THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC

BY

EUGENE FIELD

Introduction

The determination to found a story or a series of sketches on thedelights, adventures, and misadventures connected with bibliomania didnot come impulsively to my brother. For many years, in short duringthe greater part of nearly a quarter of a century of journalistic work, he had celebrated in prose and verse, and always in his happiest andmost delightful vein, the pleasures of book-hunting. Himself anindefatigable collector of books, the possessor of a library asvaluable as it was interesting, a library containing volumes obtainedonly at the cost of great personal sacrifice, he was in the most activesympathy with the disease called bibliomania, and knew, as fewcomparatively poor men have known, the half-pathetic, half-humorousside of that incurable mental infirmity. 

The newspaper column, to which he contributed almost daily for twelveyears, comprehended many sly digs and gentle scoffings at those of hisunhappy fellow citizens who became notorious, through hisinstrumentality, in their devotion to old book-shelves and auctionsales. And all the time none was more assiduous than this samegood-natured cynic in running down a musty prize, no matter what itscost or what the attending difficulties. "I save others, myself Icannot save, " was his humorous cry. 

In his published writings are many evidences of my brother'sappreciation of what he has somewhere characterized the "soothingaffliction of bibliomania. " Nothing of book-hunting love has been morehappily expressed than "The Bibliomaniac's Prayer, " in which thetroubled petitioner fervently asserts:

 "But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee To keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be Most notably beset to-day; Let my temptation be a book, Which I shall purchase, hold and keep, Whereon, when other men shall look, They'll wail to know I got it cheap. "

And again, in "The Bibliomaniac's Bride, " nothing breathes better thespirit of the incurable patient than this:

 "Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse when to verse inclined, -- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart and mind. Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine!"

In "Dear Old London" the poet wailed that "a splendid Horace cheap forcash" laughed at his poverty, and in "Dibdin's Ghost" he revelled inthe delights that await the bibliomaniac in the future state, wherethere is no admission to the women folk who, "wanting victuals, make afuss if we buy books instead"; while in "Flail, Trask and Bisland" isthe very essence of bibliomania, the unquenchable thirst forpossession. And yet, despite these self-accusations, bibliophily ratherthan bibliomania would be the word to characterize his conscientiouspurpose. If he purchased quaint and rare books it was to own them tothe full extent, inwardly as well as outwardly. The mania for bookskept him continually buying; the love of books supervened to make thema part of himself and his life. 

Toward the close of August of the present year my brother wrote thefirst chapter of "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac. " At that timehe was in an exhausted physical condition and apparently unfit for anyprotracted literary labor. But the prospect of gratifying along-cherished ambition, the delight of beginning the story he hadplanned so hopefully, seemed to give him new strength, and he threwhimself into the work with an enthusiasm that was, alas, misleading tothose who had noted fearfully his declining vigor of body. For yearsno literary occupation had seemed to give him equal pleasure, and inthe discussion of the progress of his writing from day to day his eyewould brighten, all of his old animation would return, and everythingwould betray the lively interest he felt in the creature of hisimagination in whom he was living over the delights of thebook-hunter's chase. It was his ardent wish that this work, for thefulfilment of which he had been so long preparing, should be, as heplayfully expressed it, a monument of apologetic compensation to aclass of people he had so humorously maligned, and those who knew himintimately will recognize in the shortcomings of the bibliomaniac thehumble confession of his own weaknesses. 

It is easy to understand from the very nature of the undertaking thatit was practically limitless; that a bibliomaniac of so many years'experience could prattle on indefinitely concerning his "love affairs, "and at the same time be in no danger of repetition. Indeed mybrother's plans at the outset were not definitely formed. He wouldsay, when questioned or joked about these amours, that he was in theeasy position of Sam Weller when he indited his famous valentine, andcould "pull up" at any moment. One week he would contend that abook-hunter ought to be good for a year at least, and the next week hewould argue as strongly that it was time to send the old man intowinter quarters and go to press. But though the approach of coldweather increased his physical indisposition, he was not the lessinterested in his prescribed hours of labor, howbeit his weaknesswarned him that he should say to his book, as his much-loved Horace hadwritten:

 "Fuge quo descendere gestis: Non erit emisso reditis tibi. "

Was it strange that his heart should relent, and that he should writeon, unwilling to give the word of dismissal to the book whosepreparation had been a work of such love and solace?

During the afternoon of Saturday, November 2, the nineteenth instalmentof "The Love Affairs" was written. It was the conclusion of hisliterary life. The verses supposably contributed by Judge Methuen'sfriend, with which the chapter ends, were the last words written byEugene Field. He was at that time apparently quite as well as on anyday during the fall months, and neither he nor any member of his familyhad the slightest premonition that death was hovering about thehousehold. The next day, though still feeling indisposed, he was attimes up and about, always cheerful and full of that sweetness andsunshine which, in his last years, seem now to have been thepreparation for the life beyond. He spoke of the chapter he hadwritten the day before, and it was then that he outlined his plan ofcompleting the work. One chapter only remained to be written, and itwas to chronicle the death of the old bibliomaniac, but not until hehad unexpectedly fallen heir to a very rare and almost priceless copyof Horace, which acquisition marked the pinnacle of the book-hunter'sconquest. True to his love for the Sabine singer, the western poetcharacterized the immortal odes of twenty centuries gone the greatesthappiness of bibliomania. 

In the early morning of November 4 the soul of Eugene Field passedupward. On the table, folded and sealed, were the memoirs of the oldman upon whom the sentence of death had been pronounced. On the bed inthe corner of the room, with one arm thrown over his breast, and thesmile of peace and rest on his tranquil face, the poet lay. All aroundhim, on the shelves and in the cases, were the books he loved so well. Ah, who shall say that on that morning his fancy was not verified, andthat as the gray light came reverently through the window, thosecherished volumes did not bestir themselves, awaiting the cheery voice:"Good day to you, my sweet friends. How lovingly they beam upon me, and how glad they are that my rest has been unbroken. "

Could they beam upon you less lovingly, great heart, in the chamberwarmed by your affection and now sanctified by death? Were they lessglad to know that the repose would be unbroken forevermore, since itcame the glorious reward, my brother, of the friend who went gladly toit through his faith, having striven for it through his works?

ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD

Buena Park, December, 1895. 

The Chapters in this Book

 I MY FIRST LOVE II THE BIRTH OF A NEW PASSION III THE LUXURY OF READING IN BED IV THE MANIA OF COLLECTING SEIZES ME V BALDNESS AND INTELLECTUALITY VI MY ROMANCE WITH FIAMMETTA VII THE DELIGHTS OF FENDER-FISHING VIII BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS IX BOOKSELLERS AND PRINTERS, OLD AND NEW X WHEN FANCHONETTE BEWITCHED ME XI DIAGNOSIS OF THE BACILLUS LIBRORUM XII THE PLEASURES OF EXTRA-ILLUSTRATION XIII ON THE ODORS WHICH MY BOOKS EXHALE XIV ELZEVIRS AND DIVERS OTHER MATTERS XV A BOOK THAT BRINGS SOLACE AND CHEER XVI THE MALADY CALLED CATALOGITIS XVII THE NAPOLEONIC RENAISSANCE XVIII MY WORKSHOP AND OTHERS XIX OUR DEBT TO MONKISH MEN

I

MY FIRST LOVE

At this moment, when I am about to begin the most important undertakingof my life, I recall the sense of abhorrence with which I have atdifferent times read the confessions of men famed for their prowess inthe realm of love. These boastings have always shocked me, for Ireverence love as the noblest of the passions, and it is impossible forme to conceive how one who has truly fallen victim to its benigninfluence can ever thereafter speak flippantly of it. 

Yet there have been, and there still are, many who take a seemingdelight in telling you how many conquests they have made, and they notinfrequently have the bad taste to explain with wearisome prolixity theways and the means whereby those conquests were wrought; as, forsooth, an unfeeling huntsman is forever boasting of the game he hasslaughtered and is forever dilating upon the repulsive details of hisbutcheries. 

I have always contended that one who is in love (and having once beenin love is to be always in love) has, actually, no confession to make. Love is so guileless, so proper, so pure a passion as to involve noneof those things which require or which admit of confession. He, therefore, who surmises that in this exposition of my affaires du coeurthere is to be any betrayal of confidences, or any discussion, suggestion, or hint likely either to shame love or its votaries or tobring a blush to the cheek of the fastidious--he is grievously in error. 

Nor am I going to boast; for I have made no conquests. I am in nosense a hero. For many, very many years I have walked in a pleasantgarden, enjoying sweet odors and soothing spectacles; no predetermineditinerary has controlled my course; I have wandered whither I pleased, and very many times I have strayed so far into the tangle-wood andthickets as almost to have lost my way. And now it is my purpose towalk that pleasant garden once more, inviting you to bear me companyand to share with me what satisfaction may accrue from an old man'sreturn to old-time places and old-time loves. 

As a child I was serious-minded. I cared little for those sports whichusually excite the ardor of youth. To out-of-door games and exercisesI had particular aversion. I was born in a southern latitude, but atthe age of six years I went to live with my grandmother in NewHampshire, both my parents having fallen victims to the cholera. Thischange from the balmy temperature of the South to the rigors of theNorth was not agreeable to me, and I have always held it responsiblefor that delicate health which has attended me through life. 

My grandmother encouraged my disinclination to play; she recognized inme that certain seriousness of mind which I remember to have heard hersay I inherited from her, and she determined to make of me what she hadfailed to make of any of her own sons--a professional expounder of theonly true faith of Congregationalism. For this reason, and for thefurther reason that at the tender age of seven years I publicly avowedmy desire to become a clergyman, an ambition wholly sincere at thattime--for these reasons was I duly installed as prime favorite in mygrandmother's affections. 

As distinctly as though it were but yesterday do I recall the time whenI met my first love. It was in the front room of the old homestead, and the day was a day in spring. The front room answered thosepurposes which are served by the so-called parlor of the present time. I remember the low ceiling, the big fireplace, the long, broadmantelpiece, the andirons and fender of brass, the tall clock with itsjocund and roseate moon, the bellows that was always wheezy, the waxflowers under a glass globe in the corner, an allegorical picture ofSolomon's temple, another picture of little Samuel at prayer, the high, stiff-back chairs, the foot-stool with its gayly embroidered top, themirror in its gilt-and-black frame--all these things I remember well, and with feelings of tender reverence, and yet that day I now recallwas well-nigh threescore and ten years ago!

Best of all I remember the case in which my grandmother kept her books, a mahogany structure, massive and dark, with doors composed ofdiamond-shaped figures of glass cunningly set in a framework of lead. I was in my seventh year then, and I had learned to read I know notwhen. The back and current numbers of the "Well-Spring" had fallenprey to my insatiable appetite for literature. With the story of thesmall boy who stole a pin, repented of and confessed that crime, andthen became a good and great man, I was as familiar as if I myself hadinvented that ingenious and instructive tale; I could lisp the moralnumbers of Watts and the didactic hymns of Wesley, and the annualreports of the American Tract Society had already revealed to me thesphere of usefulness in which my grandmother hoped I would ultimatelyfigure with discretion and zeal. And yet my heart was free; whollyuntouched of that gentle yet deathless passion which was to become mydelight, my inspiration, and my solace, it awaited the coming of itsfirst love. 

Upon one of those shelves yonder--it is the third shelf from the top, fourth compartment to the right--is that old copy of the "New EnglandPrimer, " a curious little, thin, square book in faded blue boardcovers. A good many times I have wondered whether I ought not to havethe precious little thing sumptuously attired in the finest style knownto my binder; indeed, I have often been tempted to exchange the homelyblue board covers for flexible levant, for it occurred to me that inthis way I could testify to my regard for the treasured volume. Ispoke of this one day to my friend Judge Methuen, for I have greatrespect for his judgment. 

"It would be a desecration, " said he, "to deprive the book of itsoriginal binding. What! Would you tear off and cast away the coverswhich have felt the caressing pressure of the hands of those whosememory you revere? The most sacred of sentiments should forbid thatact of vandalism!"

I never think or speak of the "New England Primer" that I do notrecall Captivity Waite, for it was Captivity who introduced me to thePrimer that day in the springtime of sixty-three years ago. She was ofmy age, a bright, pretty girl--a very pretty, an exceptionally prettygirl, as girls go. We belonged to the same Sunday-school class. Iremember that upon this particular day she brought me a russet apple. It was she who discovered the Primer in the mahogany case, and what wasnot our joy as we turned over the tiny pages together and feasted oureyes upon the vivid pictures and perused the absorbingly interestingtext! What wonder that together we wept tears of sympathy at theharrowing recital of the fate of John Rogers!

Even at this remote date I cannot recall that experience withCaptivity, involving as it did the wood-cut representing theunfortunate Rogers standing in an impossible bonfire and being consumedthereby in the presence of his wife and their numerous progeny, strungalong in a pitiful line across the picture for artistic effect--evennow, I say, I cannot contemplate that experience and that wood-cutwithout feeling lumpy in my throat and moist about my eyes. 

How lasting are the impressions made upon the youthful mind! Throughthe many busy years that have elapsed since first I tasted thethrilling sweets of that miniature Primer I have not forgotten that"young Obadias, David, Josias, all were pious"; that "Zaccheus he didclimb the Tree our Lord to see"; and that "Vashti for Pride was setaside"; and still with many a sympathetic shudder and tingle do Irecall Captivity's overpowering sense of horror, and mine, as welingered long over the portraitures of Timothy flying from Sin, ofXerxes laid out in funeral garb, and of proud Korah's troop partlysubmerged. 

 My Book and Heart Must never part. 

So runs one of the couplets in this little Primer-book, and right trulycan I say that from the springtime day sixty-odd years ago, when firstmy heart went out in love to this little book, no change of scene or ofcustom no allurement of fashion, no demand of mature years, has abatedthat love. And herein is exemplified the advantage which the love ofbooks has over the other kinds of love. Women are by nature fickle, andso are men; their friendships are liable to dissipation at the merestprovocation or the slightest pretext. 

Not so, however, with books, for books cannot change. A thousand yearshence they are what you find them to-day, speaking the same words, holding forth the same cheer, the same promise, the same comfort;always constant, laughing with those who laugh and weeping with thosewho weep. 

Captivity Waite was an exception to the rule governing her sex. In allcandor I must say that she approached closely to a realization of theideals of a book--a sixteenmo, if you please, fair to look upon, ofclear, clean type, well ordered and well edited, amply margined, neatlybound; a human book whose text, as represented by her disposition andher mind, corresponded felicitously with the comeliness of herexterior. This child was the great-great-granddaughter of BenjaminWaite, whose family was carried off by Indians in 1677. Benjaminfollowed the party to Canada, and after many months of search found andransomed the captives. 

The historian has properly said that the names of Benjamin Waite andhis companion in their perilous journey through the wilderness toCanada should "be memorable in all the sad or happy homes of thisConnecticut valley forever. " The child who was my friend in youth, andto whom I may allude occasionally hereafter in my narrative, bore thename of one of the survivors of this Indian outrage, a name to berevered as a remembrancer of sacrifice and heroism. 

II

THE BIRTH OF A NEW PASSION

When I was thirteen years old I went to visit my Uncle Cephas. Mygrandmother would not have parted with me even for that fortnight hadshe not actually been compelled to. It happened that she was called toa meeting of the American Tract Society, and it was her intention topay a visit to her cousin, Royall Eastman, after she had discharged thefirst and imperative duty she owed the society. Mrs. Deacon Ranney wasto have taken me and provided for my temporal and spiritual wantsduring grandmother's absence, but at the last moment the deacon camedown with one of his spells of quinsy, and no other alternativeremained but to pack me off to Nashua, where my Uncle Cephas lived. 

This involved considerable expense, for the stage fare was threeshillings each way: it came particularly hard on grandmother, inasmuchas she had just paid her road tax and had not yet received hersemi-annual dividends on her Fitchburg Railway stock. Indifferent, however, to every sense of extravagance and to all other considerationsexcept those of personal pride, I rode away atop of the stage-coach, full of exultation. As we rattled past the Waite house I waved my capto Captivity and indulged in the pleasing hope that she would belonesome without me. Much of the satisfaction of going away arisesfrom the thought that those you leave behind are likely to bewretchedly miserable during your absence. 

My Uncle Cephas lived in a house so very different from mygrandmother's that it took me some time to get used to the place. UncleCephas was a lawyer, and his style of living was not at all likegrandmother's; he was to have been a minister, but at twelve years ofage he attended the county fair, and that incident seemed to change thewhole bent of his life. At twenty-one he married Samantha Talbott, andthat was another blow to grandmother, who always declared that theTalbotts were a shiftless lot. However, I was agreeably impressed withUncle Cephas and Aunt 'Manthy, for they welcomed me very cordially andturned me over to my little cousins, Mary and Henry, and bade us threemake merry to the best of our ability. These first favorableimpressions of my uncle's family were confirmed when I discovered thatfor supper we had hot biscuit and dried beef warmed up in cream gravy, a diet which, with all due respect to grandmother, I considered muchmore desirable than dry bread and dried-apple sauce. 

Aha, old Crusoe! I see thee now in yonder case smiling out upon me ascheerily as thou didst smile those many years ago when to a little boythou broughtest the message of Romance! And I do love thee still, andI shall always love thee, not only for thy benefaction in those ancientdays, but also for the light and the cheer which thy genius brings toall ages and conditions of humanity. 

My Uncle Cephas's library was stored with a large variety of pleasingliterature. I did not observe a glut of theological publications, andI will admit that I felt somewhat aggrieved personally when, in answerto my inquiry, I was told that there was no "New England Primer" in thecollection. But this feeling was soon dissipated by the absorbinginterest I took in De Foe's masterpiece, a work unparalleled in therealm of fiction. 

I shall not say that "Robinson Crusoe" supplanted the Primer in myaffections; this would not be true. I prefer to say what is the truth;it was my second love. Here again we behold another advantage whichthe lover of books has over the lover of women. If he be a genuinelover he can and should love any number of books, and thispolybibliophily is not to the disparagement of any one of that number. But it is held by the expounders of our civil and our moral laws thathe who loveth one woman to the exclusion of all other women speaketh bythat action the best and highest praise both of his own sex and of hers. 

I thank God continually that it hath been my lot in life to found anempire in my heart--no cramped and wizened borough wherein one jealousmistress hath exercised her petty tyranny, but an expansive andever-widening continent divided and subdivided into dominions, jurisdictions, caliphates, chiefdoms, seneschalships, and prefectures, wherein tetrarchs, burgraves, maharajahs, palatines, seigniors, caziques, nabobs, emirs, nizams, and nawabs hold sway, each over hisspecial and particular realm, and all bound together in harmoniouscooperation by the conciliating spirit of polybibliophily!

Let me not be misunderstood; for I am not a woman-hater. I do notregret the acquaintances--nay, the friendships--I have formed withindividuals of the other sex. As a philosopher it has behooved me tostudy womankind, else I should not have appreciated the worth of theseother better loves. Moreover, I take pleasure in my age in associatingthis precious volume or that with one woman or another whose friendshipcame into my life at the time when I was reading and loved that book. 

