, then, is one thread of
hope, but only a very thin thread, I fear. Not for one moment dare I
venture to think that it will bear the weight of our grievances. It
is too fine, too delicate, to save us from the hands of the ruthless
borrower. Indeed, I suspect that if it in any wise alters our position,
it is only to draw us into fresh danger. For you know how many and how
varied are the charms of bookplates, both old and new. Indeed, I have
known book-lovers borrow a volume for the sole purpose of tracing the
design upon the fly-leaf. It is a fault of which the present writer is
guilty. With shame he confesses it.
But wait! Why should I speak with blushes of my admiration for the
brave armorial designs which adorn the calf-bound volumes of my friend
H----? Well may he be proud of his family attributes, and well may I
admire the manner in which some skilful designer, long departed, has
incorporated arms and family motto with the familiar words _Ex Libris_.
I know not, by the way, how any book-lover can bring himself to ignore
information so absolutely clear. The announcement ‘FROM MY LIBRARY’
seems in the case of the particular bookplate in mind to come, nay,
_does_ come, from a trumpet of amazing dimensions. But it is to be
feared that the imaginative designer has been allowed too free a hand.
So rich is his fancy, so skilful his line work, that the force of his
call to duty is dulled by admiration. Perhaps that is why my friend’s
volume still rests on my shelves. And perchance herein may rest an
explanation of the heartless manner in which my friend has held fast to
my treasured volume of Cowper’s poems.
It is, I say, to be feared that designers of bookplates have sacrificed
the primary aim of their calling to the elaboration of playful fancies.
From the very birth of the bookplate the fault seems to have been
present. I am told that the earliest specimens date back to 1516, and
on the Continent, notably in Germany, even earlier than that. Far back
into the ages must we travel to find the first offenders. Let the
interested book-lover examine the ancient examples presented in 1574
by Sir Nicholas Bacon to the University of Cambridge. He will then see
pretty clearly how the war has been waged between the pictorial and
the practical, and how, all along the line, the victory has been with
the former. And what wonder with such mighty craftsmen as Albrecht
Durer, Lucas Cranach, and Hans Holbein to wield the steel point of the
engraver! Can one be surprised if such men defeat the chief aim of the
bookplate, and put to silence with their wonderful skill the simple cry
_Ex Libris_? Bookplates by Durer, Cranach, or Holbein must surely
give great value to the volumes in which they rest. Note the danger!
True book-lovers will blush to own it, but we must acknowledge the fact
that a bookplate may have greater attractions than the volume in which
it rests!
Wherefore, I say, we book-lovers will be well advised if we see to it
that we do not fall into the error of keeping on our shelves books
which may be coveted for the plates they contain. Bookplates in the
delicate manner of Chippendale, with ‘wreath and ribbon’ and open shell
work, are too alluring. Designs in the manner of Sheraton are also
dangerously attractive. Jacobean plates come nearer the desired mark.
But to my mind the good old English style of plate, ‘simple armorial,’
is best fitted for the purpose.
Always must we remember that the primary object of the bookplate is
_a reminder to those who borrow_. On this score I am disposed to
favour those inexpensive modern plates in which are interwoven some
dear, familiar scene--a nook or corner of one’s garden, or a beloved
scene in one’s native place. If the ruthless borrower has aught of
good in him, surely he will be affected by such tender personal
associations! But we have seen that the average borrower of books is
a strange fellow. Alas! I know him only too well. Indeed, I too must
confess that ‘out of an intimate knowledge of my own sinful ways have I
spoken.’
IX
BEDSIDE BOOKS
I come to my subject in a sleepy mood. It seems a daring confession to
make. But you will allow that only when one’s mind is bent on thoughts
of sleep can one hope to speak fittingly of bedside books. ’Tis a
subject calling for gentle, quiet thoughts. And what better state of
mind? You remember Robert Louis Stevenson’s prayer, ‘Give us the quiet
mind.’ How often has a similar prayer been offered! Too often are we
disturbed in thought--harassed, perplexed, worried. Let us now turn
our attention to books that soothe and lull to rest. Here they stand,
ready to hand. But name them I dare not, save in my own heart. For your
taste in this matter may be totally different from mine. I dare only
say at this point--for here surely I may speak with confidence--that
no bedside shelf is complete without a copy of Stevenson’s prayers.
With gratitude I confess that of the many volumes which have comforted
me during dark hours not one is so dear, so close to my heart, as the
little volume bearing the golden letters R. L. S.
‘Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each of us to rest.
If any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching; and when
the day returns, return to us our sun and comforter, and call us up
with morning faces and with morning hearts--eager to labour: eager to
be happy, if happiness be our portion; and if the day be marked for
sorrow, strong to endure it.’ Certainly the prayers of R. L. S. should
have a place on every bedside shelf. That you are familiar with the
foregoing prayer, I cannot doubt. ‘Many are the golden passages the
lover of good books has by heart.’ It may be that you have upon your
own particular bedside shelf many ‘devotional authors’ with whose every
word you are familiar--books, small and great, which are as jewels in
your shelf. And no doubt you have upon the same shelf many every-day
and every-hour books, acting, as it were, as a setting to your gems.