The other day I found my nephew William swinging in the hammock on theporch with his girl friend Celia; I saw that the young people werereading Ovid. "My children, " said I, "count this day a happy one. Inthe years of after life neither of you will speak or think of Ovid andhis tender verses without recalling at the same moment how of agracious afternoon in distant time you sat side by side contemplatingthe ineffably precious promises of maturity and love. "

I am not sure that I do not approve that article in Judge Methuen'screed which insists that in this life of ours woman serves aprobationary period for sins of omission or of commission in a previousexistence, and that woman's next step upward toward the final eternityof bliss is a period of longer or of shorter duration, in which hersoul enters into a book to be petted, fondled, beloved and cherished bysome good man--like the Judge, or like myself, for that matter. 

This theory is not an unpleasant one; I regard it as much moreacceptable than those so-called scientific demonstrations which wouldmake us suppose that we are descended from tree-climbing and bug-eatingsimians. However, it is far from my purpose to enter upon any argumentof these questions at this time, for Judge Methuen himself is going towrite a book upon the subject, and the edition is to be limited to twonumbered and signed copies upon Japanese vellum, of which I am to haveone and the Judge the other. 

The impression I made upon Uncle Cephas must have been favorable, forwhen my next birthday rolled around there came with it a book fromUncle Cephas--my third love, Grimm's "Household Stories. " With theperusal of this monumental work was born that passion for fairy talesand folklore which increased rather than diminished with my matureryears. Even at the present time I delight in a good fairy story, and Iam grateful to Lang and to Jacobs for the benefit they have conferredupon me and the rest of English-reading humanity through the medium ofthe fairy books and the folk tales they have translated and compiled. Baring-Gould and Lady Wilde have done noble work in the same realm; thewritings of the former have interested me particularly, for togetherwith profound learning in directions which are specially pleasing tome, Baring-Gould has a distinct literary touch which invests his workwith a grace indefinable but delicious and persuasive. 

I am so great a lover of and believer in fairy tales that I onceorganized a society for the dissemination of fairy literature, and atthe first meeting of this society we resolved to demand of the board ofeducation to drop mathematics from the curriculum in the public schoolsand to substitute therefor a four years' course in fairy literature, tobe followed, if the pupil desired, by a post-graduate course indemonology and folk-lore. We hired and fitted up large rooms, and thecause seemed to be flourishing until the second month's rent fell due. It was then discovered that the treasury was empty; and with thisdiscovery the society ended its existence, without having accomplishedany tangible result other than the purchase of a number of sofas andchairs, for which Judge Methuen and I had to pay. 

Still, I am of the opinion (and Judge Methuen indorses it) that we needin this country of ours just that influence which the fairy taleexerts. We are becoming too practical; the lust for material gain isthrottling every other consideration. Our babes and sucklings are nolonger regaled with the soothing tales of giants, ogres, witches, andfairies; their hungry, receptive minds are filled with stories aboutthe pursuit and slaughter of unoffending animals, of war and of murder, and of those questionable practices whereby a hero is enriched andothers are impoverished. Before he is out of his swaddling-cloth themodern youngster is convinced that the one noble purpose in life is toget, get, get, and keep on getting of worldly material. The fairy taleis tabooed because, as the sordid parent alleges, it makes youthunpractical. 

One consequence of this deplorable condition is, as I have noticed (andas Judge Methuen has, too), that the human eye is diminishing in sizeand fulness, and is losing its lustre. By as much as you take theGod-given grace of fancy from man, by so much do you impoverish hiseyes. The eye is so beautiful and serves so very many noble purposes, and is, too, so ready in the expression of tenderness, of pity, oflove, of solicitude, of compassion, of dignity, of every gentle moodand noble inspiration, that in that metaphor which contemplates theeternal vigilance of the Almighty we recognize the best poeticexpression of the highest human wisdom. 

My nephew Timothy has three children, two boys and a girl. The elderboy and the girl have small black eyes; they are as devoid of fancy asa napkin is of red corpuscles; they put their pennies into a tin bank, and they have won all the marbles and jack-stones in the neighborhood. They do not believe in Santa Claus or in fairies or in witches; theyknow that two nickels make a dime, and their golden rule is to doothers as others would do them. The other boy (he has been christenedMatthew, after me) has a pair of large, round, deep-blue eyes, expressive of all those emotions which a keen, active fancy begets. 

Matthew can never get his fill of fairy tales, and how the dear littlefellow loves Santa Claus! He sees things at night; he will not go tobed in the dark; he hears and understands what the birds and cricketssay, and what the night wind sings, and what the rustling leaves tell. Wherever Matthew goes he sees beautiful pictures and hears sweet music;to his impressionable soul all nature speaks its wisdom and its poetry. God! how I love that boy! And he shall never starve! A goodly shareof what I have shall go to him! But this clause in my will, which theJudge recently drew for me, will, I warrant me, give the dear child thegreatest happiness:

"Item. To my beloved grandnephew and namesake, Matthew, I do bequeathand give (in addition to the lands devised and the stocks, bonds andmoneys willed to him, as hereinabove specified) the two mahoganybookcases numbered 11 and 13, and the contents thereof, being volumesof fairy and folk tales of all nations, and dictionaries and othertreatises upon demonology, witchcraft, mythology, magic and kindredsubjects, to be his, his heirs, and his assigns, forever. "

III

THE LUXURY OF READING IN BED

Last night, having written what you have just read about the benefitsof fairy literature, I bethought me to renew my acquaintance with someof those tales which so often have delighted and solaced me. So Ipiled at least twenty chosen volumes on the table at the head of mybed, and I daresay it was nigh daylight when I fell asleep. I began myentertainment with several pages from Keightley's "Fairy Mythology, "and followed it up with random bits from Crofton Croker's "Traditionsof the South of Ireland, " Mrs. Carey's "Legends of the FrenchProvinces, " Andrew Lang's Green, Blue and Red fairy books, Laboulaye's"Last Fairy Tales, " Hauff's "The Inn in the Spessart, " Julia Goddard's"Golden Weathercock, " Frere's "Eastern Fairy Legends, " Asbjornsen's"Folk Tales, " Susan Pindar's "Midsummer Fays, " Nisbit Bain's "CossackFairy Tales, " etc. , etc. 

I fell asleep with a copy of Villamaria's fairy stories in my hands, and I had a delightful dream wherein, under the protection and guidanceof my fairy godmother, I undertook the rescue of a beautiful princesswho had been enchanted by a cruel witch and was kept in prison by thewitch's son, a hideous ogre with seven heads, whose companions werefour equally hideous dragons. 

This undertaking in which I was engaged involved a period of fiveyears, but time is of precious little consideration to one when he isdreaming of exploits achieved in behalf of a beautiful princess. Myfairy godmother (she wore a mob-cap and was hunchbacked) took good careof me, and conducted me safely through all my encounters with demons, giants, dragons, witches, serpents, hippogriffins, ogres, etc. ; and Ihad just rescued the princess and broken the spell which bound her, andwe were about to "live in peace to the end of our lives, " when I awoketo find it was all a dream, and that the gas-light over my bed had beenblazing away during the entire period of my five-year war for thedelectable maiden. 

This incident gives me an opportunity to say that observation hasconvinced me that all good and true book-lovers practise the pleasingand improving avocation of reading in bed. Indeed, I fully believewith Judge Methuen that no book can be appreciated until it has beenslept with and dreamed over. You recall, perhaps, that eloquentpassage in his noble defence of the poet Archias, wherein Cicero (notKikero) refers to his own pursuit of literary studies: "Haec studiaadolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant; secundas res ornant, adversis perfugium ac solatium praebent; delectant domi, non impediuntforis; PERNOCTANT nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur!"

By the gods! you spoke tally, friend Cicero; for it is indeed so, thatthese pursuits nourish our earlier and delight our later years, dignifying the minor details of life and affording a perennial refugeand solace; at home they please us and in no vocation elsewhere do theyembarrass us; they are with us by night, they go with us upon ourtravels, and even upon our retirement into the country do theyaccompany us!

I have italicized pernoctant because it is that word which demonstratesbeyond all possibility of doubt that Cicero made a practice of readingin bed. Why, I can almost see him now, propped up in his couch, unrolling scroll after scroll of his favorite literature, and enjoyingit mightily, too, which enjoyment is interrupted now and then by theoccasion which the noble reader takes to mutter maledictions upon theslave who has let the lamp run low of oil or has neglected to trim thewick. 

"Peregrinantur?" Indeed, they do share our peregrinations, theseliterary pursuits do. If Thomas Hearne (of blessed memory!) were aliveto-day he would tell us that he used always to take a book along withhim whenever he went walking, and was wont to read it as he strolledalong. On several occasions (as he tells us in his diary) he became soabsorbed in his reading that he missed his way and darkness came uponhim before he knew it. 

I have always wondered why book-lovers have not had more to say ofHearne, for assuredly he was as glorious a collector as ever felt thedivine fire glow within him. His character is exemplified in thisprayer, which is preserved among other papers of his in the BodleianLibrary:

"O most gracious and merciful Lord God, wonderful is Thy providence. Ireturn all possible thanks to Thee for the care Thou hast always takenof me. I continually meet with most signal instances of this Thyprovidence, and one act yesterday, when I unexpectedly met with threeold MSS. , for which, in a particular manner, I return my thanks, beseeching Thee to continue the same protection to me, a poor, helplesssinner, " etc. 

Another prayer of Hearne's, illustrative of his faith in dependenceupon Divine counsel, was made at the time Hearne was importuned by Dr. Bray, commissary to my Lord Bishop of London, "to go to Mary-Land" inthe character of a missionary. "O Lord God, Heavenly Father, look downupon me with pity, " cries this pious soul, "and be pleased to be myguide, now I am importuned to leave the place where I have beeneducated in the university. And of Thy great goodness I humbly desireThee to signify to me what is most proper for me to do in this affair. "

Another famous man who made a practice of reading books as he walkedthe highways was Dr. Johnson, and it is recorded that he presented acurious spectacle indeed, for his shortsightedness compelled him tohold the volume close to his nose, and he shuffled along, rather thanwalked, stepping high over shadows and stumbling over sticks and stones. 

But, perhaps, the most interesting story illustrative of the practiceof carrying one's reading around with one is that which is told ofProfessor Porson, the Greek scholar. This human monument of learninghappened to be travelling in the same coach with a coxcomb who soughtto air his pretended learning by quotations from the ancients. At lastold Porson asked:

"Pri'thee, sir, whence comes that quotation?"

"From Sophocles, " quoth the vain fellow. 

"Be so kind as to find it for me?" asked Porson, producing a copy ofSophocles from his pocket. 

Then the coxcomb, not at all abashed, said that he meant not Sophocles, but Euripides. Whereupon Porson drew from another pocket a copy ofEuripides and challenged the upstart to find the quotation in question. Full of confusion, the fellow thrust his head out of the window of thecoach and cried to the driver:

"In heaven's name, put me down at once; for there is an old gentlemanin here that hath the Bodleian Library in his pocket!"

Porson himself was a veritable slave to the habit of reading in bed. He would lie down with his books piled around him, then light his pipeand start in upon some favorite volume. A jug of liquor was invariablyat hand, for Porson was a famous drinker. It is related that on oneoccasion he fell into a boosy slumber, his pipe dropped out of hismouth and set fire to the bed-clothes. But for the arrival of succorthe tipsy scholar would surely have been cremated. 

Another very slovenly fellow was De Quincey, and he was devoted toreading in bed. But De Quincey was a very vandal when it came to thecare and use of books. He never returned volumes he borrowed, and henever hesitated to mutilate a rare book in order to save himself thelabor and trouble of writing out a quotation. 

But perhaps the person who did most to bring reading in bed into evilrepute was Mrs. Charles Elstob, ward and sister of the Canon ofCanterbury (circa 1700). In his "Dissertation on Letter-Founders, "Rowe Mores describes this woman as the "indefessa comes" of herbrother's studies, a female student in Oxford. She was, says Mores, anorthern lady of an ancient family and a genteel fortune, "but shepursued too much the drug called learning, and in that pursuit failedof being careful of any one thing necessary. In her latter years shewas tutoress in the family of the Duke of Portland, where we visitedher in her sleeping-room at Bulstrode, surrounded with books anddirtiness, the usual appendages of folk of learning!"

There is another word which Cicero uses--for I have still somewhat moreto say of that passage from the oration "pro Archia poeta"--the word"rusticantur, " which indicates that civilization twenty centuries agomade a practice of taking books out into the country for summerreading. "These literary pursuits rusticate with us, " says Cicero, andthus he presents to us a pen-picture of the Roman patrician stretchedupon the cool grass under the trees, perusing the latest popularromance, while, forsooth, in yonder hammock his dignified spouse swingsslowly to and fro, conning the pages and the colored plates of thecurrent fashion journal. Surely in the telltale word "rusticantur" youand I and the rest of human nature find a worthy precedent and muchencouragement for our practice of loading up with plenty of goodreading before we start for the scene of our annual summering. 

As for myself, I never go away from home that I do not take a trunkfulof books with me, for experience has taught me that there is nocompanionship better than that of these friends, who, however much allthings else may vary, always give the same response to my demand upontheir solace and their cheer. My sister, Miss Susan, has ofteninveighed against this practice of mine, and it was only yesterday thatshe informed me that I was the most exasperating man in the world. 

However, as Miss Susan's experience with men during the sixty-seven hotsummers and sixty-eight hard winters of her life has been somewhatlimited, I think I should bear her criticism without a murmur. MissSusan is really one of the kindest creatures in all the world. It isher misfortune that she has had all her life an insane passion forcollecting crockery, old pewter, old brass, old glass, old furnitureand other trumpery of that character; a passion with which I havelittle sympathy. I do not know that Miss Susan is prouder of hercollection of all this folderol than she is of the fact that she is aspinster. 

This latter peculiarity asserts itself upon every occasion possible. I recall an unpleasant scene in the omnibus last winter, when theobsequious conductor, taking advantage of my sister's white hair andfurrowed cheeks, addressed that estimable lady as "Madam. " I'd haveyou know that my sister gave the fellow to understand very shortly andin very vigorous English (emphasized with her blue silk umbrella) thatshe was Miss Susan, and that she did not intend to be Madamed byanybody, under any condition. 

IV

THE MANIA OF COLLECTING SEIZES ME

Captivity Waite never approved of my fondness for fairy literature. She shared the enthusiasm which I expressed whenever "Robinson Crusoe"was mentioned; there was just enough seriousness in De Foe's romance, just enough piety to appeal for sympathy to one of Captivity Waite'sreligious turn of mind. When it came to fiction involving witches, ogres, and flubdubs, that was too much for Captivity, and the spirit ofthe little Puritan revolted. 

Yet I have the documentary evidence to prove that Captivity's ancestors(both paternal and maternal) were, in the palmy colonial times, asabject slaves to superstition as could well be imagined. The Waites ofSalem were famous persecutors of witches, and Sinai Higginbotham(Captivity's great-great-grandfather on her mother's side of thefamily) was Cotton Mather's boon companion, and rode around the gallowswith that zealous theologian on that memorable occasion when five youngwomen were hanged at Danvers upon the charge of having tormented littlechildren with their damnable arts of witchcraft. Human thought is likea monstrous pendulum: it keeps swinging from one extreme to the other. Within the compass of five generations we find the Puritan first anuncompromising believer in demonology and magic, and then a scoffer ateverything involving the play of fancy. 

I felt harshly toward Captivity Waite for a time, but I harbor her noill-will now; on the contrary, I recall with very tender feelings thedistant time when our sympathies were the same and when we journeyedthe pathway of early youth in a companionship sanctified by theinnocence and the loyalty and the truth of childhood. Indeed, I am notsure that that early friendship did not make a lasting impression uponmy life; I have thought of Captivity Waite a great many times, and Ihave not unfrequently wondered what might have been but for that bookof fairy tales which my Uncle Cephas sent me. 

She was a very pretty child, and she lost none of her comeliness andnone of her sweetness of character as she approached maturity. I wasimpressed with this upon my return from college. She, too, had pursuedthose studies deemed necessary to the acquirement of a good education;she had taken a four years' course at South Holyoke and had finished atMrs. Willard's seminary at Troy. "You will now, " said her father, andhe voiced the New England sentiment regarding young womanhood; "youwill now return to the quiet of your home and under the direction ofyour mother study the performance of those weightier duties whichqualify your sex for a realization of the solemn responsibilities ofhuman life. "

Three or four years ago a fine-looking young fellow walked in upon mewith a letter of introduction from his mother. He was CaptivityWaite's son! Captivity is a widow now, and she is still living in hernative State, within twenty miles of the spot where she was born. Colonel Parker, her husband, left her a good property when he died, andshe is famous for her charities. She has founded a village library, andshe has written me on several occasions for advice upon proposedpurchases of books. 

I don't mind telling you that I had a good deal of malicious pleasurein sending her not long ago a reminder of old times in these words:"My valued friend, " I wrote, "I see by the catalogue recently publishedthat your village library contains, among other volumes representingthe modern school of fiction, eleven copies of 'Trilby' and six copiesof 'The Heavenly Twins. ' I also note an absence of certain works whoseinfluence upon my earlier life was such that I make bold to send copiesof the same to your care in the hope that you will kindly present themto the library with my most cordial compliments. These are a copy eachof the 'New England Primer' and Grimm's 'Household Stories. '"

At the age of twenty-three, having been graduated from college andhaving read the poems of Villon, the confessions of Rousseau, andBoswell's life of Johnson, I was convinced that I had comprehended thesum of human wisdom and knew all there was worth knowing. If at thepresent time--for I am seventy-two--I knew as much as I thought I knewat twenty-three I should undoubtedly be a prodigy of learning andwisdom. 

I started out to be a philosopher. My grandmother's death during mysecond year at college possessed me of a considerable sum of money andsevered every tie and sentimental obligation which had previously heldme to my grandmother's wish that I become a minister of the gospel. When I became convinced that I knew everything I conceived a desire tosee something, for I had traveled none and I had met but few people. 

Upon the advice of my Uncle Cephas, I made a journey to Europe, anddevoted two years to seeing sights and to acquainting myself with thepeople and the customs abroad. Nine months of this time I spent inParis, which was then an irregular and unkempt city, but withal quiteas evil as at present. I took apartments in the Latin Quarter, and, being of a generous nature, I devoted a large share of my income to thesupport of certain artists and students whose talents and time wereexpended almost exclusively in the pursuit of pleasure. 

While thus serving as a visible means of support to this horde ofparasites, I fell in with the man who has since then been my intimatefriend. Judge Methuen was a visitor in Paris, and we became booncompanions. It was he who rescued me from the parasites and revivedthe flames of honorable ambition, which had well-nigh been extinguishedby the wretched influence of Villon and Rousseau. The Judge was a yearmy senior, and a wealthy father provided him with the means forgratifying his wholesome and refined tastes. We two went together toLondon, and it was during our sojourn in that capital that I began mycareer as a collector of books. It is simply justice to my benefactorto say that to my dear friend Methuen I am indebted for the inspirationwhich started me upon a course so full of sweet surprises and preciousrewards. 

There are very many kinds of book collectors, but I think all may begrouped in three classes, viz. : Those who collect from vanity; thosewho collect for the benefits of learning; those who collect through aveneration and love for books. It is not unfrequent that men who beginto collect books merely to gratify their personal vanity findthemselves presently so much in love with the pursuit that they becomecollectors in the better sense. 

Just as a man who takes pleasure in the conquest of feminine heartsinvariably finds himself at last ensnared by the very passion which hehas been using simply for the gratification of his vanity, I aminclined to think that the element of vanity enters, to a degree, intoevery phase of book collecting; vanity is, I take it, one of theessentials to a well-balanced character--not a prodigious vanity, but aprudent, well-governed one. But for vanity there would be nocompetition in the world; without competition there would be noprogress. 

In these later days I often hear this man or that sneered at because, forsooth, he collects books without knowing what the books are about. But for my part, I say that that man bids fair to be all right; he hasmade a proper start in the right direction, and the likelihood is that, other things being equal, he will eventually become a lover, as well asa buyer, of books. Indeed, I care not what the beginning is, so long asit be a beginning. There are different ways of reaching the goal. Some folk go horseback via the royal road, but very many others arecompelled to adopt the more tedious processes, involving rocky pathwaysand torn shoon and sore feet. 

So subtile and so infectious is this grand passion that one is hardlyaware of its presence before it has complete possession of him; and Ihave known instances of men who, after having associated one eveningwith Judge Methuen and me, have waked up the next morning filled withthe incurable enthusiasm of bibliomania. But the development of thepassion is not always marked by exhibitions of violence; sometimes, like the measles, it is slow and obstinate about "coming out, " and insuch cases applications should be resorted to for the purpose ofdiverting the malady from the vitals; otherwise serious results mayensue. 

Indeed, my learned friend Dr. O'Rell has met with several cases (as heinforms me) in which suppressed bibliomania has resulted fatally. Manyof these cases have been reported in that excellent publication, the"Journal of the American Medical Association, " which periodical, by theway, is edited by ex-Surgeon-General Hamilton, a famous collector ofthe literature of ornament and dress. 

To make short of a long story, the medical faculty is nearly a unitupon the proposition that wherever suppressed bibliomania is suspectedimmediate steps should be taken to bring out the disease. It is truethat an Ohio physician, named Woodbury, has written much in defence ofthe theory that bibliomania can be aborted; but a very large majorityof his profession are of the opinion that the actual malady must needsrun a regular course, and they insist that the cases quoted as cured byWoodbury were not genuine, but were bastard or false phases, of thesame class as the chickenpox and the German measles. 

My mania exhibited itself first in an affectation for old books; itmattered not what the book itself was--so long as it bore an ancientdate upon its title-page or in its colophon I pined to possess it. This was not only a vanity, but a very silly one. In a month's time Ihad got together a large number of these old tomes, many of themfolios, and nearly all badly worm-eaten, and sadly shaken. 

One day I entered a shop kept by a man named Stibbs, and asked if Icould procure any volumes of sixteenth-century print. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Stibbs, "we have a cellarful of them, and we sell themby the ton or by the cord. "

That very day I dispersed my hoard of antiques, retaining only myPrynne's "Histrio-Mastix" and my Opera Quinti Horatii Flacci (8vo, Aldus, Venetiis, 1501). And then I became interested in Britishballadry--a noble subject, for which I have always had a veneration andlove, as the well-kept and profusely annotated volumes in cases 3, 6, and 9 in the front room are ready to prove to you at any time youchoose to visit my quiet, pleasant home. 

V

BALDNESS AND INTELLECTUALITY

One of Judge Methuen's pet theories is that the soul in the human bodylies near the center of gravity; this is, I believe, one of the tenetsof the Buddhist faith, and for a long time I eschewed it as one mightshun a vile thing, for I feared lest I should become identified evenremotely with any faith or sect other than Congregationalism. 

Yet I noticed that in moments of fear or of joy or of the sense of anyother emotion I invariably experienced a feeling of goneness in the pitof my stomach, as if, forsooth, the center of my physical system werealso the center of my nervous and intellectual system, the point atwhich were focused all those devious lines of communication by means ofwhich sensation is instantaneously transmitted from one part of thebody to another. 

I mentioned this circumstance to Judge Methuen, and it seemed to pleasehim. "My friend, " said he, "you have a particularly sensitive soul; Ibeg of you to exercise the greatest prudence in your treatment of it. It is the best type of the bibliomaniac soul, for the quickness of itsapprehensions betokens that it is alert and keen and capable ofinstantaneous impressions and enthusiasms. What you have just told meconvinces me that you are by nature qualified for rare exploits in thescience and art of book-collecting. You will presently becomebald--perhaps as bald as Thomas Hobbes was--for a vigilant and activesoul invariably compels baldness, so close are the relations betweenthe soul and the brain, and so destructive are the growth andoperations of the soul to those vestigial features which humanity hasinherited from those grosser animals, our prehistoric ancestors. "

You see by this that Judge Methuen recognized baldness as prima-facieevidence of intellectuality and spirituality. He has collected muchliterature upon the subject, and has promised the Academy of Scienceto prepare and read for the instruction of that learned body an essaydemonstrating that absence of hair from the cranium (particularly fromthe superior regions of the frontal and parietal divisions) proves adeparture from the instincts and practices of brute humanity, andindicates surely the growth of the understanding. 

It occurred to the Judge long ago to prepare a list of the names of thefamous bald men in the history of human society, and this list hasgrown until it includes the names of thousands, representing everyprofession and vocation. Homer, Socrates, Confucius, Aristotle, Plato, Cicero, Pliny, Maecenas, Julius Caesar, Horace, Shakespeare, Bacon, Napoleon Bonaparte, Dante, Pope, Cowper, Goldsmith, Wordsworth, IsraelPutnam, John Quincy Adams, Patrick Henry--these geniuses all were bald. But the baldest of all was the philosopher Hobbes, of whom the reveredJohn Aubrey has recorded that "he was very bald, yet within dore heused to study and sitt bare-headed, and said he never took cold in hishead, but that the greatest trouble was to keepe off the flies frompitching on the baldness. "

In all the portraits and pictures of Bonaparte which I have seen, aconspicuous feature is that curl or lock of hair which depends upon theemperor's forehead, and gives to the face a pleasant degree ofpicturesque distinction. Yet this was a vanity, and really a laughableone; for early in life Bonaparte began to get bald, and this sotroubled him that he sought to overcome the change it made in hisappearance by growing a long strand of hair upon his occiput andbringing it forward a goodly distance in such artful wise that it rightingeniously served the purposes of that Hyperion curl which had beenthe pride of his youth, but which had fallen early before the ravagesof time. 

As for myself, I do not know that I ever shared that derisive opinionin which the unthinking are wont to hold baldness. Nay, on thecontrary, I have always had especial reverence for this mark ofintellectuality, and I agree with my friend Judge Methuen that thetragic episode recorded in the second chapter of II. Kings should servethe honorable purpose of indicating to humanity that bald heads arefavored with the approval and the protection of Divinity. 

In my own case I have imputed my early baldness to growth inintellectuality and spirituality induced by my fondness for anddevotion to books. Miss Susan, my sister, lays it to other causes, first among which she declares to be my unnatural practice of readingin bed, and the second my habit of eating welsh-rarebits late ofnights. Over my bed I have a gas-jet so properly shaded that the raysof light are concentrated and reflected downward upon the volume whichI am reading. 

Miss Susan insists that much of this light and its attendant heat fallsupon my head, compelling there a dryness of the scalp whereby thefollicles have been deprived of their natural nourishment and haveconsequently died. She furthermore maintains that the welsh-rarebitsof which I partake invariably at the eleventh hour every night breedpoisonous vapors and subtle megrims within my stomach, which humors, rising by their natural courses to my brain, do therein produce afever that from within burneth up the fluids necessary to a healthycondition of the capillary growth upon the super-adjacent and exteriorcranial integument. 

Now, this very declaration of Miss Susan's gives me a potent argumentin defence of my practices, for, being bald, would not a neglect ofthose means whereby warmth is engendered where it is needed result incolds, quinsies, asthmas, and a thousand other banes? The samebenignant Providence which, according to Laurence Sterne, tempereth thewind to the shorn lamb provideth defence and protection for the bald. Had I not loved books, the soul in my midriff had not done away withthose capillary vestiges of my simian ancestry which originallyflourished upon my scalp; had I not become bald, the delights andprofits of reading in bed might never have fallen to my lot. 

And indeed baldness has its compensations; when I look about me and seethe time, the energy, and the money that are continually expended uponthe nurture and tending of the hair, I am thankful that my lot is whatit is. For now my money is applied to the buying of books, and my timeand energy are devoted to the reading of them. 

To thy vain employments, thou becurled and pomaded Absalom! Sweeterthan thy unguents and cosmetics and Sabean perfumes is the smell ofthose old books of mine, which from the years and from the ship's holdand from constant companionship with sages and philosophers haveacquired a fragrance that exalteth the soul and quickeneth theintellectuals! Let me paraphrase my dear Chaucer and tell thee, thouwaster of substances, that

 For me was lever han at my beddes hed A twenty bokes, clothed in black and red Of Aristotle and his philosophie, Than robes rich, or fidel, or sautrie; But all be that I ben a philosopher Yet have I but litel gold in cofre!

Books, books, books--give me ever more books, for they are the casketswherein we find the immortal expressions of humanity--words, the onlythings that live forever! I bow reverently to the bust in yondercorner whenever I recall what Sir John Herschel (God rest his dearsoul!) said and wrote: "Were I to pay for a taste that should stand mein stead under every variety of circumstances and be a source ofhappiness and cheerfulness to me during life, and a shield against itsills, however things might go amiss and the world frown upon me, itwould be a taste for reading. Give a man this taste and a means ofgratifying it, and you can hardly fail of making him a happy man;unless, indeed, you put into his hands a most perverse selection ofbooks. You place him in contact with the best society in every periodof history--with the wisest, the wittiest, the tenderest, the bravest, and the purest characters who have adorned humanity. You make him adenizen of all nations, a contemporary of all ages. The world has beencreated for him. "

For one phrase particularly do all good men, methinks, bless burly, bearish, phrase-making old Tom Carlyle. "Of all things, " quoth he, "which men do or make here below by far the most momentous, wonderful, and worthy are the things we call books. " And Judge Methuen's favoritequotation is from Babington Macaulay to this effect: "I would ratherbe a poor man in a garret with plenty of books than a king who did notlove reading. "

Kings, indeed! What a sorry lot are they! Said George III. To Nicol, his bookseller: "I would give this right hand if the same attentionhad been paid to my education which I pay to that of the prince. "Louis XIV. Was as illiterate as the lowliest hedger and ditcher. Hecould hardly write his name; at first, as Samuel Pegge tells us, heformed it out of six straight strokes and a line of beauty, thus:

 | | | | | | S

--which he afterward perfected as best he could, and the result wasLOUIS. 

Still I find it hard to inveigh against kings when I recall thegoodness of Alexander to Aristotle, for without Alexander we shouldhardly have known of Aristotle. His royal patron provided thephilosopher with every advantage for the acquisition of learning, dispatching couriers to all parts of the earth to gather books andmanuscripts and every variety of curious thing likely to swell thestore of Aristotle's knowledge. 

Yet set them up in a line and survey them--these wearers of crowns andthese wielders of scepters--and how pitiable are they in the paucityand vanity of their accomplishments! What knew they of the truehappiness of human life? They and their courtiers are dust andforgotten. 

Judge Methuen and I shall in due time pass away, but ourcourtiers--they who have ever contributed to our delight andsolace--our Horace, our Cervantes, our Shakespeare, and the rest of theinnumerable train--these shall never die. And inspired and sustainedby this immortal companionship we blithely walk the pathway illuminedby its glory, and we sing, in season and out, the song ever dear to usand ever dear to thee, I hope, O gentle reader:

 Oh, for a booke and a shady nooke, Eyther in doore or out, With the greene leaves whispering overhead, Or the streete cryes all about; Where I maie reade all at my ease Both of the newe and old, For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke Is better to me than golde!

VI

MY ROMANCE WITH FIAMMETTA

My bookseller and I came nigh to blows some months ago over an editionof Boccaccio, which my bookseller tried to sell me. This was a copy inthe original, published at Antwerp in 1603, prettily rubricated, andelaborately adorned with some forty or fifty copperplates illustrativeof the text. I dare say the volume was cheap enough at thirty dollars, but I did not want it. 

My reason for not wanting it gave rise to that discussion between mybookseller and myself, which became very heated before it ended. Isaid very frankly that I did not care for the book in the original, because I had several translations done by the most competent hands. Thereupon my bookseller ventured that aged and hackneyed argument whichhas for centuries done the book trade such effective service--namely, that in every translation, no matter how good that translation may be, there is certain to be lost a share of the flavor and spirit of themeaning. 

"Fiddledeedee!" said I. "Do you suppose that these translators whohave devoted their lives to the study and practice of the art are notcompetent to interpret the different shades and colors of meaningbetter than the mere dabbler in foreign tongues? And then, again, isnot human life too short for the lover of books to spend his precioustime digging out the recondite allusions of authors, lexicon in hand?My dear sir, it is a wickedly false economy to expend time and moneyfor that which one can get done much better and at a much smallerexpenditure by another hand. "

From my encounter with my bookseller I went straight home and took downmy favorite copy of the "Decameron" and thumbed it over very tenderly;for you must know that I am particularly attached to that littlevolume. I can hardly realize that nearly half a century has elapsedsince Yseult Hardynge and I parted. She was such a creature as thegreat novelist himself would have chosen for a heroine; she had thebeauty and the wit of those Florentine ladies who flourished in thefourteenth century, and whose graces of body and mind have beenimmortalized by Boccaccio. Her eyes, as I particularly recall, werespecially fine, reflecting from their dark depths every expression ofher varying moods. 

Why I called her Fiammetta I cannot say, for I do not remember; perhapsfrom a boyish fancy, merely. At that time Boccaccio and I were famousfriends; we were together constantly, and his companionship had such aninfluence upon me that for the nonce I lived and walked and had mybeing in that distant, romantic period when all men were gallants andall women were grandes dames and all birds were nightingales. 

I bought myself an old Florentine sword at Noseda's in the Strand andhung it on the wall in my modest apartments; under it I placedBoccaccio's portrait and Fiammetta's, and I was wont to drink toasts tothese beloved counterfeit presentments in flagons (mind you, genuineantique flagons) of Italian wine. Twice I took Fiammetta boating uponthe Thames and once to view the Lord Mayor's pageant; her mother waswith us on both occasions, but she might as well have been at thebottom of the sea, for she was a stupid old soul, wholly incapable ofsharing or appreciating the poetic enthusiasms of romantic youth. 

Had Fiammetta been a book--ah, unfortunate lady!--had she but been abook she might still be mine, for me to care for lovingly and to hidefrom profane eyes and to attire in crushed levant and gold and tocherish as a best-beloved companion in mine age! Had she been a bookshe could not have been guilty of the folly of wedding with a yeoman ofLincolnshire--ah me, what rude awakenings too often dispel the pleasingdreams of youth!

When I revisited England in the sixties, I was tempted to make anexcursion into Lincolnshire for the purpose of renewing my acquaintancewith Fiammetta. Before, however, I had achieved that object thisthought occurred to me: "You are upon a fool's errand; turn back, oryou will destroy forever one of the sweetest of your boyhood illusions!You seek Fiammetta in the delusive hope of finding her in the person ofMrs. Henry Boggs; there is but one Fiammetta, and she is the memoryabiding in your heart. Spare yourself the misery of discovering in thehearty, fleshy Lincolnshire hussif the decay of the promises of yearsago; be content to do reverence to the ideal Fiammetta who has builther little shrine in your sympathetic heart!"

Now this was strange counsel, yet it had so great weight with me that Iwas persuaded by it, and after lying a night at the Swan-and-QuiverTavern I went back to London, and never again had a desire to visitLincolnshire. 

But Fiammetta is still a pleasing memory--ay, and more than a memory tome, for whenever I take down that precious book and open it, what ahost of friends do troop forth! Cavaliers, princesses, courtiers, damoiselles, monks, nuns, equerries, pages, maidens--humanity of everyclass and condition, and all instinct with the color of the mastermagician, Boccaccio!

And before them all cometh a maiden with dark, glorious eyes, and shebeareth garlands of roses; the moonlight falleth like a benedictionupon the Florentine garden slope, and the night wind seeketh its cradlein the laurel tree, and fain would sleep to the song of the nightingale. 

As for Judge Methuen, he loves his Boccaccio quite as much as I domine, and being somewhat of a versifier he has made a little poem onthe subject, a copy of which I have secured surreptitiously and do nowoffer for your delectation:

 One day upon a topmost shelf I found a precious prize indeed, Which father used to read himself, But did not want us boys to read; A brown old book of certain age (As type and binding seemed to show), While on the spotted title-page Appeared the name "Boccaccio. "

 I'd never heard that name before, But in due season it became To him who fondly brooded o'er Those pages a beloved name! Adown the centuries I walked Mid pastoral scenes and royal show; With seigneurs and their dames I talked-- The crony of Boccaccio!

 Those courtly knights and sprightly maids, Who really seemed disposed to shine In gallantries and escapades, Anon became great friends of mine. Yet was there sentiment with fun, And oftentimes my tears would flow At some quaint tale of valor done, As told by my Boccaccio. 

 In boyish dreams I saw again Bucolic belles and dames of court, The princely youths and monkish men Arrayed for sacrifice or sport. Again I heard the nightingale Sing as she sang those years ago In his embowered Italian vale To my revered Boccaccio. 

 And still I love that brown old book I found upon the topmost shelf-- I love it so I let none look Upon the treasure but myself! And yet I have a strapping boy Who (I have every cause to know) Would to its full extent enjoy The friendship of Boccaccio!

 But boys are, oh! so different now From what they were when I was one! I fear my boy would not know how To take that old raconteur's fun! In your companionship, O friend, I think it wise alone to go Plucking the gracious fruits that bend Wheree'er you lead, Boccaccio. 

 So rest you there upon the shelf, Clad in your garb of faded brown; Perhaps, sometime, my boy himself Shall find you out and take you down. Then may he feel the joy once more That thrilled me, filled me years ago When reverently I brooded o'er The glories of Boccaccio!

Out upon the vile brood of imitators, I say! Get ye gone, ye Bandellosand ye Straparolas and ye other charlatans who would fain possessyourselves of the empire which the genius of Boccaccio bequeathed tohumanity. There is but one master, and to him we render gratefulhomage. He leads us down through the cloisters of time, and at histouch the dead become reanimate, and all the sweetness and the valor ofantiquity recur; heroism, love, sacrifice, tears, laughter, wisdom, wit, philosophy, charity, and understanding are his auxiliaries;humanity is his inspiration, humanity his theme, humanity his audience, humanity his debtor. 

Now it is of Tancred's daughter he tells, and now of Rossiglione'swife; anon of the cozening gardener he speaks and anon of Alibech; ofwhat befell Gillette de Narbonne, of Iphigenia and Cymon, of Saladin, of Calandrino, of Dianora and Ansaldo we hear; and what subject soeverhe touches he quickens it into life, and he so subtly invests it withthat indefinable quality of his genius as to attract thereunto not onlyour sympathies but also our enthusiasm. 

Yes, truly, he should be read with understanding; what author shouldnot? I would no more think of putting my Boccaccio into the hands of adullard than I would think of leaving a bright and beautiful woman atthe mercy of a blind mute. 

I have hinted at the horror of the fate which befell Yseult Hardynge inthe seclusion of Mr. Henry Boggs's Lincolnshire estate. Mr. HenryBoggs knew nothing of romance, and he cared less; he was whollyincapable of appreciating a woman with dark, glorious eyes and anexpanding soul; I'll warrant me that he would at any time gladly havetraded a "Decameron" for a copy of "The Gentleman Poulterer, " or for ayear's subscription to that grewsome monument to human imbecility, London "Punch. "

Ah, Yseult! hadst thou but been a book!