For certainly the bedside shelf, if it is to be complete, must contain
books to suit all moods. One cannot be certain in what mood the night
watches will find one. The over-excited brain, for instance, needs
its own particular medicine, and sometimes two, three, or more drugs
are required, according to the state and nature of the patient. In
the majority of cases it is futile to attempt a cure with a book less
lively than the patient’s own brain. His abnormal condition must be
righted by degrees. One book, or drug, must follow another, till his
mind has been restored to a normal state. Then may he resort to his
accustomed ‘rest books,’ and so fall asleep.
But I fear that such talk ‘smacks’ of the doctor and his medicine
chest, and I desire to conjure up restful thoughts. Well may the reader
be forgiven if he starts up in protest. Indeed, here is the difficulty
and the danger of seeking to promote a restful condition. One is so
apt to make, with the best intentions possible, a remark which has the
reverse effect. There is, I say, the risk of naming a book which to
the reader might come as a call to action--to daring deeds and mighty
enterprises--a mood as far removed from slumber as the North Pole from
the South.
I may, however, speak freely enough in the company of book-lovers who
wake with the rising sun and take to themselves one of their beloved
books. They will not resent my likes and dislikes--they who open the
day with a ‘jolly good book.’ In their company I may confess that for
the early morning I prefer a book with plenty of ‘go’ in it. Give me
life and spirit and enterprise. Thus may I hope to retain some measure
of the buoyancy of youth. It is good to have been young in youth,
and, as the years go, to grow _younger_. ‘Many,’ it is written,
‘are already old before they are through their teens; but to travel
deliberately through one’s ages is to get the heart out of a liberal
education. Times change, opinions vary to their opposite, and still
the world appears a brave gymnasium, full of sea-bathing, and horse
exercise, and bracing, manly virtues; and what can be more encouraging
than to find the friend who was welcome at one age welcome at another?’
Let _Westward Ho!_ stand on your bedside shelf, and many other
books of the same brave and lively order--‘the travel and adventure
books of our spirited youth.’ These, if you meet fresh days with a
book, will brace you for the battle. Stevenson must, of course, remain
one of your companions--your faithful friend both night and morning.
Bravery he will give you, and grace also.
Forth from the casement, on the plain
Where honour has the world to gain,
Pour forth and bravely do your part,
O knights of the unshielded heart!
Forth and for ever forward!--out
From prudent turret and redoubt,
And in the mellay charge amain
To fall, but yet to rise again!
Captive? Ah, still, to honour bright,
A captive soldier of the right!
Or free and fighting, good with ill?
Unconquering but unconquered still!
And mark again with what ‘manly grace’ and beauty of expression
Stevenson turns our thoughts to the ‘Giver of all strength.’
‘Give us grace and strength to bear and to persevere. Offenders, give
us the grace to accept and to forgive offenders. Forgetful ourselves,
help us to bear cheerfully the forgetfulness of others. Give us courage
and gaiety and the quiet mind. Spare us to our friends, soften us to
our enemies. Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavours. If
it may not, give us the strength to encounter that which is to come,
that we be brave in peril, constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath,
and in all changes of fortune, and down to the gates of death, loyal
and loving one to another.’
If there is a more helpful bedside author than Stevenson, I should much
like to make his acquaintance. To few is it given to speak ‘the word
that cheers’ with such a fine combination of tenderness and courage.
‘It is a commonplace,’ he says, ‘that we cannot answer for ourselves
before we have been tried. But it is not so common a reflection,
and surely more consoling, that we usually find ourselves a great
deal braver and better than we thought. I believe this is every one’s
experience; but an apprehension that they may belie themselves in the
future prevents mankind from trumpeting this cheerful sentiment abroad.
I wish sincerely, for it would have saved me much trouble, there had
been some one to put me in a good heart about life when I was younger;
to tell me how dangers are most portentous on a distant sight; and how
the good in a man’s spirit will not suffer itself to be overlaid, and
rarely or never deserts him in the hour of need.’
To the troubled, relaxed mind such words come as a bracing tonic.
Too often have we passed sleepless hours for the want of a word in
season--something to put a little ‘grit’ into us for the duties of
the morrow. Where the average mortal is concerned Stevenson certainly
supplies that need. Should he by any chance fail--well, there is an
essayist of our own day, waiting to minister to the most exacting
needs. I have in mind the many beautiful and tender pages written by
one whom we associate with a certain college window. Certainly of him
it may be said that he seeks to comfort and console, and to soothe and
lull to rest.
X
OLD FRIENDS
Come, and take choice of my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow.
GOLDSMITH.