VII

THE DELIGHTS OF FENDER-FISHING

I should like to have met Izaak Walton. He is one of the few authorswhom I know I should like to have met. For he was a wise man, and hehad understanding. I should like to have gone angling with him, for Idoubt not that like myself he was more of an angler theoretically thanpractically. My bookseller is a famous fisherman, as, indeed, booksellers generally are, since the methods employed by fishermen todeceive and to catch their finny prey are very similar to thoseemployed by booksellers to attract and to entrap buyers. 

As for myself, I regard angling as one of the best of avocations, andalthough I have pursued it but little, I concede that doubtless had Ipractised it oftener I should have been a better man. How truly hasDame Juliana Berners said that "at the least the angler hath hiswholesome walk and merry at his ease, and a sweet air of the sweetsavour of the mead flowers that maketh him hungry; he heareth themelodious harmony of fowls; he seeth the young swans, herons, ducks, cotes, and many other fowls with their broods, which meseemeth betterthan all the noise of hounds, the blasts of horns, and the cry of fowlsthat hunters, falconers, and fowlers can make. And IF the angler takefish--surely then is there no man merrier than he is in his spirit!"

My bookseller cannot understand how it is that, being so enthusiastic afisherman theoretically, I should at the same time indulge so seldom inthe practice of fishing, as if, forsooth, a man should be expected toengage continually and actively in every art and practice of which hemay happen to approve. My young friend Edward Ayer has a noblecollection of books relating to the history of American aboriginals andto the wars waged between those Indians and the settlers in thiscountry; my other young friend Luther Mills has gathered together amultitude of books treating of the Napoleonic wars; yet neither Ayernor Mills hath ever slain a man or fought a battle, albeit both finddelectation in recitals of warlike prowess and personal valor. I lovethe night and all the poetic influences of that quiet time, but I donot sit up all night in order to hear the nightingale or to contemplatethe astounding glories of the heavens. 

For similar reasons, much as I appreciate and marvel at the beauties ofearly morning, I do not make a practice of early rising, and sensibleas I am to the charms of the babbling brook and of the crystal lake, Iam not addicted to the practice of wading about in either to the dangereither to my own health or to the health of the finny denizens in thoseplaces. 

The best anglers in the world are those who do not catch fish; the mereslaughter of fish is simply brutal, and it was with a view to keepingher excellent treatise out of the hands of the idle and theinappreciative that Dame Berners incorporated that treatise in acompendious book whose cost was so large that only "gentyll and noblemen" could possess it. What mind has he who loveth fishing merely forthe killing it involves--what mind has such a one to the beauty of theever-changing panorama which nature unfolds to the appreciative eye, orwhat communion has he with those sweet and uplifting influences inwhich the meadows, the hillsides, the glades, the dells, the forests, and the marshes abound?

Out upon these vandals, I say--out upon the barbarians who would robangling of its poesy, and reduce it to the level of the butcher'strade! It becomes a base and vicious avocation, does angling, when itceases to be what Sir Henry Wotton loved to call it--"an employment forhis idle time, which was then not idly spent; a rest to his mind, acheerer of his spirits, a diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquietthoughts, a moderator of passions, a procurer of contentedness, and abegetter of habits of peace and patience in those that professed andpractised it!"

There was another man I should like to have met--Sir Henry Wotton; forhe was an ideal angler. Christopher North, too ("an excellent anglerand now with God"!)--how I should love to have explored the Yarrow withhim, for he was a man of vast soul, vast learning, and vast wit. 

"Would you believe it, my dear Shepherd, " said he, "that my piscatorypassions are almost dead within me, and I like now to saunter along thebanks and braes, eying the younkers angling, or to lay me down on somesunny spot, and with my face up to heaven, watch the slow-changingclouds!"

THERE was the angling genius with whom I would fain go angling!

"Angling, " says our revered St. Izaak, "angling is somewhat likepoetry--men are to be born so. "

Doubtless there are poets who are not anglers, but doubtless therenever was an angler who was not also a poet. Christopher North was afamous fisherman; he began his career as such when he was a child ofthree years. With his thread line and bent-pin hook the wee tot setout to make his first cast in "a wee burnie" he had discovered near hishome. He caught his fish, too, and for the rest of the day he carriedthe miserable little specimen about on a plate, exhibiting ittriumphantly. With that first experience began a life which I am fainto regard as one glorious song in praise of the beauty and thebeneficence of nature. 

My bookseller once took me angling with him in a Wisconsin lake whichwas the property of a club of anglers to which my friend belonged. Aswe were to be absent several days I carried along a box of books, for Iesteem appropriate reading to be a most important adjunct to an anglingexpedition. My bookseller had with him enough machinery to stock awhaling expedition, and I could not help wondering what my old Waltonwould think, could he drop down into our company with his modestequipment of hooks, flies, and gentles. 

The lake whither we went was a large and beautiful expanse, girt by alandscape which to my fancy was the embodiment of poetic delicacy andsuggestion. I began to inquire about the chub, dace, and trouts, butmy bookseller lost no time in telling me that the lake had been rid ofall cheap fry, and had been stocked with game fish, such as bass andpike. 

I did not at all relish this covert sneer at traditions which I havealways reverenced, and the better acquainted I became with mybookseller's modern art of angling the less I liked it. I have littlelove for that kind of angling which does not admit of a simultaneousenjoyment of the surrounding beauties of nature. My bookseller enjoinedsilence upon me, but I did not heed the injunction, for I must, indeed, have been a mere wooden effigy to hold my peace amid that picturesqueenvironment of hill, valley, wood, meadow, and arching sky of clearblue. 

It was fortunate for me that I had my "Noctes Ambrosianae" along, forwhen I had exhausted my praise of the surrounding glories of nature, mybookseller would not converse with me; so I opened my book and read tohim that famous passage between Kit North and the Ettrick Shepherd, wherein the shepherd discourses boastfully of his prowess as a piscatorof sawmon. 

As the sun approached midheaven and its heat became insupportable, Iraised my umbrella; to this sensible proceeding my booksellerobjected--in fact, there was hardly any reasonable suggestion I had tomake for beguiling the time that my bookseller did not protest againstit, and when finally I produced my "Newcastle Fisher's Garlands" frommy basket, and began to troll those spirited lines beginning

 Away wi' carking care and gloom That make life's pathway weedy O! A cheerful glass makes flowers to bloom And lightsome hours fly speedy O!

he gathered in his rod and tackle, and declared that it was no usetrying to catch fish while Bedlam ran riot. 

As for me, I had a delightful time of it; I caught no fish, to be sure:but what of that? I COULD have caught fish had I so desired, but, as Ihave already intimated to you and as I have always maintained andalways shall, the mere catching of fish is the least of the manyenjoyments comprehended in the broad, gracious art of angling. 

Even my bookseller was compelled to admit ultimately that I was aworthy disciple of Walton, for when we had returned to the club houseand had partaken of our supper I regaled the company with many acheery tale and merry song which I had gathered from my books. Indeed, before I returned to the city I was elected an honorary member of theclub by acclamation--not for the number of fish I had expiscated (for Idid not catch one), but for that mastery of the science of angling andthe literature and the traditions and the religion and the philosophythereof which, by the grace of the companionship of books, I hadachieved. 

It is said that, with his feet over the fender, Macaulay coulddiscourse learnedly of French poetry, art, and philosophy. Yet henever visited Paris that he did not experience the most exasperatingdifficulties in making himself understood by the French customsofficers. 

In like manner I am a fender-fisherman. With my shins toasting beforea roaring fire, and with Judge Methuen at my side, I love to exploitthe joys and the glories of angling. The Judge is "a brother of theangle, " as all will allow who have heard him tell Father Prout's storyof the bishop and the turbots or heard him sing--

 With angle rod and lightsome heart, Our conscience clear, we gay depart To pebbly brooks and purling streams, And ne'er a care to vex our dreams. 

And how could the lot of the fender-fisherman be happier? No colds, quinsies or asthmas follow his incursions into the realms of fancywhere in cool streams and peaceful lakes a legion of chubs and troutsand sawmon await him; in fancy he can hie away to the far-off Yalrowand once more share the benefits of the companionship of Kit North, theShepherd, and that noble Edinburgh band; in fancy he can trudge thebanks of the Blackwater with the sage of Watergrasshill; in fancy hecan hear the music of the Tyne and feel the wind sweep cool and fresho'er Coquetdale; in fancy, too, he knows the friendships which only hecan know--the friendships of the immortals whose spirits hover wherehuman love and sympathy attract them. 

How well I love ye, O my precious books--my Prout, my Wilson, myPhillips, my Berners, my Doubleday, my Roxby, my Chatto, my Thompson, my Crawhall! For ye are full of joyousness and cheer, and your songsuplift me and make me young and strong again. 

And thou, homely little brown thing with worn leaves, yet more preciousto me than all jewels of the earth--come, let me take thee from thyshelf and hold thee lovingly in my hands and press thee tenderly tothis aged and slow-pulsing heart of mine! Dost thou remember how Ifound thee half a century ago all tumbled in a lot of paltry trash?Did I not joyously possess thee for a sixpence, and have I notcherished thee full sweetly all these years? My Walton, soon must wepart forever; when I am gone say unto him who next shall have thee tohis own that with his latest breath an old man blessed thee!

VIII

BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS

One of the most interesting spots in all London to me is Bunhill Fieldscemetery, for herein are the graves of many whose memory I revere. Ihad heard that Joseph Ritson was buried here, and while my sister, MissSusan, lingered at the grave of her favorite poet, I took occasion tospy around among the tombstones in the hope of discovering the lastresting-place of the curious old antiquary whose labors in the field ofballadry have placed me under so great a debt of gratitude to him. 

But after I had searched in vain for somewhat more than an hour one ofthe keepers of the place told me that in compliance with Ritson'searnest desire while living, that antiquary's grave was immediatelyafter the interment of the body levelled down and left to the care ofnature, with no stone to designate its location. So at the presenttime no one knows just where old Ritson's grave is, only that withinthat vast enclosure where so many thousand souls sleep their last sleepthe dust of the famous ballad-lover lies fast asleep in the bosom ofmother earth. 

I have never been able to awaken in Miss Susan any enthusiasm forballadry. My worthy sister is of a serious turn of mind, and I haveheard her say a thousand times that convivial songs (which is her namefor balladry) are inspirations, if not actually compositions, of thedevil. In her younger days Miss Susan performed upon the melodeon withmuch discretion, and at one time I indulged the delusive hope thateventually she would not disdain to join me in the vocal performance ofthe best ditties of D'Urfey and his ilk. 

If I do say it myself, I had a very pretty voice thirty or forty yearsago, and even at the present time I can deliver the ballad of KingCophetua and the beggar maid with amazing spirit when I have my friendJudge Methuen at my side and a bowl of steaming punch between us. Butmy education of Miss Susan ended without being finished. We twolearned to perform the ballad of Sir Patrick Spens very acceptably, butMiss Susan abandoned the copartnership when I insisted that we proceedto the sprightly ditty beginning, Life's short hours too fast are hasting-- Sweet amours cannot be lasting. 

My physician, Dr. O'Rell, has often told me that he who has awell-assorted ballad library should never be lonely, for thelimitations of balladly are so broad that within them are to be foundperformances adapted to every mood to which humanity is liable. And, indeed, my experience confirms the truth of my physician's theory. Itwere hard for me to tell what delight I have had upon a hot and gustyday in a perusal of the history of Robin Hood, for there is suchactuality in those simple rhymes as to dispel the troublesomeenvironments of the present and transport me to better times andpleasanter scenes. 

Aha! how many times have I walked with brave Robin in Sherwood forest!How many times have Little John and I couched under the greenwood treeand shared with Friar Tuck the haunch of juicy venison and the pottleof brown October brew! And Will Scarlet and I have been famous friendsthese many a year, and if Allen-a-Dale were here he would tell you thatI have trolled full many a ballad with him in praise of Maid Marian'speerless beauty. 

Who says that Sherwood is no more and that Robin and his merry men aregone forever! Why, only yesternight I walked with them in thatgracious forest and laughed defiance at the doughty sheriff and hiscraven menials. The moonlight twinkled and sifted through the boscage, and the wind was fresh and cool. Right merrily we sang, and I doubt notwe should have sung the whole night through had not my sister, MissSusan, come tapping at my door, saying that I had waked her parrot andwould do well to cease my uproar and go to sleep. 

Judge Methuen has a copy of Bishop Percy's "Reliques of Ancient EnglishPoetry" that he prizes highly. It is the first edition of this noblework, and was originally presented by Percy to Dr. Birch of the BritishMuseum. The Judge found these three volumes exposed for sale in aLondon book stall, and he comprehended them without delay--a greatbargain, you will admit, when I tell you that they cost the Judge butthree shillings! How came these precious volumes into that book stallI shall not presume to say. 

Strange indeed are the vicissitudes which befall books, stranger eventhan the happenings in human life. All men are not as considerate ofbooks as I am; I wish they were. Many times I have felt the deepestcompassion for noble volumes in the possession of persons whollyincapable of appreciating them. The helpless books seemed to appeal tome to rescue them, and too many times I have been tempted to snatchthem from their inhospitable shelves, and march them away to a pleasantrefuge beneath my own comfortable roof tree. 

Too few people seem to realize that books have feelings. But if I knowone thing better than another I know this, that my books know me andlove me. When of a morning I awaken I cast my eyes about my room tosee how fare my beloved treasures, and as I cry cheerily to them, "Good-day to you, sweet friends!" how lovingly they beam upon me, andhow glad they are that my repose has been unbroken. When I take themfrom their places, how tenderly do they respond to the caresses of myhands, and with what exultation do they respond unto my call forsympathy!

Laughter for my gayer moods, distraction for my cares, solace for mygriefs, gossip for my idler moments, tears for my sorrows, counsel formy doubts, and assurance against my fears--these things my books giveme with a promptness and a certainty and a cheerfulness which are morethan human; so that I were less than human did I not love thesecomforters and bear eternal gratitude to them. 

Judge Methuen read me once a little poem which I fancy mightily; it isentitled "Winfreda, " and you will find it in your Percy, if you haveone. The last stanza, as I recall it, runs in this wise:

 And when by envy time transported Shall seek to rob us of our joys, You'll in our girls again be courted And I'll go wooing in our boys. 

"Now who was the author of those lines?" asked the Judge. 

"Undoubtedly Oliver Wendell Holmes, " said I. "They have the flavorpeculiar to our Autocrat; none but he could have done up so muchsweetness in such a quaint little bundle. "

"You are wrong, " said the Judge, "but the mistake is a natural one. The whole poem is such a one as Holmes might have written, but it sawthe light long before our dear doctor's day: what a pity that itsauthorship is not known!"

"Yet why a pity?" quoth I. "Is it not true that words are the onlythings that live forever? Are we not mortal, and are not booksimmortal? Homer's harp is broken and Horace's lyre is unstrung, andthe voices of the great singers are hushed; but their songs--theirsongs are imperishable. O friend! what moots it to them or to us whogave this epic or that lyric to immortality? The singer belongs to ayear, his song to all time. I know it is the custom now to credit theauthor with his work, for this is a utilitarian age, and all things areby the pound or the piece, and for so much money. 

"So when a song is printed it is printed in small type, and the name ofhim who wrote it is appended thereunto in big type. If the song bemeritorious it goes to the corners of the earth through the medium ofthe art preservative of arts, but the longer and the farther it travelsthe bigger does the type of the song become and the smaller becomes thetype wherein the author's name is set. 

"Then, finally, some inconsiderate hand, wielding the pen or shears, blots out or snips off the poet's name, and henceforth the song isanonymous. A great iconoclast--a royal old iconoclast--is Time: but hehath no terrors for those precious things which are embalmed in words, and the only fellow that shall surely escape him till the crack of doomis he whom men know by the name of Anonymous!"

"Doubtless you speak truly, " said the Judge; "yet it would bedifferent if I but had the ordering of things. I would let the poetslive forever and I would kill off most of their poetry. "

I do not wonder that Ritson and Percy quarrelled. It was hismisfortune that Ritson quarrelled with everybody. Yet Ritson was ascrupulously honest man; he was so vulgarly sturdy in his honesty thathe would make all folk tell the truth even though the truth were ofsuch a character as to bring the blush of shame to the devil's hardenedcheek. 

On the other hand, Percy believed that there were certain true thingswhich should not be opened out in the broad light of day; it was thisdeep-seated conviction which kept him from publishing the manuscriptfolio, a priceless treasure, which Ritson never saw and which, had itfallen in Ritson's way instead of Percy's, would have been clapped atonce into the hands of the printer. 

How fortunate it is for us that we have in our time so great a scholaras Francis James Child, so enamored of balladry and so learned in it, to complete and finish the work of his predecessors. I count myselfhappy that I have heard from the lips of this enthusiast several ofthe rarest and noblest of the old British and old Scottish ballads; andI recall with pride that he complimented me upon my spirited vocalrendering of "Burd Isabel and Sir Patrick, " "Lang Johnny More, " "TheDuke o' Gordon's Daughter, " and two or three other famous songs which Ihad learned while sojourning among the humbler classes in the North ofEngland. 

After paying our compliments to the Robin Hood garlands, to Scott, toKirkpatrick Sharpe, to Ritson, to Buchan, to Motherwell, to Laing, toChristie, to Jamieson, and to the other famous lovers and compilers ofballadry, we fell to discoursing of French song and of the service thatFrancis Mahony performed for English-speaking humanity when heexploited in his inimitable style those lyrics of the French and theItalian people which are now ours as much as they are anybody else's. 

Dear old Beranger! what wonder that Prout loved him, and what wonderthat we all love him? I have thirty odd editions of his works, and Iwould walk farther to pick up a volume of his lyrics than I would walkto secure any other book, excepting of course a Horace. Beranger and Iare old cronies. I have for the great master a particularly tenderfeeling, and all on account of Fanchonette. 

But there--you know nothing of Fanchonette, because I have not told youof her. She, too, should have been a book instead of the dainty, coquettish Gallic maiden that she was. 

IX

BOOKSELLERS AND PRINTERS, OLD AND NEW

Judge Methuen tells me that he fears what I have said about mybookseller will create the impression that I am unkindly disposedtoward the bookselling craft. For the last fifty years I have haduninterrupted dealings with booksellers, and none knows better than thebooksellers themselves that I particularly admire them as a class. Visitors to my home have noticed that upon my walls are hung nobleportraits of Caxton, Wynkin de Worde, Richard Pynson, John Wygthe, Rayne Wolfe, John Daye, Jacob Tonson, Richard Johnes, John Dunton, andother famous old printers and booksellers. 

I have, too, a large collection of portraits of modern booksellers, including a pen-and-ink sketch of Quaritch, a line engraving of Rimell, and a very excellent etching of my dear friend, the late HenryStevens. One of the portraits is a unique, for I had it paintedmyself, and I have never permitted any copy to be made of it; it is ofmy bookseller, and it represents him in the garb of a fisherman, holding his rod and reel in one hand and the copy of the "CompleatAngler" in the other. 

Mr. Curwen speaks of booksellers as being "singularly thrifty, able, industrious, and persevering--in some few cases singularly venturesome, liberal, and kind-hearted. " My own observation and experience havetaught me that as a class booksellers are exceptionally intelligent, ranking with printers in respect to the variety and extent of theirlearning. 