NOW let us dwell upon our every-day and every-hour books--our dear old
familiar friends. ‘On a shelf in my bookcase,’ says Alexander Smith,
‘are collected a number of volumes which look somewhat the worse for
wear. Those of them that originally possessed gilding have had it
fingered off, each of them has leaves turned down, and they open of
themselves in places wherein I have been happy, and with whose every
word I am familiar as with the furniture of the room in which I nightly
slumber; each of them has remarks relevant and irrelevant scribbled
on their margins. Those favourite volumes cannot be called peculiar
glories of literature; but out of the world of books I have singled
them, as I have singled my intimates out of the world of men.’
Ah! that makes pleasant reading. For do not the sentiments expressed
reflect our own feelings? And do they not place us in gracious and
distinguished company? In his charming way, Goldsmith whispers, ‘The
first time I read an excellent book, it is to me as if I had gained a
new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles
the meeting with an old one.’ And to this Dillon adds, ‘Choose an
author as you would choose a friend’; whilst Langford, touching the
same theme, declares that ‘a wise man will select his book with care,
for he will not wish to class them all under the sacred name of
friends.’
And as friendship has its roots deep set in love and sympathy, and is
for ‘serene days and country rambles, and also for rough roads and hard
fare, shipwreck, poverty, and persecution, and, moreover, keeps company
with the sallies of the wit,’ it is easy enough to understand why such
authors as Charles Lamb, Oliver Goldsmith, William Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt,
Richard Jefferies, Thomas De Quincey, Joseph Addison, and, of later
years, Robert Louis Stevenson, have our affections.
Here they stand--Lamb, Goldsmith, Hazlitt, Hunt, Jefferies--the whole
lovable company. What shall I say concerning these friends of ours?
I am moved by deep and serious feelings. But, according to his own
telling, the gentle Elia, the first in mind, ‘had a general aversion
from being treated like a grave or respectable character, and kept a
wary eye upon the advances of age that should so entitle him. He herded
always, while it was possible, with people younger than himself. He
did not conform to the march of time, but was dragged along in the
procession. His manners lagged behind his years. He was too much of
the boy man. The _toga virilis_ never sate gracefully on his
shoulders. The impressions of infancy had burnt into him, and he
resented the impertinence of manhood.’ And therein, surely, rests the
secret of his charm. In spite of his brave confessions, how firm to
discerning hearts is the bed of the stream over which his thoughts
flow! Who can doubt the source of a stream that flows so sweetly?
And what of Oliver Goldsmith--poor ‘Goldy,’ as he was called by his
circle of intimates on earth? He, too, was very human, and, indeed, had
many weaknesses. And they tell us--they who write of such matters with
authority--that his days of poverty and wretchedness were largely, if
not entirely, the outcome of his follies. Even in the sphere in which
he shines--a clear, bright, inextinguishable star--it is said that he
had many short-comings. ‘He had neither the gift of knowledge nor the
power of research. As an essayist and poet, he has neither extended
views nor originality; as a critic, upon the few occasions upon which
he embarks on criticism his sympathies are of the most restricted
kind.’ And yet for the warmth and gentleness of his heart and the
purity of his style we love him. ‘His playful and delicate style
transformed everything he touched into something radiant with warmth
and fragrant with a perfume all its own.’
And how fared it with Hazlitt--the keen critic, the impassioned
writer--‘unbending and severe, insurgent in his political views’? Are
we not told that he was really more of an artist and sentimentalist
than a politician? ‘As for his life, it was aesthetic, Bohemian,
and irregular in the extreme. The restraints of domestic life were
intolerable; he wanted to be alone to write; rough accommodation and
coarse fare appeased him best; _tinkerdom_ was the ordinary state
of his interior environment; save for two pictures (which served as
a link with past aspiration and were treasured accordingly), he had
no property; a fugitive amour seemed to furnish the emotional side of
him with the stimulant it most required; he was a night rambler and a
reveller in Rousseau, over whose _Héloise_ and _Confessions_
he expended literally pints of tears.’ Such was the temperament of
the writer, artist, and sentimentalist who gave us those incomparable
essays ‘On Going a Journey,’ ‘On the Ignorance of the Learned,’ and ‘On
Familiar Style.’
And what of those other old friends, Hunt, Jefferies, De Quincey,
Robert Louis Stevenson? But our inquiries have gone far enough. What
boots it to repeat that our friends were human in life, just as surely
as they are human in their books, but with a humanity that allures,
charms, captivates? They do not preach to us, these old friends of
ours, or make open claims to virtue; and yet we are never so conscious
of goodness as when they are near. Their lightest raillery scorns a
mean act. In their company meanness flees as from a pestilence.... Our
_friends_!
Wisely is it said that the ‘best way to represent to life the manifold
use of friendship is to cast and see how many things there are which
a wise man cannot do himself; and then it will appear that it was a
sparing speech of the ancients to say, “that a friend is more than
himself”: for that a friend is far more than himself.’