They have, however, this distinct advantage over the printers--they arenot brought in contact with the manifold temptations to intemperanceand profligacy which environ the votaries of the art preservative ofarts. Horace Smith has said that "were there no readers therecertainly would be no writers; clearly, therefore, the existence ofwriters depends upon the existence of readers: and, of course, sincethe cause must be antecedent to the effect, readers existed beforewriters. Yet, on the other hand, if there were no writers there couldbe no readers; so it would appear that writers must be antecedent toreaders. "

It amazes me that a reasoner so shrewd, so clear, and so exacting asHorace Smith did not pursue the proposition further; for withoutbooksellers there would have been no market for books--the author wouldnot have been able to sell, and the reader would not have been able tobuy. 

The further we proceed with the investigation the more satisfied webecome that the original man was three of number, one of him being thebookseller, who established friendly relations between the other two ofhim, saying: "I will serve you both by inciting both a demand and asupply. " So then the author did his part, and the reader his, which Itake to be a much more dignified scheme than that suggested by Darwinand his school of investigators. 

By the very nature of their occupation booksellers are broad-minded;their association with every class of humanity and their constantcompanionship with books give them a liberality that enables them toview with singular clearness and dispassionateness every phase of lifeand every dispensation of Providence. They are not always practical, for the development of the spiritual and intellectual natures in mandoes not at the same time promote dexterity in the use of the baserorgans of the body, I have known philosophers who could not harness ahorse or even shoo chickens. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson once consumed several hours' time trying todetermine whether he should trundle a wheelbarrow by pushing it or bypulling it. A. Bronson Alcott once tried to construct a chicken coop, and he had boarded himself up inside the structure before he discoveredthat he had not provided for a door or for windows. We have all heardthe story of Isaac Newton--how he cut two holes in his study-door, alarge one for his cat to enter by, and a small one for the kitten. 

This unworldliness--this impossibility, if you please--ischaracteristic of intellectual progression. Judge Methuen's secondson is named Grolier; and the fact that he doesn't know enough to comein out of the rain has inspired both the Judge and myself with theconviction that in due time Grolier will become a great philosopher. 

The mention of this revered name reminds me that my bookseller told methe other day that just before I entered his shop a wealthy patron ofthe arts and muses called with a volume which he wished to have rebound. 

"I can send it to Paris or to London, " said my bookseller. "If you haveno choice of binder, I will entrust it to Zaehnsdorf with instructionsto lavish his choicest art upon it. "

"But indeed I HAVE a choice, " cried the plutocrat, proudly. "I noticeda large number of Grolier bindings at the Art Institute last week, andI want something of the same kind myself. Send the book to Grolier, and tell him to do his prettiest by it, for I can stand the expense, nomatter what it is. "

Somewhere in his admirable discourse old Walton has stated the theorythat an angler must be born and then made. I have always held the sameto be true of the bookseller. There are many, too many, charlatans inthe trade; the simon-pure bookseller enters upon and conductsbookselling not merely as a trade and for the purpose of amassingriches, but because he loves books and because he has pleasure indiffusing their gracious influences. 

Judge Methuen tells me that it is no longer the fashion to refer topersons or things as being "simon-pure"; the fashion, as he says, passed out some years ago when a writer in a German paper "was led intoan amusing blunder by an English review. The reviewer, having occasionto draw a distinction between George and Robert Cruikshank, spoke ofthe former as the real Simon Pure. The German, not understanding theallusion, gravely told his readers that George Cruikshank was apseudonym, the author's real name being Simon Pure. "

This incident is given in Henry B. Wheatley's "Literary Blunders, " avery charming book, but one that could have been made more interestingto me had it recorded the curious blunder which Frederick Saundersmakes in his "Story of Some Famous Books. " On page 169 we find thisinformation: "Among earlier American bards we instance Dana, whoseimaginative poem 'The Culprit Fay, ' so replete with poetic beauty, is afairy tale of the highlands of the Hudson. The origin of the poem istraced to a conversation with Cooper, the novelist, and Fitz-GreeneHalleck, the poet, who, speaking of the Scottish streams and theirlegendary associations, insisted that the American rivers were notsusceptible of like poetic treatment. Dana thought otherwise, and tomake his position good produced three days after this poem. "

It may be that Saunders wrote the name Drake, for it was James RodmanDrake who did "The Culprit Fay. " Perhaps it was the printer's faultthat the poem is accredited to Dana. Perhaps Mr. Saunders writes solegible a hand that the printers are careless with his manuscript. 

"There is, " says Wheatley, "there is a popular notion among authorsthat it is not wise to write a clear hand. Menage was one of the firstto express it. He wrote: 'If you desire that no mistake shall appearin the works which you publish, never send well-written copy to theprinter, for in that case the manuscript is given to young apprentices, who make a thousand errors; while, on the other hand, that which isdifficult to read is dealt with by the master-printers. '"

The most distressing blunder I ever read in print was made at the timeof the burial of the famous antiquary and litterateur, John PayneCollier. In the London newspapers of Sept. 21, 1883, it was reportedthat "the remains of the late Mr. John Payne Collier were interredyesterday in Bray churchyard, near Maidenhead, in the presence of alarge number of spectators. " Thereupon the Eastern daily presspublished the following remarkable perversion: "The Bray CollieryDisaster. The remains of the late John Payne, collier, were interredyesterday afternoon in the Bray churchyard in the presence of a largenumber of friends and spectators. "

Far be it from the book-lover and the book-collector to rail atblunders, for not unfrequently these very blunders make books valuable. Who cares for a Pine's Horace that does not contain the "potest" error?The genuine first edition of Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter" is to bedetermined by the presence of a certain typographical slip in theintroduction. The first edition of the English Scriptures printed inIreland (1716) is much desired by collectors, and simply because of anerror. Isaiah bids us "sin no more, " but the Belfast printer, by somemeans or another, transposed the letters in such wise as to make theinjunction read "sin on more. "

The so-called Wicked Bible is a book that is seldom met with, and, therefore, in great demand. It was printed in the time of Charles I. , and it is notorious because it omits the adverb "not" in its version ofthe seventh commandment; the printers were fined a large sum for thisgross error. Six copies of the Wicked Bible are known to be inexistence. At one time the late James Lenox had two copies; in hisinteresting memoirs Henry Stevens tells how he picked up one copy inParis for fifty guineas. 

Rabelais' printer got the satirical doctor into deep water forprinting asne for ame; the council of the Sorbonne took the matter upand asked Francis I. To prosecute Rabelais for heresy; this the kingdeclined to do, and Rabelais proceeded forthwith to torment the councilfor having founded a charge of heresy upon a printer's blunder. 

Once upon a time the Foulis printing establishment at Glasgowdetermined to print a perfect Horace; accordingly the proof sheets werehung up at the gates of the university, and a sum of money was paid forevery error detected. 

Notwithstanding these precautions the edition had six uncorrectederrors in it when it was finally published. Disraeli says that theso-called Pearl Bible had six thousand errata! The works of Picus ofMirandula, Strasburg, 1507, gave a list of errata covering fifteenfolio pages, and a worse case is that of "Missae ac Missalis Anatomia"(1561), a volume of one hundred and seventy-two pages, fifteen of whichare devoted to the errata. The author of the Missae felt so deeplyaggrieved by this array of blunders that he made a public explanationto the effect that the devil himself stole the manuscript, tamperedwith it, and then actually compelled the printer to misread it. 

I am not sure that this ingenious explanation did not give origin tothe term of "printer's devil. "

 It is frightful to think What nonsense sometimes They make of one's sense And, what's worse, of one's rhymes. 

 It was only last week, In my ode upon spring, Which I meant to have made A most beautiful thing, When I talked of the dewdrops From freshly blown roses, The nasty things made it From freshly blown noses. 

We can fancy Richard Porson's rage (for Porson was of violent temper)when, having written the statement that "the crowd rent the air withtheir shouts, " his printer made the line read "the crowd rent the airwith their snouts. " However, this error was a natural one, since itoccurs in the "Catechism of the Swinish Multitude. " Royalty only areprivileged when it comes to the matter of blundering. When Louis XIV. Was a boy he one day spoke of "un carosse"; he should have said "unecarosse, " but he was king, and having changed the gender of carosse thechange was accepted, and unto this day carosse is masculine. 

That errors should occur in newspapers is not remarkable, for much ofthe work in a newspaper office is done hastily. Yet some of theseerrors are very amusing. I remember to have read in a Berlin newspapera number of years ago that "Prince Bismarck is trying to keep up honestand straightforward relations with all the girls" (madchen). 

This statement seemed incomprehensible until it transpired that theword "madchen" was in this instance a misprint for "machten, " a wordmeaning all the European powers. 

X

WHEN FANCHONETTE BEWITCHED ME

The garden in which I am straying has so many diversions to catch myeye, to engage my attention and to inspire reminiscence that I find ithard to treat of its beauties methodically. I find myself wandering upand down, hither and thither, in so irresponsible a fashion that Imarvel you have not abandoned me as the most irrational of madmen. 

Yet how could it be otherwise? All around me I see those things thatdraw me from the pathway I set out to pursue: like a heedless butterflyI flit from this sweet unto that, glorying and revelling in thesunshine and the posies. There is little that is selfish in a lovelike this, and herein we have another reason why the passion for booksis beneficial. He who loves women must and should love some one womanabove the rest, and he has her to his keeping, which I esteem to be onekind of selfishness. 

But he who truly loves books loves all books alike, and not only this, but it grieves him that all other men do not share with him this noblepassion. Verily, this is the most unselfish of loves!

To return now to the matter of booksellers, I would fain impress youwith the excellences of the craft, for I know their virtues. Myassociation with them has covered so long a period and has been sointimate that even in a vast multitude of people I have no difficultyin determining who are the booksellers and who are not. 

For, having to do with books, these men in due time come to resembletheir wares not only in appearance but also in conversation. Mybookseller has dwelt so long in his corner with folios and quartos andother antique tomes that he talks in black-letter and has the modest, engaging look of a brown old stout binding, and to the delectation ofdiscriminating olfactories he exhaleth an odor of mildew and of tobaccocommingled, which is more grateful to the true bibliophile than all theperfumes of Araby. 

I have studied the craft so diligently that by merely clapping my eyesupon a bookseller I can tell you with certainty what manner of books hesells; but you must know that the ideal bookseller has no fads, beingequally proficient in and a lover of all spheres, departments, branches, and lines of his art. He is, moreover, of a benignantnature, and he denies credit to none; yet, withal, he is righteously sodiscriminating that he lets the poor scholar have for a paltry sum thatwhich the rich parvenu must pay dearly for. He is courteous andconsiderate where courtesy and consideration are most seemly. 

Samuel Johnson once rolled into a London bookseller's shop to ask forliterary employment. The bookseller scrutinized his burly frame, enormous hands, coarse face, and humble apparel. 

"You would make a better porter, " said he. 

This was too much for the young lexicographer's patience. He picked upa folio and incontinently let fly at the bookseller's head, and thenstepping over the prostrate victim he made his exit, saying: "Liethere, thou lump of lead!"

This bookseller was Osborne, who had a shop at Gray's Inn Gate. ToBoswell Johnson subsequently explained: "Sir, he was impertinent tome, and I beat him. "

Jacob Tonson was Dryden's bookseller; in the earlier times a seller wasalso a publisher of books. Dryden was not always on amiable terms withTonson, presumably because Dryden invariably was in debt to Tonson. Onone occasion Dryden asked for an advance of money, but Tonson refusedupon the grounds that the poet's overdraft already exceeded the limitsof reasonableness. Thereupon Dryden penned the following lines and sentthem to Tonson with the message that he who wrote these lines couldwrite more:

 With leering looks, bull-faced and freckled fair With two left legs, with Judas-colored hair, And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air. 

These lines wrought the desired effect: Tonson sent the money whichDryden had asked for. When Dryden died Tonson made overtures to Pope, but the latter soon went over to Tonson's most formidable rival, Bernard Lintot. On one occasion Pope happened to be writing to bothpublishers, and by a curious blunder he inclosed to each the letterintended for the other. In the letter meant for Tonson, he said thatLintot was a scoundrel, and in the letter meant for Lintot he declaredthat Tonson was an old rascal. We can fancy how little satisfactionMessrs. Lintot and Tonson derived from the perusal of these missentepistles. 

Andrew Millar was the publisher who had practical charge of theproduction of Johnson's dictionary. It seems that Johnson drew out hisstipulated honorarium of eight thousand dollars (to be more exact, L1575) before the dictionary went to press; this is not surprising, forthe work of preparation consumed eight years, instead of three, asJohnson had calculated. Johnson inquired of the messenger what Millarsaid when he received the last batch of copy. The messenger answered:"He said 'Thank God I have done with him. '" This made Johnson smile. "I am glad, " said he, quietly, "that he thanks God for anything. "

I was not done with my discourse when a book was brought in from JudgeMethuen; the interruption was a pleasant one. "I was too busy lastevening, " writes the judge, "to bring you this volume which I picked upin a La Salle street stall yesterday. I know your love for thescallawag Villon, so I am sure you will fancy the lines which, evidently, the former owner of this book has scribbled upon thefly-leaf. " Fancy them? Indeed I do; and if you dote on the"scallawag" as I dote on him you also will declare that our anonymouspoet has not wrought ill. 

 FRANCOIS VILLON

 If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly? HE would in sweaty anguish toil the days and nights away, And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay! But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?

 If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie; "Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!" He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuff-box and his cane-- "Now back, my boon companions, to our bordel with our gain!" And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

 If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high; HE in his meagre, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den-- HE with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men! His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!-- "Go, fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!

 . . . . . . . 

 So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality-- If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

My acquaintance with Master Villon was made in Paris during my secondvisit to that fascinating capital, and for a while I was under hisspell to that extent that I would read no book but his, and I madejourneys to Rouen, Tours, Bordeaux, and Poitiers for the purpose offamiliarizing myself with the spots where he had lived, and alwaysunder the surveillance of the police. In fact, I became so infatuatedof Villonism that at one time I seriously thought of abandoning myselfto a life of crime in order to emulate in certain particulars at leastthe example of my hero. 

There were, however, hindrances to this scheme, first of which was myinability to find associates whom I wished to attach to my cause in thecapacity in which Colin de Cayeulx and the Baron de Grigny servedMaster Francois. I sought the companionship of several low-browed, ill-favored fellows whom I believed suited to my purposes, but almostimmediately I wearied of them, for they had never looked into a bookand were so profoundly ignorant as to be unable to distinguish betweena folio and a thirty-twomo. 

Then again it befell that, while the Villon fever was raging withinand I was contemplating a career of vice, I had a letter from my uncleCephas, apprising me that Captivity Waite (she was now Mrs. EliphaletParker) had named her first-born after me! This intelligence had theeffect of cooling and sobering me; I began to realize that, with theresponsibility the coming and the christening of Captivity's first-bornhad imposed upon me, it behooved me to guard with exceeding jealousythe honor of the name which my namesake bore. 

While I was thus tempest-tossed, Fanchonette came across my pathway, and with the appearance of Fanchonette every ambition to figure in theannals of bravado left me. Fanchonette was the niece of my landlady;her father was a perfumer; she lived with the old people in the Rue desCapucins. She was of middling stature and had blue eyes and blackhair. Had she not been French, she would have been Irish, or, perhaps, a Grecian. Her manner had an indefinable charm. 

It was she who acquainted me with Beranger; that is why I never take upthat precious volume that I do not think, sweetly and tenderly, ofFanchonette. The book is bound, as you see, in a dainty blue, and theborder toolings are delicate tracings of white--all for a purpose, Ican assure you. She used to wear a dainty blue gown, from behind thenether hem of which the most immaculate of petticoats peeped out. 

If we were never boys, how barren and lonely our age would be. Next tothe ineffably blessed period of youth there is no time of lifepleasanter than that in which serene old age reviews the exploits andthe prodigies of boyhood. Ah, my gay fellows, harvest your cropsdiligently, that your barns and granaries be full when your arms are nolonger able to wield the sickle!

Haec meminisse--to recall the old time--to see her rise out of the dearpast--to hear Fanchonette's voice again--to feel the grace ofspringtime--how gloriously sweet this is! The little quarrels, thereconciliations, the coquetries, the jealousies, the reproaches, theforgivenesses--all the characteristic and endearing haps of the Maytimeof life--precious indeed are these retrospections to the hungry eyes ofage!

She wed with the perfumer's apprentice; but that was so very long agothat I can pardon, if not forget, the indiscretion. Who knows whereshe is to-day? Perhaps a granny beldame in a Parisian alley; perhapsfor years asleep in Pere la Chaise. Come forth, beloved Beranger, andsing me the old song to make me young and strong and brave again!

 Let them be served on gold-- The wealthy and the great; Two lovers only want A single glass and plate! Ring ding, ring ding, Ring ding ding-- Old wine, young lassie, Sing, boys, sing!

XI

DIAGNOSIS OF THE BACILLUS LIBRORUM

For a good many years I was deeply interested in British politics. Iwas converted to Liberalism, so-called, by an incident which I deemwell worth relating. One afternoon I entered a book-shop in HighHolborn, and found that the Hon. William E. Gladstone had preceded methither. I had never seen Mr. Gladstone before. I recognized him nowby his resemblance to the caricatures, and by his unlikeness to theportraits which the newspapers had printed. 

As I entered the shop I heard the bookseller ask: "What books shall Isend?"

To this, with a very magnificent sweep of his arms indicating everypoint of the compass, Gladstone made answer: "Send me THOSE!"

With these words he left the place, and I stepped forward to claim avolume which had attracted my favorable attention several days previous. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " said the bookseller, politely, "but that bookis sold. "

"Sold?" I cried. 

"Yes, sir, " replied the bookseller, smiling with evident pride; "Mr. Gladstone just bought it; I haven't a book for sale--Mr. Gladstone justbought them ALL!"

The bookseller then proceeded to tell me that whenever Gladstoneentered a bookshop he made a practice of buying everything in sight. That magnificent, sweeping gesture of his comprehendedeverything--theology, history, social science, folk-lore, medicine, travel, biography--everything that came to his net was fish!

"This is the third time Mr. Gladstone has visited me, " said thebookseller, "and this is the third time he has cleaned me out. "

"This man is a good man, " says I to myself. "So notable a lover ofbooks surely cannot err. The cause of home rule must be a just oneafter all. "

From others intimately acquainted with him I learned that Gladstone wasan omnivorous reader; that he ordered his books by the cart-load, andthat his home in Hawarden literally overflowed with books. He made apractice, I was told, of overhauling his library once in so often andof weeding out such volumes as he did not care to keep. Thesediscarded books were sent to the second-hand dealers, and it is saidthat the dealers not unfrequently took advantage of Gladstone byreselling him over and over again (and at advanced prices, too) thevery lots of books he had culled out and rejected. 

Every book-lover has his own way of buying; so there are as many waysof buying as there are purchasers. However, Judge Methuen and I haveagreed that all buyers may be classed in these following specifiedgrand divisions:

 The reckless buyer. 

 The shrewd buyer. 

 The timid buyer. 

Of these three classes the third is least worthy of our consideration, although it includes very many lovers of books, and consequently verymany friends of mine. I have actually known men to hesitate, toponder, to dodder for weeks, nay, months over the purchase of a book;not because they did not want it, nor because they deemed the priceexorbitant, nor yet because they were not abundantly able to pay thatprice. Their hesitancy was due to an innate, congenital lack ofdetermination--that same hideous curse of vacillation which isresponsible for so much misery in human life. 

I have made a study of these people, and I find that most of them arebachelors whose state of singleness is due to the fact that the samehesitancy which has deprived them of many a coveted volume has operatedto their discomfiture in the matrimonial sphere. While theydeliberated, another bolder than they came along and walked off withthe prize. 