And so I thank heaven for my friends, for the wise, the lovely, and the
noble-minded who stand side by side, ever willing, ever ready, upon my
humble shelf.
XI
THROUGH ROSE-COLOURED SPECTACLES
NOW let another occupy the printed page. I have promised to give
the experiences of other book-lovers, to show how books influence
their thoughts and ways; and I am anxious to introduce a short, slim
gentleman of sixty odd summers, with a smiling face and an air of
wellbeing, a retiring, peaceful book-lover, whom you would never
suspect of playing any part in a mystery.
Nevertheless, my friend must plead guilty to practising the ‘art of
make-believe’ to such a degree that one could never be certain how much
was real concerning him and his affairs and how much was imaginary.
Indeed, the only sure and unchanging thing about him was his spectacles
and the manner in which he viewed life through them--his _point of
view_.
‘My spectacles,’ he told me, over and over again, ‘are rose-coloured.
You understand, _rose-coloured_. They and myself are inseparable.
Without them I am as bad as stone-blind, and dare not take a step in
any direction.’
Then he would smile in a manner that led one to suspect that he was
merely drawing upon his imagination. But I learnt that my friend’s life
had been lived under such peculiar difficulties, and that he had passed
through so much sorrow and affliction, that without his rose-coloured
spectacles he was, in _one_ sense, stone-blind.
It pleased him to imagine that the lenses in his treasured spectacles,
which were gold-rimmed and old-fashioned in shape, had been cut from
rose-coloured pebbles, with the power of giving a rosy hue to life, and
bringing all things into correct perspective.
‘Correct perspective and the right point of view,’ he remarked on
a certain day, ‘are everything in life. My spectacles give me the
correct vision. They bring men and affairs into proper focus, and,
what is more, they give them a rose tint. Robert Louis Stevenson
wore spectacles something like mine, but his were far and away more
powerful. They enabled him to see farther and more clearly. They were
of a deeper and purer tint.’
He drew from his pocket a small cloth-bound edition of passages from
Stevenson’s works. The little volume did not measure more than, say,
three by five inches, and was considerably soiled and worn; but he
handled it as though it were worth its weight in precious stones.
It was clear, before he opened the volume, that he knew the greater
part of the contents by heart; for he commenced to quote as he ran his
fingers round the edge of the cover:
‘“When you have read, you carry away with you a memory of the man
himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked into
brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another bond on you
thenceforward, binding you to life and to the love of virtue.”’
He accompanied the quotation with a pleasing smile, as who should say,
‘How true that is and how nobly expressed!’ Then he turned the leaves
hastily as though looking for a favourite passage; but he abandoned the
search a moment later, and glanced up.
‘I fancy I can give you the passage correctly. I should like you
to hear it. It will throw light upon what I have said about my
rose-coloured spectacles.’
He looked up, as he spoke, at the trees overhanging the lane through
which we walked.
‘“Nor does the scenery any more affect the thoughts than the thoughts
affect the scenery. We see places through our humours as through
differently-coloured glasses.”’
He paused a moment, then repeated the last line slowly and with
emphasis: ‘_We see places through our humours as through
differently-coloured glasses._’
‘“We are ourselves,”’ he continued, ‘“a term in the quotation, a note
of the chord, and make discord and harmony almost at will. There is
no fear for the result, if we but surrender ourselves sufficiently
to the country that surrounds and follows us, so that we are ever
thinking suitable thoughts or telling ourselves some suitable sort of
story as we go. We become thus, in some sense, a centre of beauty; we
are provocative of beauty, such as a gentle and sincere character is
provocative of sincerity and gentleness in others....”’
Then he told me ‘some suitable sort of story’ about a certain man who
built a castle upon dry land, a castle of stone, firm as a rock, and
filled it with his heart’s desire. But no sooner had the man taken up
his abode therein than the tide of circumstances turned. Misfortune
followed misfortune; sorrow followed sorrow; first, the loss of
earthly possessions, then the loss of loved ones. All brightness and
hope were taken out of the man’s life, and for many years he dwelt in
darkness.
At this point my friend turned away, and slowly, thoughtfully, polished
his spectacles. One could not help thinking that he was relating in a
parable the story of his own past. This suspicion was strengthened, if
not actually confirmed, when he readjusted his spectacles and continued:
‘Then this same man built a castle in the air partly out of the
creations of his own mind, partly out of the creations of others,
a castle of thought, a building without visible support. He found,
however, that this castle in the air, built on lines he had been taught
to smile at in his youth, was more enduring than his castle of stone.
Moat and drawbridge were impassable, the gates impregnable. Changed
circumstances could not affect it; misfortune and sorrow could not
shake it; even death left it unmoved.’
‘You see,’ he continued, ‘what I am driving at? Listen to this from
my little volume: “No man can find out the world, says Solomon, from
beginning to end, because the world is in his own heart.” And this:
“An inspiration is a joy for ever, a possession as solid as a landed
estate, a fortune we can never exhaust, and which gives us year by
year a revenue of pleasurable activity. To have many of these is to be
spiritually rich.”’
The next moment he drew from his pocket a worn leather case and showed
me a portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson. He had it wrapped in two
layers of paper, both yellow with age and stained from much handling.
But the likeness was well preserved, as clear, perhaps, as on the day
it was taken.
‘I number this likeness,’ he said, ‘amongst my treasures. They go
everywhere with me--this portrait of Stevenson and this little volume
of extracts from his works.’ He fingered the cover affectionately. ‘The
case,’ he continued, ‘is worn with much handling, but the rose-coloured
lenses have not lost their power. Listen to this: “It is in virtue of
his own desires and curiosities that any man continues to exist with
even patience, that he is charmed by the look of things and people,
and that he awakens every morning with a renewed appetite for work and
pleasure.” And this: “Noble disappointment, noble self-denial, are not
to be admired, not even to be pardoned, if they bring bitterness. It is
one thing to enter the kingdom of heaven maim; another to maim yourself
and stay outside.”’
He glanced up and handed me the volume. ‘Make your own selection,’ he
suggested; ‘read something that condemns me.’
I acted on the suggestion, or, rather, the _first_ part of it; for
my selection, contrary to his request, was in the form of commendation:
‘“His was, indeed, a good influence in life while he was still among
us; he had a fresh laugh; it did you good to see him; and, however
sad he may have been at heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful
countenance, and took fortune’s worst as it were the showers of
spring.”’
I was not aware how entirely this fitted my friend’s case until some
months had passed. Our friendship was only in its infancy at that time,
little more than an acquaintance. We had no formal introduction. He
had asked the time of day, then gone on to talk of his rose-coloured
spectacles. We had much to say concerning his spectacles in the days
that followed--always in a light and pleasant vein. To be tedious
or heavy was, to his mind, a grievous fault, particularly in books.
In life and in letters he would always look for, and never fail to
find, the brightest side, the happiest passages. And he would apply
the one to the other--a passage from Stevenson, or some other author,
to an incident in his own or some other life--in a manner that was
wonderfully illuminating and helpful.
In brief, his was ‘the life that loves, that gives, that loses itself,
that overflows; the warm, hearty, social, helpful life.’ From a
sorrowful chapter in his history he would weave a story for the help
of others, always from a rose-coloured standpoint; from a calamity
he would make a fairy tale, showing that, in spite of adversity, the
_House Beautiful_ was still upon its hill-top.
I remarked, in introducing him, that he was guilty of playing a part
in a mystery. You will have seen through the mystery by now; at least,
as regards his rose-coloured spectacles. But there is more to be said
concerning his life and his love of books.
XII
WITH NATURE
ANOTHER meeting with my friend of the rose-coloured spectacles was
beneath a blue sky and in a ‘glow of sunlight.’ This was some while
after a visit to the little room that formed his home, where I had seen
certain photographs which had aroused my interest and curiosity.
‘Come,’ he wrote, ‘and saunter with me for an hour or two in the best
stretch of country within easy reach of London, which, to us, shall be
the best between the two Poles. Take rail to Hampstead and meet me near
the flagstaff, overlooking the heath valley, at any hour you care to
name. But, mark you, I only promise to _saunter_. I have no legs
for hard walking, and even if I had, would prefer an easy pace. You
remember Thoreau’s words in praise of sauntering: “I have met with but
one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of
Walking; that is, of taking walks--who had a genius, so to speak, for
_sauntering_; which word is beautifully derived ‘from idle people
who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity,
under pretence of going _a la Sainte Terra_, to the Holy Land,
till the children exclaimed, ‘There goes a _Sainte-Terrer_,’ a
Saunterer--a Holy Lander. They who never go to the Holy Land in their
walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they
who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some,
however, would derive the word from _sans terre_, without land
or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean having no
particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret
of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may
be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense,
is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while
sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. But I prefer the
first, which indeed is the most probable derivation. For every walk is
a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us, to go forth
and reconquer this Holy Land from the hands of the Infidels.”’
‘That is so very pleasingly and bravely expressed,’ the letter
continued, ‘that I am hoping it will convert you to “the gentle pace.”
But have no fear that my spirit will prove as slow as my legs. I am
still in possession of my rose-coloured spectacles, and can take full
share in joy derived from pleasing thoughts and impressions.’
This, too, was bravely expressed; for when I met my friend at the spot
named, I was pained to find him considerably thinner and paler than at
our last meeting. But his greeting was as cordial as on any previous
occasion, and I was glad to find that his voice had lost none of its
familiar ring of enjoyment.