One of the gamest buyers I know of was the late John A. Rice ofChicago. As a competitor at the great auction sales he was invincible;and why? Because, having determined to buy a book, he put no limit tothe amount of his bid. His instructions to his agent were in thesewords: "I must have those books, no matter what they cost. "

An English collector found in Rice's library a set of rare volumes hehad been searching for for years. 

"How did you happen to get them?" he asked. "You bought them at theSpencer sale and against my bid. Do you know, I told my buyer to bid athousand pounds for them, if necessary!"

"That was where I had the advantage of you, " said Rice, quietly. "Ispecified no limit; I simply told my man to buy the books. "

The spirit of the collector cropped out early in Rice. I remember tohave heard him tell how one time, when he was a young man, he wasshuffling over a lot of tracts in a bin in front of a Boston bookstall. His eye suddenly fell upon a little pamphlet entitled "The Cow-Chace. "He picked it up and read it. It was a poem founded upon the defeat ofGenerals Wayne, Irving, and Proctor. The last stanza ran in this wise:

 And now I've closed my epic strain, I tremble as I show it, Lest this same warrior-drover, Wayne, Should ever catch the poet. 

Rice noticed that the pamphlet bore the imprint of James Rivington, NewYork, 1780. It occurred to him that some time this modest tract ofeighteen pages might be valuable; at any rate, he paid the fifteencents demanded for it, and at the same time he purchased for ten centsanother pamphlet entitled "The American Tories, a Satire. "

Twenty years later, having learned the value of these exceedingly raretracts, Mr. Rice sent them to London and had them bound in FrancisBedford's best style--"crimson crushed levant morocco, finished to aGrolier pattern. " Bedford's charges amounted to seventy-five dollars, which with the original cost of the pamphlets represented anexpenditure of seventy-five dollars and twenty-five cents upon Mr. Rice's part. At the sale of the Rice library in 1870, however, thiscurious, rare, and beautiful little book brought the extraordinary sumof seven hundred and fifty dollars!

The Rice library contained about five thousand volumes, and it realizedat auction sale somewhat more than seventy-two thousand dollars. Ricehas often told me that for a long time he could not make up his mind topart with his books; yet his health was so poor that he found itimperative to retire from business, and to devote a long period of timeto travel; these were the considerations that induced him finally topart with his treasures. "I have never regretted having sold them, " hesaid. "Two years after the sale the Chicago fire came along. Had Iretained those books, every one of them would have been lost. "

Mrs. Rice shared her husband's enthusiasm for books. Whenever a newinvoice arrived, the two would lock themselves in their room, get downupon their knees on the floor, open the box, take out the treasures andgloat over them, together! Noble lady! she was such a wife as any goodman might be proud of. They were very happy in their companionship onearth, were my dear old friends. He was the first to go; theirseparation was short; together once more and forever they share theillimitable joys which await all lovers of good books when virtue hathmournfully writ the colophon to their human careers. 

Although Mr. Rice survived the sale of his remarkable library a periodof twenty-six years, he did not get together again a collection ofbooks that he was willing to call a library. His first collection wasso remarkable that he preferred to have his fame rest wholly upon it. Perhaps he was wise; yet how few collectors there are who would havedone as he did. 

As for myself, I verily believe that, if by fire or by water my libraryshould be destroyed this night, I should start in again to-morrow uponthe collection of another library. Or if I did not do this, I shouldlay myself down to die, for how could I live without the companionshipsto which I have ever been accustomed, and which have grown as dear tome as life itself?

Whenever Judge Methuen is in a jocular mood and wishes to tease me, heasks me whether I have forgotten the time when I was possessed of aspirit of reform and registered a solemn vow in high heaven to buy nomore books. Teasing, says Victor Hugo, is the malice of good men;Judge Methuen means no evil when he recalls that weakness--the oneweakness in all my career. 

No, I have not forgotten that time; I look back upon it with a shudderof horror, for wretched indeed would have been my existence had Icarried into effect the project I devised at that remote period!

Dr. O'Rell has an interesting theory which you will find recorded inthe published proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (vol. Xxxiv. , p. 216). Or, if you cannot procure copies of that work, it mayserve your purpose to know that the doctor's theory is to thiseffect--viz. , that bibliomania does not deserve the name of bibliomaniauntil it is exhibited in the second stage. For secondary bibliomaniathere is no known cure; the few cases reported as having been curedwere doubtless not bibliomania at all, or, at least, were what we ofthe faculty call false or chicken bibliomania. 

"In false bibliomania, which, " says Dr. O'Rell, "is the primary stageof the grand passion--the vestibule to the main edifice--the usualsymptoms are flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, a bounding pulse, andquick respiration. This period of exaltation is not unfrequentlyfollowed by a condition of collapse in which we find the victim pale, pulseless, and dejected. He is pursued and tormented of imaginaryhorrors, he reproaches himself for imaginary crimes, and he implorespiteously for relief from fancied dangers. The sufferer now stands ina slippery place; unless his case is treated intelligently he willissue from that period of gloom cured of the sweetest of madnesses, anddoomed to a life of singular uselessness. 

"But properly treated, " continues Dr. O'Rell, "and particularly if hisspiritual needs be ministered to, he can be brought safely through thisperiod of collapse into a condition of reenforced exaltation, which isthe true, or secondary stage of, bibliomania, and for which there is nocure known to humanity. "

I should trust Dr. O'Rell's judgment in this matter, even if I did notknow from experience that it was true. For Dr. O'Rell is the mostfamous authority we have in bibliomania and kindred maladies. It is he(I make the information known at the risk of offending the ethics ofthe profession)--it is he who discovered the bacillus librorum, and, what is still more important and still more to his glory, it is he whoinvented that subtle lymph which is now everywhere employed by theprofession as a diagnostic where the presence of the germs ofbibliomania (in other words, bacilli librorum) is suspected. 

I once got this learned scientist to inject a milligram of the lymphinto the femoral artery of Miss Susan's cat. Within an hour theprecocious beast surreptitiously entered my library for the first timein her life, and ate the covers of my pet edition of Rabelais. Thisdemonstrated to Dr. O'Rell's satisfaction the efficacy of hisdiagnostic, and it proved to Judge Methuen's satisfaction what theJudge has always maintained--viz. , that Rabelais was an old rat. 

XII

THE PLEASURES OF EXTRA-ILLUSTRATION

Very many years ago we became convinced--Judge Methuen and I did--thatthere was nothing new in the world. I think it was while we were inLondon and while we were deep in the many fads of bibliomania that wearrived at this important conclusion. 

We had been pursuing with enthusiasm the exciting delights ofextra-illustration, a practice sometimes known as Grangerism; thefriends of the practice call it by the former name, the enemies by thelatter. We were engaged at extra-illustrating Boswell's life ofJohnson, and had already got together somewhat more than eleventhousand prints when we ran against a snag, an obstacle we never couldsurmount. We agreed that our work would be incomplete, and thereforevain, unless we secured a picture of the book with which the greatlexicographer knocked down Osborne, the bookseller at Gray's Inn Gate. 

Unhappily we were wholly in the dark as to what the title of that bookwas, and, although we ransacked the British Museum and even appealed tothe learned Frognall Dibdin, we could not get a clew to the identity ofthe volume. To be wholly frank with you, I will say that both theJudge and I had wearied of the occupation; moreover, it involved greatexpense, since we were content with nothing but India proofs (thosebefore letters preferred). So we were glad of this excuse forabandoning the practice. 

While we were contemplating a graceful retreat the Judge happened todiscover in the "Natural History" of Pliny a passage which proved toour satisfaction that, so far from being a new or a modern thing, theextra-illustration of books was of exceptional antiquity. It seemsthat Atticus, the friend of Cicero, wrote a book on the subject ofportraits and portrait-painting, in the course of which treatise hementions that Marcus Varro "conceived the very liberal idea ofinserting, by some means or another, in his numerous volumes, theportraits of several hundred individuals, as he could not bear the ideathat all traces of their features should be lost or that the lapse ofcenturies should get the better of mankind. "

"Thus, " says Pliny, "was he the inventor of a benefit to his fellow-menthat might have been envied by the gods themselves; for not only did heconfer immortality upon the originals of these portraits, but hetransmitted these portraits to all parts of the earth, so thateverywhere it might be possible for them to be present, and for each tooccupy his niche. "

Now, Pliny is not the only one who has contributed to theimmortalization of Marcus Varro. I have had among my papers for thirtyyears the verses which Judge Methuen dashed off (for poets invariablydash off their poetry), and they are such pleasant verses that I don'tmind letting the world see them. 

 MARCUS VARRO

 Marcus Varro went up and down The places where old books were sold; He ransacked all the shops in town For pictures new and pictures old. He gave the folk of earth no peace; Snooping around by day and night, He plied the trade in Rome and Greece Of an insatiate Grangerite. 

 "Pictures!" was evermore his cry-- "Pictures of old or recent date, " And pictures only would he buy Wherewith to "extra-illustrate. " Full many a tome of ancient type And many a manuscript he took, For nary purpose but to swipe Their pictures for some other book. 

 While Marcus Varro plied his fad There was not in the shops of Greece A book or pamphlet to be had That was not minus frontispiece. Nor did he hesitate to ply His baleful practices at home; It was not possible to buy A perfect book in all of Rome!

 What must the other folk have done-- Who, glancing o'er the books they bought, Came soon and suddenly upon The vandalism Varro wrought! How must their cheeks have flamed with red-- How did their hearts with choler beat! We can imagine what they said-- We can imagine, not repeat!

 Where are the books that Varro made-- The pride of dilettante Rome-- With divers portraitures inlaid Swiped from so many another tome? The worms devoured them long ago-- O wretched worms! ye should have fed Not on the books "extended" so, But on old Varro's flesh instead!

 Alas, that Marcus Varro lives And is a potent factor yet! Alas, that still his practice gives Good men occasion for regret! To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go, And by the "missing" prints and plates And frontispieces you shall know He lives, and "extra-illustrates"!

In justice to the Judge and to myself I should say that neither of uswholly approves the sentiment which the poem I have quoted implies. Weregard Grangerism as one of the unfortunate stages in bibliomania; itis a period which seldom covers more than five years, although Dr. O'Rell has met with one case in his practice that has lasted ten yearsand still gives no symptom of abating in virulence. 

Humanity invariably condones the pranks of youth on the broad andcharitable grounds that "boys will be boys"; so we bibliomaniacs areprone to wink at the follies of the Grangerite, for we know that hewill know better by and by and will heartily repent of the mischief hehas done. We know the power of books so well that we know that no mancan have to do with books that presently he does not love them. He mayat first endure them; then he may come only to pity them; anon, assurely as the morrow's sun riseth, he shall embrace and love thoseprecious things. 

So we say that we would put no curb upon any man, it being better thatmany books should be destroyed, if ultimately by that destruction apenitent and loyal soul be added to the roster of bibliomaniacs. There is more joy over one Grangerite that repenteth than over ninetyand nine just men that need no repentance. 

And we have a similar feeling toward such of our number as for thenonce become imbued with a passion for any of the other little fadswhich bibliomaniac flesh is heir to. All the soldiers in an armycannot be foot, or horse, or captains, or majors, or generals, orartillery, or ensigns, or drummers, or buglers. Each one has his placeto fill and his part to do, and the consequence is a concinnate whole. Bibliomania is beautiful as an entirety, as a symmetrical blending of amultitude of component parts, and he is indeed disloyal to the causewho, through envy or shortsightedness or ignorance, argues to thediscredit of angling, or Napoleonana, or balladry, or Indians, orBurns, or Americana, or any other branch or phase of bibliomania; foreach of these things accomplishes a noble purpose in that eachcontributes to the glory of the great common cause of bibliomania, which is indeed the summum bonum of human life. 

I have heard many decried who indulged their fancy for bookplates, asif, forsooth, if a man loved his books, he should not lavish upon themtestimonials of his affection! Who that loves his wife should hesitateto buy adornments for her person? I favor everything that tends toprove that the human heart is swayed by the tenderer emotions. Gratitude is surely one of the noblest emotions of which humanity iscapable, and he is indeed unworthy of our respect who would forbidhumanity's expressing in every dignified and reverential manner itsgratitude for the benefits conferred by the companionship of books. 

As for myself, I urge upon all lovers of books to provide themselveswith bookplates. Whenever I see a book that bears its owner's plate Ifeel myself obligated to treat that book with special consideration. It carries with it a certificate of its master's love; the bookplategives the volume a certain status it would not otherwise have. Timeand again I have fished musty books out of bins in front of bookstalls, bought them and borne them home with me simply because they had upontheir covers the bookplates of their former owners. I have a casefilled with these aristocratic estrays, and I insist that they shall beas carefully dusted and kept as my other books, and I have provided inmy will for their perpetual maintenance after my decease. 

If I were a rich man I should found a hospital for homelessaristocratic books, an institution similar in all essential particularsto the institution which is now operated at our national capital underthe bequest of the late Mr. Cochrane. I should name it the Home forGenteel Volumes in Decayed Circumstances. 

I was a young man when I adopted the bookplate which I am still using, and which will be found in all my books. I drew the design myself andhad it executed by a son of Anderson, the first of American engravers. It is by no means elaborate: a book rests upon a heart, and underneathappear the lines:

 My Book and Heart Must never part. 

Ah, little Puritan maid, with thy dear eyes of honest blue and thy fairhair in proper plaits adown thy back, little thought we thatspringtime long ago back among the New England hills that the tiny bookwe read together should follow me through all my life! What a part hasthat Primer played! And now all these other beloved companions bearwitness to the love I bear that Primer and its teachings, for eachwears the emblem I plucked from its homely pages. 

That was in the springtime, Captivity Waite; anon came summer, with allits exuberant glory, and presently the cheery autumn stole upon me. And now it is the winter-time, and under the snows lies buried many asweet, fair thing I cherished once. I am aweary and will rest a littlewhile; lie thou there, my pen, for a dream--a pleasant dream--callethme away. I shall see those distant hills again, and the homesteadunder the elms; the old associations and the old influences shall beround about me, and a child shall lead me and we shall go togetherthrough green pastures and by still waters. And, O my pen, it will bethe springtime again!

XIII

ON THE ODORS WHICH MY BOOKS EXHALE

Have you ever come out of the thick, smoky atmosphere of the town intothe fragrant, gracious atmosphere of a library? If you have, you knowhow grateful the change is, and you will agree with me when I say thatnothing else is so quieting to the nerves, so conducive to physicalhealth, and so quick to restore a lively flow of the spirits. 

Lafcadio Hearn once wrote a treatise upon perfumes, an ingenious andscholarly performance; he limited the edition to fifty copies andpublished it privately--so the book is rarely met with. Curiouslyenough, however, this author had nothing to say in the book about thesmells of books, which I regard as a most unpardonable error, unless, properly estimating the subject to be worthy of a separate treatise, he has postponed its consideration and treatment to a time when he candevote the requisite study and care to it. 

We have it upon the authority of William Blades that books breathe;however, the testimony of experts is not needed upon this point, for ifanybody be sceptical, all he has to do to convince himself is to open adoor of a bookcase at any time and his olfactories will be greeted byan outrush of odors that will prove to him beyond all doubt that booksdo actually consume air and exhale perfumes. 

Visitors to the British Museum complain not unfrequently that they areovercome by the closeness of the atmosphere in that place, and what isknown as the British Museum headache has come to be recognized by themedical profession in London as a specific ailment due to the absenceof oxygen in the atmosphere, which condition is caused by the multitudeof books, each one of which, by that breathing process peculiar tobooks, consumes several thousand cubic feet of air every twenty-fourhours. 

Professor Huxley wondered for a long time why the atmosphere of theBritish Museum should be poisonous while other libraries were free fromthe poison; a series of experiments convinced him that the presence ofpoison in the atmosphere was due to the number of profane books in theMuseum. He recommended that these poison-engendering volumes betreated once every six months with a bath of cedria, which, as Iunderstand, is a solution of the juices of the cedar tree; this, hesaid, would purge the mischievous volumes temporarily of their evilpropensities and abilities. 

I do not know whether this remedy is effective, but I remember to haveread in Pliny that cedria was used by the ancients to render theirmanuscripts imperishable. When Cneius Terentius went digging in hisestate in the Janiculum he came upon a coffer which contained not onlythe remains of Numa, the old Roman king, but also the manuscripts ofthe famous laws which Numa compiled. The king was in some suchcondition as you might suppose him to be after having been buriedseveral centuries, but the manuscripts were as fresh as new, and theirbeing so is said to have been due to the fact that before their burialthey were rubbed with citrus leaves. 

These so-called books of Numa would perhaps have been preserved untothis day but for the fanaticism of the people who exhumed and readthem; they were promptly burned by Quintus Petilius, the praetor, because (as Cassius Hemina explains) they treated of philosophicalsubjects, or because, as Livy testifies, their doctrines were inimicalto the religion then existing. 

As I have had little to do with profane literature, I know nothing ofthe habits of such books as Professor Huxley has prescribed an antidoteagainst. Of such books as I have gathered about me and made myconstant companions I can say truthfully that a moredelectable-flavored lot it were impossible to find. As I walk amongstthem, touching first this one and then that, and regarding all withglances of affectionate approval, I fancy that I am walking in asplendid garden, full of charming vistas, wherein parterre afterparterre of beautiful flowers is unfolded to my enraptured vision; andsurely there never were other odors so delightful as the odors which mybooks exhale!

 My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks And fragrance is over it all; For sweet is the smell of my old, old books In their places against the wall. 

 Here is a folio that's grim with age And yellow and green with mould; There's the breath of the sea on every page And the hint of a stanch ship's hold. 

 And here is a treasure from France la belle Exhaleth a faint perfume Of wedded lily and asphodel In a garden of song abloom. 

 And this wee little book of Puritan mien And rude, conspicuous print Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen, Or, may be, of peppermint. 

 In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell Where the cheery daisy grows, And where in meadow or woodland dwell The buttercup and the rose. 

 But best beloved of books, I ween, Are those which one perceives Are hallowed by ashes dropped between The yellow, well-thumbed leaves. 

 For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear, Till the treasured book is read; And the ashes betwixt the pages here Tell us of one long dead. 

 But the gracious presence reappears As we read the book again, And the fragrance of precious, distant years Filleth the hearts of men

 Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks The posies that bloom for all; Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books In their places against the wall!

Better than flowers are they, these books of mine! For what are theseasons to them? Neither can the drought of summer nor the asperity ofwinter wither or change them. At all times and under all circumstancesthey are the same--radiant, fragrant, hopeful, helpful! There is nocharm which they do not possess, no beauty that is not theirs. 

What wonder is it that from time immemorial humanity has craved theboon of carrying to the grave some book particularly beloved in life?Even Numa Pompilius provided that his books should share his tomb withhim. Twenty-four of these precious volumes were consigned with him tothe grave. When Gabriel Rossetti's wife died, the poet cast into heropen grave the unfinished volume of his poems, that being the last andmost precious tribute he could pay to her cherished memory. 

History records instance after instance of the consolation dying menhave received from the perusal of books, and many a one has made hisend holding in his hands a particularly beloved volume. The reverencewhich even unlearned men have for books appeals in these splendidlibraries which are erected now and again with funds provided by thewills of the illiterate. How dreadful must be the last moments of thatperson who has steadfastly refused to share the companionship andacknowledge the saving grace of books!