‘What think you of this passage?’ he cried after an exchange of
greetings. ‘It is from a comparatively modern book--from a novel, to be
precise, by Henry Harland. I fancy it should put us in the right mood
for our saunter. There is an open estate across the heath into which we
may go and find much of the splendour mentioned.’
As we sauntered forward, he read the passage for my benefit in
his rich, musical voice: ‘“Beyond the shade, the sunshine broke
into a mosaic of merry colours, on larkspur and iris, pansies and
pink geraniums, jessamine, sweet-peas, tulips shameless in their
extravagance of green and crimson, red and white carnations, red,
white, and yellow roses. The sunshine broke into colour, it laughed, it
danced, it almost rioted, among the flowers; but in the prim alleys,
and on the formal hedges of box, and the quaintly clipped yews, and
the old purple brick walls, where fruit-trees were trellised, it lay
fast, fast asleep. Without the walls, in the cool greenery of the park,
there was a perpetual drip-drip of bird-notes. This was the web upon
which a chosen handful of more accomplished birds were embroidering and
cross-embroidering their bold, clear arabesques of song.”’
You will notice that this pleasing passage is in lighter vein than
the style of writing that usually won my friend’s admiration. I think
the reason lay in his desire to show that a man might suffer from
indifferent health and still enjoy a bright and lively spirit. I
wish you could have heard him give voice to the following passage,
as we made our way over the heath, through a wealth of fresh green
undergrowth. He looked up, as he recited the words, at the blue sky,
and spoke half playfully, half seriously:
‘“The sky is an inverted bowl of blue Sèvres--that priceless
bleu-royal. The air is full of gold like _eau-de-vie de Dantzic_;
if we only had a liquefying apparatus, we could recapture the first
fine careless nectar of the gods, the poor dead gods of Greece. The
earth is as aromatic as an orange stuck with cloves; I can’t begin
to tell you all the wondrous woody, mossy, racy things it smells of.
And the birds, the robins and the throstles, the blackbirds and the
blackcaps, the linnets and the little Jenny wrens, knowing the value
of silence, are hoarding it like misers; but, like prodigals, they’re
squandering sound. The ear of mortal never heard such a delirious,
delicious, such a crystalline, argentine, ivory-smooth, velvety-soft,
such a ravishing, such an enravished tumult of sweet voices. Showers,
cascades of pearls and rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires.”’
He laughed aloud, after the last word had left his lips, out of pure
lightness of heart, then went on to speak of the value of pure air
as a health restorer: ‘Pure air and an unsophisticated spirit in the
presence of Nature--these are the best medical appliances.’ Bright
colour showed in his cheeks as he continued to speak in playful vein of
the doctor and his pharmacopoeia. To his mind, Mother Nature was the
best of doctors. Had not Stevenson and many others written in praise of
the soothing influence of conditions such as we enjoyed that day, the
happy impressions, the sense of peace and wellbeing?
Then the conversation drifted into other channels, and we fell to
talking of the time spent together in my friend’s little room--of his
books, his pictures, his china, and of the photographs he had shown
me. And here our talk took on a serious complexion; but we were still
conscious of the flood of sunlight, the happy surroundings. Therefore,
our tone, though serious, had nothing of melancholy. I learnt that
the photographs that had aroused my curiosity had been taken at an
establishment in old Hampstead, now demolished. In those days my friend
had lived in a large, well-appointed house overlooking the heath. His
means had been ample, his position seemingly secure. But misfortune
had come, business reverses, the failure of a company in which large
interests were vested, the betrayal of a friend in whom confidence had
been placed. Then followed the sickness and death of his wife and child.
I looked at my friend and marvelled at his courage in the face of
such misfortunes. At our first meeting he had said that without his
rose-coloured spectacles, his bright point of view, all seemed dark.
The meaning of his words was now touchingly clear. How could he have
continued to live had he not been blessed with an indomitable spirit?
I wish I could give a faithful idea of the inspiring manner in which
he interwove his story with bright and consoling touches; but so much
depended upon his manner, the inflexions of his voice, the expression
in his eyes, that I cannot hope to convey an adequate impression.
I can only say that no spark of hope or consolation escaped his
gratitude; that his bright and cheerful spirit was as ‘pervasive as
sweet lavender, unavoidable as the sunset before the westward-bound
traveller.’ The blue sky above, the foliage around, the rich growth
beneath our feet--all had their message. Nature was our ‘good host’ for
the day, and he ‘looked through Nature up to Nature’s God.’
So the day passed by, and the shadows lengthened, but the light still
shone upon the hill-tops; whilst the sun set in a glory of red. ‘I
wonder,’ said my friend, ‘if you remember Thoreau’s beautiful passage:
“We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass
and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed
in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west
of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of Elysium,
and the sun on our backs seemed like a herdsman driving us home at
evening.
‘“So we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall
shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine
into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great
awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in
autumn.”’
XIII
A PILGRIMAGE
‘SO we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine
more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our
minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening
light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn.’ These
were the last words I heard from my friend’s lips. He had a serious
relapse, shortly after our visit to the country, and died within a few
days. And now I am divided between a deep sense of personal loss and my
duty to his memory. He would, I know, have had me look upon his journey
to the ‘Other Side’ in the light of a pilgrimage, gone upon bravely,
cheerfully, in perfect confidence.
By my side is a letter in which he speaks of this attitude in the
course of a reference to our day in the country. ‘I have been reading,’
he says, ‘a volume of Mr. A. C. Benson’s essays, procured from a
circulating library, and am filled with gratitude for their soothing
influence. The following passage from his essay on “Beauty” will recall
the conversation we had at our last meeting--our day in the country:
“Nature has a magic for many of us--that is to say, a secret power that
strikes across our lives at intervals, with a message from an unknown
region. And this message is aroused by symbols; a tree, a flash of
light on lonely clouds, a flower, a stream--simple things that we have
seen a thousand times--have sometimes the power to cast a spell over
our spirit, and to bring something that is great and incommunicable
near us. This must be called magic, for it is not a thing which can be
explained by ordinary laws, or defined in precise terms; but the spell
is there, real, insistent, undeniable; it seems to make a bridge for
the spirit to pass into a far-off, dimly apprehended region; it gives
us a sense of great issues and remote visions; it leaves us with a
longing which has no mortal fulfilment.”’
‘I mention this,’ the letter continues, ‘because it seems to me to lead
to certain deep issues of life about which I have seldom spoken. I have
always felt a certain diffidence in touching upon matters relating
to the soul and the life hereafter. Yet, I have not let others do
_all_ the thinking. I have had my own thoughts, my own visions.
But, after all, refined speculations are of little use if there be
not some tangible belief at the back of them. I like the passage just
quoted, and I like the author’s reference, in another part of the
volume, to the guarded city of life. But I think the following passage
makes the strongest appeal, for _all_ may participate in the deep
yet simple feelings expressed: “What are the thoughts of the mighty
unresting heart, to whose vastness and agelessness the whole mass of
these flying and glowing suns are but as a handful of dust that a boy
flings upon the air? How has He set me here, a tiny moving atom, yet
more sure of my own identity than I am of all the vast panorama of
things which lie outside of me? Has He, indeed, a tender and patient
thought of me, the frail creature whom He has moulded and made? I do
not doubt it; I look upon the star-sown spaces, and the old aspiration
rises in my heart, ‘Oh, that I knew where I might find Him! that
I might come into His presence!’ How would I go, like a tired and
sorrowful child to his father’s knee, to be comforted and encouraged,
in perfect trust and love, to be raised in His arms, to be held to His
heart! He would but look in my face, and I should understand without a
question, without a word.”’
When I think of this passage and others which were included in letters
written by my friend during his illness, I see clearly that he must
have realized that he stood on the brink of the unknown. But no fears
were expressed. Indeed, I gathered nothing from his letters regarding
his physical condition. He made no mention of sickness or pain,
dropped no hint of weariness. On the contrary, the letters of which I
speak struck a deeper and truer note of cheerfulness and courage than
any previous communications from his hand. I like to think that he
continued, as of old, to speak of his rose-coloured spectacles, his
point of view. ‘The secret of a happy life,’ he remarks, in the letter
from which I have just quoted, ‘consists in immediately clearing away
the specks of dust which are so apt to fall upon one’s rose-coloured
spectacles, the little annoyances, the petty worries, the hundred and
one little dark specks which I leave you to name at your leisure.’
Then follows a deeper note, taken, I think, from Epictetus: ‘Happiness
is not in strength, or wealth or power, or all three. It lies in
ourselves, in true freedom, in the conquest of every ignoble fear, in
perfect self-government, in a power of contentment and peace, the even
flow of life, even in poverty, exile, disease, and the very valley of
the shadow of death.’
‘So you see,’ my friend continues, ‘there are also dark fogs and thick
mists against which the would-be cheerful man must contend--deep trials
compared to which our daily petty annoyances are, indeed, but specks of
dust. But these, too, may be overcome. The truth is “the cheerful life
is neither a matter of circumstance nor of temperament. It is a gift
of God, and we can covet no better gift. The black hag of care can no
longer sit on the shoulder of the man whose cheerfulness is the child
of reason, not of impulse; whose heart is light because he can trust,
not because the sky is blue and the world smiling.”’
I wish I could give you some account, from personal knowledge, of the
way my friend spent his last days. This I cannot do, for many miles
stood between us. But I am told by those who nursed him that up till
the end his mind retained its clearness and vigour; that he never
ceased to take an interest in his surroundings, in the great world
outside his little room, in the many ill-favoured ones whom he had
befriended.