Such, indeed, is my regard for these friendships that it is with miserythat I contemplate the probability of separation from them by and by. I have given my friends to understand that when I am done with earthcertain of my books shall be buried with me. The list of these bookswill be found in the left-hand upper drawer of the old mahoganysecretary in the front spare room. 

 When I am done, I'd have no son Pounce on these treasures like a vulture; Nay, give them half My epitaph And let them share in my sepulture. 

 Then when the crack Of doom rolls back The marble and the earth that hide me, I'll smuggle home Each precious tome Without a fear a wife shall chide me. 

The dread of being separated by death from the objects of one's lovehas pursued humanity from the beginning. The Hindoos used to have aselfish fashion of requiring their widows to be entombed alive withtheir corpses. The North American Indian insists that his horse, hisbow and arrows, his spear, and his other cherished trinkets shall sharehis grave with him. 

My sister, Miss Susan, has provided that after her demise a number ofher most prized curios shall be buried with her. The list, as I recallit, includes a mahogany four-post bedstead, an Empire dresser, a brasswarming-pan, a pair of brass andirons, a Louis Quinze table, aMayflower teapot, a Tomb of Washington platter, a pewter tankard, apair of her grandmother's candlesticks, a Paul Revere lantern, a tallDutch clock, a complete suit of armor purchased in Rome, and acollection of Japanese bric-a-brac presented to Miss Susan by areturned missionary. 

I do not see what Miss Susan can possibly do with all this trumpery inthe hereafter, but, if I survive her, I shall certainly insist upon acompliance with her wishes, even though it involve the erection of atumulus as prodigious as the pyramid of Cheops. 

XIV

ELZEVIRS AND DIVERS OTHER MATTERS

Boswell's "Life of Johnson" and Lockhart's "Life of Scott" are acceptedas the models of biography. The third remarkable performance in thisline is Mrs. Gordon's memoir of her father, John Wilson, a volume socharmingly and tenderly written as to be of interest to those even whoknow and care little about that era in the history of Englishliterature in which "crusty Christopher" and his associates in themaking of "Blackwood's" figured. 

It is a significant fact, I think, that the three greatest biographersthe world has known should have been Scotch; it has long been thefashion to laugh and to sneer at what is called Scotch dulness; yetwhat prodigies has not Scotch genius performed in every department ofliterature, and would not our literature be poor indeed to-day but forthe contributions which have been made to it by the very people whom weaffect to deride?

John Wilson was one of the most interesting figures of a time whenlearning was at a premium; he was a big man amongst big men, and evenin this irreverential time genius uncovers at the mention of his name. His versatility was astounding; with equal facility and felicity hecould conduct a literary symposium and a cock-fight, a theologicaldiscussion and an angling expedition, a historical or a politicalinquiry and a fisticuffs. 

Nature had provided him with a mighty brain in a powerful body; he hada physique equal to the performance of what suggestion soever hissplendid intellectuals made. To him the incredible feat of walkingseventy miles within the compass of a day was mere child's play; then, when the printer became clamorous, he would immure himself in hiswonderful den and reel off copy until that printer cried "Hold;enough!" It was no unusual thing for him to write for thirteen hoursat a stretch; when he worked he worked, and when he played heplayed--that is perhaps the reason why he was never a dull boy. 

Wilson seems to have been a procrastinator. He would put off his taskto the very last moment; this is a practice that is common withliterary men--in fact, it was encouraged by those who were regarded asauthorities in such matters anciently. Ringelbergius gave this adviceto an author under his tuition:

"Tell the printers, " said he, "to make preparations for a work youintend writing, and never alarm yourself about it because it is noteven begun, for, after having announced it you may without difficultytrace out in your own head the whole plan of your work and itsdivisions, after which compose the arguments of the chapters, and I canassure you that in this manner you may furnish the printers daily withmore copy than they want. But, remember, when you have once begunthere must be no flagging till the work is finished. "

The loyalty of human admiration was never better illustrated than inShelton Mackenzie's devotion to Wilson's genius. To Mackenzie we areindebted for a compilation of the "Noctes Ambrosianae, " edited withsuch discrimination, such ability, such learning, and such enthusiasmthat, it seems to me, the work must endure as a monument not only toWilson's but also to Mackenzie's genius. 

I have noticed one peculiarity that distinguishes many admirers of theNoctes: they seldom care to read anything else; in the Noctes they finda response to the demand of every mood. It is much the same way withlovers of Father Prout. Dr. O'Rell divides his adoration between oldKit North and the sage of Watergrass Hill. To be bitten of eithermania is bad enough; when one is possessed at the same time of apassion both for the Noctes and for the Reliques hopeless indeed is hismalady! Dr. O'Rell is so deep under the spell of crusty Christopherand the Corkonian pere that he not only buys every copy of the Noctesand of the Reliques he comes across, but insists upon giving copies ofthese books to everybody in his acquaintance. I have even known him toprescribe one or the other of these works to patients of his. 

I recall that upon one occasion, having lost an Elzevir at a bookauction, I was afflicted with melancholia to such a degree that I hadto take to my bed. Upon my physician's arrival he made, as is hiscustom, a careful inquiry into my condition and into the causesinducing it. Finally, "You are afflicted, " said Dr. O'Rell, "with themegrims, which, fortunately, is at present confined to the region ofthe Pacchionian depressions of the sinister parietal. I shalladminister Father Prout's 'Rogueries of Tom Moore' (pronounced More)and Kit North's debate with the Ettrick Shepherd upon the subject ofsawmon. No other remedy will prove effective. "

The treatment did, in fact, avail me, for within forty-eight hours Iwas out of bed, and out of the house; and, what is better yet, I pickedup at a bookstall, for a mere song, a first edition of "SpecialProvidences in New England"!

Never, however, have I wholly ceased to regret the loss of the Elzevir, for an Elzevir is to me one of the most gladdening sights human eye canrest upon. In his life of the elder Aldus, Renouard says: "How feware there of those who esteem and pay so dearly for these prettyeditions who know that the type that so much please them are the workof Francis Garamond, who cast them one hundred years before at Paris. "

In his bibliographical notes (a volume seldom met with now) the learnedWilliam Davis records that Louis Elzevir was the first who observed thedistinction between the v consonant and the u vowel, which distinction, however, had been recommended long before by Ramus and other writers, but had never been regarded. There were five of these Elzevirs, viz. :Louis, Bonaventure, Abraham, Louis, Jr. , and Daniel. 

A hundred years ago a famous bibliophile remarked: "The diminutivenessof a large portion, and the beauty of the whole, of the classicsprinted by the Elzevirs at Leyden and Amsterdam have long rendered themjustly celebrated, and the prices they bear in public salessufficiently demonstrate the estimation in which they are at presentheld. "

The regard for these precious books still obtains, and we meet with itin curiously out-of-the-way places, as well as in those libraries whereone would naturally expect to find it. My young friend Irving Way(himself a collector of rare enthusiasm) tells me that recently duringa pilgrimage through the state of Texas he came upon a gentleman whoshowed him in his modest home the most superb collection of Elzevirs hehad ever set eyes upon!

How far-reaching is thy grace, O bibliomania! How good and sweet it isthat no distance, no environment, no poverty, no distress can appall orstay thee. Like that grim spectre we call death, thou knockestimpartially at the palace portal and at the cottage door. And itseemeth thy especial delight to bring unto the lonely in desert placesthe companionship that exalteth humanity!

It makes me groan to think of the number of Elzevirs that are lost inthe libraries of rich parvenus who know nothing of and care no thingfor the treasures about them further than a certain vulgar vanity whichis involved. When Catherine of Russia wearied of Koritz she took toher affection one Kimsky Kossakof, a sergeant in the guards. Kimskywas elated by this sudden acquisition of favor and riches. One of hisfirst orders was to his bookseller. Said he to that worthy: "Fit meup a handsome library; little books above and great ones below. "

It is narrated of a certain British warrior that upon his retirementfrom service he bought a library en bloc, and, not knowing any moreabout books than a peccary knows of the harmonies of the heavenlychoir, he gave orders for the arrangement of the volumes in this wise:"Range me, " he quoth, "the grenadiers (folios) at the bottom, thebattalion (octavos) in the middle, and the light-bobs (duodecimos) atthe top!"

Samuel Johnson, dancing attendance upon Lord Chesterfield, could hardlyhave felt his humiliation more keenly than did the historian Gibbonwhen his grace the Duke of Cumberland met him bringing the third volumeof his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire" to the ducal mansion. This history was originally printed in quarto; Gibbon was carrying thevolume and anticipating the joy of the duke upon its arrival. What didthe duke say? "What?" he cried. "Ah, another ---- big square book, eh?"

It is the fashion nowadays to harp upon the degeneracy of humanity; toinsist that taste is corrupted, and that the faculty of appreciation isdead. We seem incapable of realizing that this is the golden age ofauthors, if not the golden age of authorship. 

In the good old days authors were in fact a despised and neglectedclass. The Greeks put them to death, as the humor seized them. For ahundred years after his death Shakespeare was practically unknown tohis countrymen, except Suckling and his coterie: during his life he wasroundly assailed by his contemporaries, one of the latter going to theextreme of denouncing him as a daw that strutted in borrowed plumage. Milton was accused of plagiarism, and one of his critics devoted manyyears to compiling from every quarter passages in ancient works whichbore a similarity to the blind poet's verses. Even Samuel Johnson'ssatire of "London" was pronounced a plagiarism. 

The good old days were the days, seemingly, when the critics had theirway and ran things with a high hand; they made or unmade books andauthors. They killed Chatterton, just as, some years later, theyhastened the death of Keats. For a time they were all-powerful. Itwas not until the end of the eighteenth century that these professionaltyrants began to lose their grip, and when Byron took up the lanceagainst them their doom was practically sealed. 

Who would care a picayune in these degenerate days what Dr. Warburtonsaid pro or con a book? It was Warburton (then Bishop of Gloucester)who remarked of Granger's "Biographical History of England" that it was"an odd one. " This was as high a compliment as he ever paid a book;those which he did not like he called sad books, and those which hefancied he called odd ones. 

The truth seems to be that through the diffusion of knowledge and themultiplicity and cheapness of books people generally have reached thepoint in intelligence where they feel warranted in asserting theirability to judge for themselves. So the occupation of the critic, asinterpreted and practised of old, is gone. 

Reverting to the practice of lamenting the degeneracy of humanity, Ishould say that the fashion is by no means a new one. Search therecords of the ancients and you will find the same harping upon the onestring of present decay and former virtue. Herodotus, Sallust, Caesar, Cicero, and Pliny take up and repeat the lugubrious tale in turn. 

Upon earth there are three distinct classes of men: Those whocontemplate the past, those who contemplate the present, those whocontemplate the future. I am of those who believe that humanityprogresses, and it is my theory that the best works of the past havesurvived and come down to us in these books which are our dearestlegacies, our proudest possessions, and our best-beloved companions. 

XV

A BOOK THAT BRINGS SOLACE AND CHEER

One of my friends had a mania for Bunyan once upon a time, and, although he has now abandoned that fad for the more fashionable passionof Napoleonana, he still exhibits with evident pride the many editionsof the "Pilgrim's Progress" he gathered together years ago. I havefrequently besought him to give me one of his copies, which has acurious frontispiece illustrating the dangers besetting the travellerfrom the City of Destruction to the Celestial City. This frontispiece, which is prettily illuminated, occurs in Virtue's edition of the"Pilgrim's Progress"; the book itself is not rare, but it is hardlyprocurable in perfect condition, for the reason that the colored plateis so pleasing to the eye that few have been able to resist thetemptation to make away with it. 

For similar reasons it is seldom that we meet with a perfect edition ofQuarles' "Emblems"; indeed, an "Emblems" of early publication that doesnot lack the title-page is a great rarity. In the "good old days, " whenjuvenile books were few, the works of Bunyan and of Quarles were vastlypopular with the little folk, and little fingers wrought sad havoc withthe title-pages and the pictures that with their extravagant and vividsuggestions appealed so directly and powerfully to the youthful fancy. 

Coleridge says of the "Pilgrim's Progress" that it is the best summaryof evangelical Christianity ever produced by a writer not miraculouslyinspired. Froude declares that it has for two centuries affected thespiritual opinions of the English race in every part of the world morepowerfully than any other book, except the Bible. "It is, " saysMacaulay, "perhaps the only book about which, after the lapse of ahundred years, the educated minority has come over to the opinion ofthe common people. "

Whether or not Bunyan is, as D'Israeli has called him, the Spenser ofthe people, and whether or not his work is the poetry of Puritanism, the best evidence of the merit of the "Pilgrim's Progress" appears, asDr. Johnson has shrewdly pointed out, in the general and continuedapprobation of mankind. Southey has critically observed that to hisnatural style Bunyan is in some degree beholden for his generalpopularity, his language being everywhere level to the most ignorantreader and to the meanest capacity; "there is a homely reality aboutit--a nursery tale is not more intelligible, in its manner ofnarration, to a child. "

Another cause of his popularity, says Southey, is that he taxes theimagination as little as the understanding. "The vividness of his own, which, as history shows, sometimes could not distinguish idealimpressions from actual ones, occasioned this. He saw the things ofwhich he was writing as distinctly with his mind's eye as if they were, indeed, passing before him in a dream. "

It is clear to me that in his youth Bunyan would have endeared himselfto me had I lived at that time, for his fancy was of that kind and ofsuch intensity as I delight to find in youth. "My sins, " he tells us, "did so offend the Lord that even in my childhood He did scare andaffright me with fearful dreams and did terrify me with dreadfulvisions. I have been in my bed greatly afflicted, while asleep, withapprehensions of devils and wicked spirits, who still, as I thenthought, labored to draw me away with them, of which I could never berid. "

It is quite likely that Bunyan overestimated his viciousness. One ofhis ardent, intense temperament having once been touched of the savinggrace could hardly help recognizing in himself the most miserable ofsinners. It is related that upon one occasion he was going somewheredisguised as a wagoner, when he was overtaken by a constable who had awarrant for his arrest. 

"Do you know that devil of a fellow Bunyan?" asked the constable. 

"Know him?" cried Bunyan. "You might call him a devil indeed, if youknew him as well as I once did!"

This was not the only time his wit served him to good purpose. Onanother occasion a certain Cambridge student, who was filled with asense of his own importance, undertook to prove to him what a divinething reason was, and he capped his argument with the declaration thatreason was the chief glory of man which distinguished him from a beast. To this Bunyan calmly made answer: "Sin distinguishes man from beast;is sin divine?"

Frederick Saunders observes that, like Milton in his blindness, Bunyanin his imprisonment had his spiritual perception made all the brighterby his exclusion from the glare of the outside world. And of the greatdebt of gratitude we all owe to "the wicked tinker of Elstow" DeanStanley has spoken so truly that I am fain to quote his words: "We allneed to be cheered by the help of Greatheart and Standfast andValiant-for-the-Truth, and good old Honesty! Some of us have been inDoubting Castle, some in the Slough of Despond. Some have experiencedthe temptations of Vanity Fair; all of us have to climb the Hill ofDifficulty; all of us need to be instructed by the Interpreter in theHouse Beautiful; all of us bear the same burden; all of us need thesame armor in our fight with Apollyon; all of us have to pass throughthe Wicket Gate--to pass through the dark river, and for all of us (ifGod so will) there wait the shining ones at the gates of the CelestialCity! Who does not love to linger over the life story of the 'immortaldreamer' as one of those characters for whom man has done so little andGod so much?"

About my favorite copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress" many a pleasantreminiscence lingers, for it was one of the books my grandmother gavemy father when he left home to engage in the great battle of life; whenmy father died this thick, dumpy little volume, with its rude cuts andpoorly printed pages, came into my possession. I do not know what partthis book played in my father's life, but I can say for myself that ithas brought me solace and cheer a many times. 

The only occasion upon which I felt bitterly toward Dr. O'Rell was whenthat personage observed in my hearing one day that Bunyan was adyspeptic, and that had he not been one he would doubtless never havewritten the "Pilgrim's Progress. "

I took issue with the doctor on this point; whereupon he cited thosevisions and dreams, which, according to the light of science as it nowshines, demonstrate that Bunyan's digestion must have been morbid. And, forthwith, he overwhelmed me with learned instances from Galen andHippocrates, from Spurzheim and Binns, from Locke and Beattie, fromMalebranche and Bertholini, from Darwin and Descartes, from Charlevoixand Berkeley, from Heraclitus and Blumenbach, from Priestley andAbercrombie; in fact, forsooth, he quoted me so many authorities thatit verily seemed to me as though the whole world were against me!

I did not know until then that Dr. O'Rell had made a special study ofdreams, of their causes and of their signification. I had alwayssupposed that astrology was his particular hobby, in which science Iwill concede him to be deeply learned, even though he has never yetproved to my entire satisfaction that the reason why my copy ofJustinian has faded from a royal purple to a pale blue is, first, because the binding was renewed at the wane of the moon and when Siriuswas in the ascendant, and, secondly, because (as Dr. O'Rell hasdiscovered) my binder was born at a moment fifty-six years ago whenMercury was in the fourth house and Herschel and Saturn were aspectedin conjunction, with Sol at his northern declination. 

Dr. O'Rell has frequently expressed surprise that I have never weariedof and drifted away from the book-friendships of my earlier years. Other people, he says, find, as time elapses, that they no longerdiscover those charms in certain books which attracted them sopowerfully in youth. "We have in our earlier days, " argues the doctor, "friendships so dear to us that we would repel with horror thesuggestion that we could ever become heedless or forgetful of them;yet, alas, as we grow older we gradually become indifferent to thesefirst friends, and we are weaned from them by other friendships; thereeven comes a time when we actually wonder how it were possible for usto be on terms of intimacy with such or such a person. We grow awayfrom people, and in like manner and for similar reasons we grow awayfrom books. "

Is it indeed possible for one to become indifferent to an object he hasonce loved? I can hardly believe so. At least it is not so with me, and, even though the time may come when I shall no longer be able toenjoy the uses of these dear old friends with the old-time enthusiasm, I should still regard them with that tender reverence which in his agethe poet Longfellow expressed when looking round upon his beloved books:

 Sadly as some old mediaeval knight Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield-- The sword two-handed and the shining shield Suspended in the hall and full in sight, While secret longings for the lost delight Of tourney or adventure in the field Came over him, and tears but half concealed Trembled and fell upon his beard of white; So I behold these books upon their shelf My ornaments and arms of other days; Not wholly useless, though no longer used, For they remind me of my other self Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways In which I walked, now clouded and confused. 

If my friend O'Rell's theory be true, how barren would be Age! LordBacon tells us in his "Apothegms" that Alonzo of Aragon was wont tosay, in commendation of Age, that Age appeared to be best in fourthings: Old wood best to burn; old wine to drink; old friends totrust; and old authors to read. Sir John Davys recalls that "a Frenchwriter (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of companions: Men, women and books, " and my revered and beloved poet-friend, Richard HenryStoddard, has wrought out this sentiment in a poem of exceeding beauty, of which the concluding stanza runs in this wise:

 Better than men and women, friend, That are dust, though dear in our joy and pain, Are the books their cunning hands have penned, For they depart, but the books remain; Through these they speak to us what was best In the loving heart and the noble mind; All their royal souls possessed Belongs forever to all mankind! When others fail him, the wise man looks To the sure companionship of books. 