Close by my side stands a shelf upon which are stored a number of
volumes from his library. They are typical of his treasured collection,
some of the best of the world’s best books, each volume showing
signs of much reading and meditation, each page bearing marginal
notes--original observations and thoughts from other sources, showing
how one great writer differed from others, or, in the main, was of like
opinion with his contemporaries. Many of the observations seem to me to
be remarkably fresh and interesting--quite simple, it is true, but of
the type of simplicity that captivates.
I shall hope to set down some of these, together with the passages
to which they refer. Here is one example, which will serve to convey
an idea of my friend’s manner of commenting upon an author’s words.
The passage in point reads thus: ‘When thou hast been compelled by
circumstances to be disturbed in a manner, quickly return to thyself,
and do not remain out of tune longer than the compulsion lasts; for
thou wilt have more mastery over the harmony by continually recurring
to it.’ By the side of this, written in lead pencil, are the following
words: ‘Might not human life be compared to an orchestra, composed of
all kinds of instruments? I mean that each of our natures is, so to
say, an instrument, some more pleasing and, seemingly, more useful than
others; but of equal value when played in accord with the combined
orchestra. And if we, at any time, drop out of him, is it not because
we have failed to give our attention to the Great Conductor of all?’
They tell me that towards the end he referred repeatedly to the help
he had derived from keeping his spiritual vision clear, his faith
unclouded. So far as I can gather, his closing words were these: ‘Faith
kept in lively exercise can make roses spring out of the midst of
thorns, and change the briers of the wilderness into the fruit-trees of
Paradise.’
XIV
FAREWELL
I HAVE attained my desire: I have introduced you to a true book-lover.
And if you wonder why I have chosen a life shadowed by sorrow, I answer
that love comes that way. ’Tis no new teaching, that which shows how
sorrow and tribulation are the paths by which men travel to perfection.
We start upon life’s journey with a glad cry; but many fall from the
ranks some distance from the ‘first milestone,’ and fortunate are the
fallen ones who find an open book by the wayside.
It was thus the love of books came to my friend of the rose-coloured
spectacles. Shadows fell across his path, and he fell from the ranks;
but out of the shadows came sweet voices, telling of gentle fancies
and strength-giving realities. This was the road (need I hesitate in
confessing it?) upon which I, too, came by the love of books.
Oh! how much we book-lovers owe to ‘those little sheets of paper that
teach us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers.... We ought
to (and surely do) reverence books, to look upon them as good and
mighty things. Whether they are about religion or politics, farming,
trade, or medicine, they are messages of the Teacher of all truth.’
More cannot be said. And so farewell, fellow book-lover. May you find
upon the way many wise and friendly books.
But wait! I hear as though voiced in clear tones the beautiful passage
to be found in the little _book-friend_ whose name is on so
many lips. Let me follow the pleasing example of my friend of the
rose-coloured spectacles. Let me echo the brief passage before I take
leave of you: ‘It is scarcely farewell, for my road is ubiquitous,
eternal; there are green ways in Paradise and golden streets in the
beautiful City of God. Nevertheless my heart is heavy; for, viewed by
the light of the waning year, roadmending seems a great and wonderful
work which I have poorly conceived of and meanly performed: yet I have
learnt to understand dimly the truths of the three paradoxes--the
blessing of a curse, the voice of silence, the companionship of
solitude--and so take my leave of this stretch of the road, and of you
who have fared along the white highway through the medium of a printed
page.’
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
F’cap 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, =1s. 6d.= net cash (postage 3d).
THE CHEERFUL LIFE:
A Series of Papers in Praise of Cheerfulness. Edited by E. W. WALTERS.
‘Some of the papers are of the highest order, many have an exquisite
literary flavour, all of them make excellent reading.’
--_London Quarterly Review_.
‘Here is the very book for hours of gloom and hours of gladness. None
of the papers are superficial, and two or three of them are of the
highest order of literary art.’--_Great Thoughts_.
‘The best comment upon these pages is that they leave one cheerful.
The book has at times a literary and always a human flavour, which
redeems it from either dullness or mere sentiment.’--_Daily News_.
THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS:
An Anthology. Edited by E. W. WALTERS.
‘A fresh and valuable anthology ... the selection has been made
with taste and judgement, and the passages arranged with art and
skill.’--_London Quarterly Review_.
‘The selections are fresh, modern, and wisely chosen. It will prove
an invaluable quarry for preachers and speakers of all kinds to dig
in.’--_Yorkshire Herald_.
‘If any one wishes to afford guidance to a friend, and at the same
time to supply that friend with graciously expressed as well as
helpful thoughts, this book may be wisely presented.’--_Mansfield
Chronicle_.
CHARLES H. KELLY,
25-35 City Road, and
26 Paternoster Row,
LONDON, E.C.
AND OF ALL BOOKSELLERS
PRINTED BY THE
SOUTHAMPTON TIMES CO., LTD.
70 ABOVE BAR, SOUTHAMPTON
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Obvious typographical errors have been silently changed.
Inconsistent hyphenation has been corrected.
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