If ever, O honest friends of mine, I should forget you or weary of yourcompanionship, whither would depart the memories and the associationswith which each of you is hallowed! Would ever the modest flowers ofspring-time, budding in pathways where I no longer wander, recall to myfailing sight the vernal beauty of the Puritan maid, Captivity? Inwhat reverie of summer-time should I feel again the graciousness of thypresence, Yseult?

And Fanchonette--sweet, timid little Fanchonette! would ever thy ghostcome back from out those years away off yonder? Be hushed, my Beranger, for a moment; another song hath awakened softly responsive echoes in myheart! It is a song of Fanchonette:

 In vain, in vain; we meet no more, Nor dream what fates befall; And long upon the stranger's shore My voice on thee may call, When years have clothed the line in moss That tells thy name and days, And withered, on thy simple cross, The wreaths of Pere la Chaise!

XVI

THE MALADY CALLED CATALOGITIS

Judge Methuen tells me that one of the most pleasing delusions he hasexperienced in his long and active career as a bibliomaniac is thatwhich is born of the catalogue habit. Presuming that there are amongmy readers many laymen, --for I preach salvation to the heathen, --I willexplain for their information that the catalogue habit, so called, is apractice to which the confirmed lover of books is likely to becomeaddicted. It is a custom of many publishers and dealers to publish andto disseminate at certain periods lists of their wares, in the hope ofthereby enticing readers to buy those wares. 

By what means these crafty tradesmen secure the names of theirprospective victims I cannot say, but this I know full well--that thereseems not to be a book-lover on the face of the earth, I care not howremote or how secret his habitation may be, that these dealers do notpresently find him out and overwhelm him with their delightfultemptations. 

I have been told that among booksellers there exists a secret leaguewhich provides for the interchange of confidences; so that when a newcustomer enters a shop in the Fulham road or in Oxford street or alongthe quays of Paris, or it matters not where (so long as the object ofhis inquiry be a book), within the space of a month that man's name andplace of residence are reported to and entered in the address list ofevery other bookseller in Christendom, and forthwith and forever afterthe catalogues and price-lists and bulletins of publishers and dealersin every part of the world are pelted at him through the unerringprocesses of the mails. 

Judge Methuen has been a victim (a pleasant victim) to the cataloguehabit for the last forty years, and he has declared that if all thecatalogues sent to and read by him in that space of time were gatheredtogether in a heap they would make a pile bigger than Pike's Peak, anda thousandfold more interesting. I myself have been a famous reader ofcatalogues, and I can testify that the habit has possessed me ofremarkable delusions, the most conspicuous of which is that whichproduces within me the conviction that a book is as good as mine assoon as I have met with its title in a catalogue, and set an X overagainst it in pencil. 

I recall that on one occasion I was discussing with Judge Methuen andDr. O'Rell the attempted escapes of Charles I. From Carisbrooke Castle;a point of difference having arisen, I said: "Gentlemen, I will referto Hillier's 'Narrative, ' and I doubt not that my argument will besustained by that authority. "

It was vastly easier, however, to cite Hillier than it was to find him. For three days I searched in my library, and tumbled my books about inthat confusion which results from undue eagerness; 't was all in vain;neither hide nor hair of the desired volume could I discover. Itfinally occurred to me that I must have lent the book to somebody, andthen again I felt sure that it had been stolen. 

No tidings of the missing volume came to me, and I had almost forgottenthe incident when one evening (it was fully two years after mydiscussion with my cronies) I came upon, in one of the drawers of myoak chest, a Sotheran catalogue of May, 1871. By the merest chance Iopened it, and as luck would have it, I opened it at the very page uponwhich appeared this item:

"Hillier (G. ) 'Narrative of the Attempted Escapes of Charles the Firstfrom Carisbrooke Castle'; cr. 8vo, 1852, cloth, 3/6. "

Against this item appeared a cross in my chirography, and I saw at aglance that this was my long-lost Hillier! I had meant to buy it, andhad marked it for purchase; but with the determination and thatpencilled cross the transaction had ended. Yet, having resolved to buyit had served me almost as effectively as though I had actually boughtit; I thought--aye, I could have sworn--I HAD bought it, simply becauseI MEANT to buy it. 

"The experience is not unique, " said Judge Methuen, when I narrated itto him at our next meeting. "Speaking for myself, I can say that it isa confirmed habit with me to mark certain items in catalogues which Iread, and then to go my way in the pleasing conviction that they areactually mine. "

"I meet with cases of this character continually, " said Dr. O'Rell. "The hallucination is one that is recognized as a specific one bypathologists; its cure is quickest effected by means of hypnotism. Within the last year a lady of beauty and refinement came to me inserious distress. She confided to me amid a copious effusion of tearsthat her husband was upon the verge of insanity. Her testimony was tothe effect that the unfortunate man believed himself to be possessed ofa large library, the fact being that the number of his books waslimited to three hundred or thereabouts. 

"Upon inquiry I learned that N. M. (for so I will call the victim ofthis delusion) made a practice of reading and of marking booksellers'catalogues; further investigation developed that N. M. 's great-uncle onhis mother's side had invented a flying-machine that would not fly, and that a half-brother of his was the author of a pamphlet entitled'16 to 1; or the Poor Man's Vade-Mecum. '

"'Madam, ' said I, 'it is clear to me that your husband is afflictedwith catalogitis. '

"At this the poor woman went into hysterics, bewailing that she shouldhave lived to see the object of her affection the victim of a malady sogrievous as to require a Greek name. When she became calmer Iexplained to her that the malady was by no means fatal, and that ityielded readily to treatment. "

"What, in plain terms, " asked Judge Methuen, "is catalogitis?"

"I will explain briefly, " answered the doctor. "You must know firstthat every perfect human being is provided with two sets of bowels; hehas physical bowels and intellectual bowels, the brain being thelatter. Hippocrates (since whose time the science of medicine has notadvanced even the two stadia, five parasangs of Xenophon)--Hippocrates, I say, discovered that the brain is subject to those very same diseasesto which the other and inferior bowels are liable. 

"Galen confirmed this discovery and he records a case (Lib. Xi. , p. 318) wherein there were exhibited in the intellectual bowels symptomssimilar to those we find in appendicitis. The brain is wrought intocertain convolutions, just as the alimentary canal is; the fourthlayer, so called, contains elongated groups of small cells or nuclei, radiating at right angles to its plane, which groups present adistinctly fanlike structure. Catalogitis is a stoppage of this fourthlayer, whereby the functions of the fanlike structure are suffered nolonger to cool the brain, and whereby also continuity of thought isinterrupted, just as continuity of digestion is prevented by stoppageof the vermiform appendix. 

"The learned Professor Biersteintrinken, " continued Dr. O'Rell, "hasadvanced in his scholarly work on 'Raderinderkopf' the interestingtheory that catalogitis is produced by the presence in the brain of agerm which has its origin in the cheap paper used by booksellers forcatalogue purposes, and this theory seems to have the approval of M. Marie-Tonsard, the most famous of authorities on inebriety, in hiscelebrated classic entitled 'Un Trait sur Jacques-Jacques. '"

"Did you effect a cure in the case of N. M. ?" I asked. 

"With the greatest of ease, " answered the doctor. "By means ofhypnotism I purged his intellectuals of their hallucination, relievingthem of their perception of objects which have no reality and riddingthem of sensations which have no corresponding external cause. Thepatient made a rapid recovery, and, although three months have elapsedsince his discharge, he has had no return of the disease. "

As a class booksellers do not encourage the reading of otherbooksellers' catalogues; this is, presumably, because they do not careto encourage buyers to buy of other sellers. My bookseller, who in allvirtues of head and heart excels all other booksellers I ever met with, makes a scrupulous practice of destroying the catalogues that come tohis shop, lest some stray copy may fall into the hands of a mousingbook-lover and divert his attention to other hunting-grounds. It isindeed remarkable to what excess the catalogue habit will carry itsvictim; the author of "Will Shakespeare, a Comedy, " has frequentlyconfessed to me that it mattered not to him whether a catalogue wastwenty years old--so long as it was a catalogue of books he found thekeenest delight in its perusal; I have often heard Mr. Hamlin, thetheatre manager, say that he preferred old catalogues to new, for thereason that the bargains to be met with in old catalogues expired longago under the statute of limitations. 

Judge Methuen, who is a married man and has therefore had an excellentopportunity to study the sex, tells me that the wives of bibliomaniacsregard catalogues as the most mischievous temptations that can bethrown in the way of their husbands. I once committed the imprudenceof mentioning the subject in Mrs. Methuen's presence: that estimablelady gave it as her opinion that there were plenty of ways of spendingmoney foolishly without having recourse to a book-catalogue forsuggestion. I wonder whether Captivity would have had this opinion, had Providence ordained that we should walk together the quiet pathwayof New England life; would Yseult always have retained the exuberanceand sweetness of her youth, had she and I realized what might havebeen? Would Fanchonette always have sympathized with the whims andvagaries of the restless yet loyal soul that hung enraptured on hersinging in the Quartier Latin so long ago that the memory of that songis like the memory of a ghostly echo now?

Away with such reflections! Bring in the candles, good servitor, andrange them at my bed's head; sweet avocation awaits me, for here I havea goodly parcel of catalogues with which to commune. They are messagesfrom Methuen, Sotheran, Libbie, Irvine, Hutt, Davey, Baer, Crawford, Bangs, McClurg, Matthews, Francis, Bouton, Scribner, Benjamin, and ascore of other friends in every part of Christendom; they deserve andthey shall have my respectful--nay, my enthusiastic attention. Oncemore I shall seem to be in the old familiar shops where treasuresabound and where patient delving bringeth rich rewards. Egad, what aspendthrift I shall be this night; pence, shillings, thalers, marks, francs, dollars, sovereigns--they are the same to me!

Then, after I have comprehended all the treasures within reach, howsweet shall be my dreams of shelves overflowing with the wealth ofwhich my fancy has possessed me!

 Then shall my library be devote To the magic of Niddy-Noddy, Including the volumes which Nobody wrote And the works of Everybody. 

XVII

THE NAPOLEONIC RENAISSANCE

If I had begun collecting Napoleonana in my youth I should now have onhand a priceless collection. This reminds me that when I first came toChicago suburban property along the North Shore could be bought forfive hundred dollars an acre which now sells for two hundred dollars afront foot; if I had purchased real estate in that locality when I hadthe opportunity forty years ago I should be a millionnaire at thepresent time. 

I think I am more regretful of having neglected the Napoleonana than ofhaving missed the real-estate chances, for since my library containsfewer than two hundred volumes relating to Bonaparte and his times Ifeel that I have been strangely remiss in the pursuit of one of themost interesting and most instructive of bibliomaniac fads. When Ibehold the remarkable collections of Napoleonana made by certainfriends of mine I am filled with conflicting emotions of delight andenvy, and Judge Methuen and I are wont to contemplate with regret theopportunities we once had of throwing all these modern collections inthe shade. 

When I speak of Napoleonana I refer exclusively to literature relatingto Napoleon; the term, however, is generally used in a broader sense, and includes every variety of object, from the snuff-boxes used by theemperor at Malmaison to the slippers he wore at St. Helena. My friend, Mr. Redding, of California, has a silver knife and fork that oncebelonged to Bonaparte, and Mr. Mills, another friend of mine, has theneckerchief which Napoleon wore on the field of Waterloo. In LeBlanc's little treatise upon the art of tying the cravat it is recordedthat Napoleon generally wore a black silk cravat, as was remarked atWagram, Lodi, Marengo and Austerlitz. "But at Waterloo, " says LeBlanc, "it was observed that, contrary to his usual custom, he wore awhite handkerchief with a flowing bow, although the day previous heappeared in his black cravat. "

I remember to have seen in the collection of Mr. Melville E. Stone afinger-ring, which, having been brought by an old French soldier to NewOrleans, ultimately found its way to a pawn-shop. This bauble was ofgold, and at two opposite points upon its outer surface appeared aNapoleonic "N, " done in black enamel: by pressing upon one of these Nsa secret spring was operated, the top of the ring flew back, and a tinygold figure of the Little Corporal stood up, to the astonishment andadmiration of the beholder. 

Another curious Napoleonic souvenir in Mr. Stone's motley collection isa cotton print handkerchief, upon which are recorded scenes from thecareer of the emperor; the thing must have been of English manufacture, for only an Englishman (inspired by that fear and that hatred ofBonaparte which only Englishmen had) could have devised this atrociouslibel. One has to read the literature current in the earlier part ofthis century in order to get a correct idea of the terror with whichBonaparte filled his enemies, and this literature is so extensive thatit seems an impossibility that anything like a complete collectionshould be got together; to say nothing of the histories, thebiographies, the volumes of reminiscence and the books of criticismwhich the career of the Corsican inspired, there are Napoleondream-books, Napoleon song-books, Napoleon chap-books, etc. , etc. , beyond the capability of enumeration. 

The English were particularly active in disseminating libels uponNapoleon; they charged him in their books and pamphlets with murder, arson, incest, treason, treachery, cowardice, seduction, hypocrisy, avarice, robbery, ingratitude, and jealousy; they said that he poisonedhis sick soldiers, that he was the father of Hortense's child, that hecommitted the most atrocious cruelties in Egypt and Italy, that hemarried Barras' discarded mistress, that he was afflicted with aloathsome disease, that he murdered the Duc d'Enghien and officers inhis own army of whom he was jealous, that he was criminally intimatewith his own sisters--in short, there was no crime, however revolting, with which these calumniators were not hasty to charge the emperor. 

This same vindictive hatred was visited also upon all associated withBonaparte in the conduct of affairs at that time. Murat was "a bruteand a thief"; Josephine, Hortense, Pauline, and Mme. Letitia werecourtesans; Berthier was a shuffling, time-serving lackey and tool;Augereau was a bastard, a spy, a robber, and a murderer; Fouche was theincarnation of every vice; Lucien Bonaparte was a roue and a marplot;Cambaceres was a debauchee; Lannes was a thief, brigand, and apoisoner; Talleyrand and Barras were--well, what evil was told of themhas yet to be disproved. But you would gather from contemporaneousEnglish publications that Bonaparte and his associates were veritablefiends from hell sent to scourge civilization. These books are sostrangely curious that we find it hard to classify them: we cannot callthem history, and they are too truculent to pass for humor; yet theyoccupy a distinct and important place among Napoleonana. 

Until William Hazlitt's life of Bonaparte appeared we had no Englishtreatment of Bonaparte that was in any sense fair, and, by the way, Hazlitt's work is the only one in English I know of which gives thewill of Bonaparte, an exceedingly interesting document. 

For a good many years I held the character of Napoleon in light esteem, for the reason that he had but small regard for books. Recentrevelations, however, made to me by Dr. O'Rell (grandnephew of "TomBurke of Ours"), have served to dissipate that prejudice, and Iquestion not that I shall duly become as ardent a worshipper of theCorsican as my doctor himself is. Dr. O'Rell tells me--and hisdeclarations are corroborated by Frederic Masson and otherauthorities--that Bonaparte was a lover and a collector of books, andthat he contributed largely to the dignity and the glorification ofliterature by publishing a large number of volumes in the highest styleof the art. 

The one department of literature for which he seems to have had noliking was fiction. Novels of all kinds he was in the habit of tossinginto the fire. He was a prodigious buyer of books, and those which heread were invariably stamped on the outer cover with the imperialarms; at St. Helena his library stamp was merely a seal upon which inkwas smeared. 

Napoleon cared little for fine bindings, yet he knew their value, andwhenever a presentation copy was to be bound he required that it bebound handsomely. The books in his own library were invariably bound"in calf of indifferent quality, " and he was wont, while reading abook, to fill the margin with comments in pencil. Wherever he went hetook a library of books with him, and these volumes he had deprived ofall superfluous margin, so as to save weight and space. Notinfrequently when hampered by the rapid growth of this travellinglibrary he would toss the "overflow" of books out of his carriagewindow, and it was his custom (I shudder to record it!) to separate theleaves of pamphlets, magazines, and volumes by running his fingerbetween them, thereby invariably tearing the pages in shocking wise. 

In the arrangement of his library Napoleon observed that exactingmethod which was characteristic of him in other employments andavocations. Each book had its particular place in a special case, andNapoleon knew his library so well that he could at any moment place hishand upon any volume he desired. The libraries at his palaces he hadarranged exactly as the library at Malmaison was, and never was onebook borrowed from one to serve in another. It is narrated of him thatif ever a volume was missing Napoleon would describe its size and thecolor of its binding to the librarian, and would point out the placewhere it might have been wrongly put and the case where it properlybelonged. 

If any one question the greatness of this man let him explain if he canwhy civilization's interest in Napoleon increases as time rolls on. Why is it that we are curious to know all about him--that we havegratification in hearing tell of his minutest habits, his moods, hiswhims, his practices, his prejudices? Why is it that even those whohated him and who denied his genius have felt called upon to record inponderous tomes their reminiscences of him and his deeds? Princes, generals, lords, courtiers, poets, painters, priests, plebeians--allhave vied with one another in answering humanity's demand for more andmore and ever more about Napoleon Bonaparte. 

I think that the supply will, like the demand, never be exhausted. Thewomen of the court have supplied us with their memoirs; so have thediplomats of that period; so have the wives of his generals; so havethe Tom-Dick-and-Harry spectators of those kaleidoscopic scenes; sohave his keepers in exile; so has his barber. The chambermaids will beheard from in good time, and the hostlers, and the scullions. Alreadythere are rumors that we are soon to be regaled with Memoirs of theEmperor Napoleon by the Lady who knew the Tailor who Once Sewed aButton on the Emperor's Coat, edited by her loving grandson, the Duc deBunco. 

Without doubt many of those who read these lines will live to see thetime when memoirs of Napoleon will be offered by "a gentleman whopurchased a collection of Napoleon spoons in 1899"; doubtless, too, thebook will be hailed with satisfaction, for this Napoleonic enthusiasmincreases as time wears on. 

Curious, is it not, that no calm, judicial study of this man'scharacter and exploits is received with favor? He who treats of thesubject must be either a hater or an adorer of Napoleon; his blood mustbe hot with the enthusiasm of rage or of love. 

To the human eye there appears in space a luminous sphere that in itsappointed path goes on unceasingly. The wise men are not agreedwhether this apparition is merely of gaseous composition or is a solidbody supplied extraneously with heat and luminosity, inexhaustibly;some argue that its existence will be limited to the period of onethousand, or five hundred thousand, or one million years; othersdeclare that it will roll on until the end of time. Perhaps the natureof that luminous sphere will never be truly known to mankind; yet withcalm dignity it moves in its appointed path among the planets and thestars of the universe, its fires unabated, its luminosity undimmed. 

Even so the great Corsican, scrutinized of all human eyes, passes alongthe aisle of Time enveloped in the impenetrable mystery of enthusiasm, genius, and splendor. 

XVIII

MY WORKSHOP AND OTHERS

 The women-folk are few up there, For 't were not fair, you know, That they our heavenly bliss should share Who vex us here below! The few are those who have been kind To husbands such as we: They knew our fads and didn't mind-- Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

It has never been explained to my satisfaction why women, as a class, are the enemies of books, and are particularly hostile to bibliomania. The exceptions met with now and then simply prove the rule. JudgeMethuen declares that bibliophobia is but one phase of jealousy; thatone's wife hates one's books because she fears that her husband is inlove, or is going to be in love, with those companions of his studenthours. If, instead of being folios, quartos, octavos, and the like, the Judge's books were buxom, blithe maidens, his wife could hardly bemore jealous of the Judge's attentions to them than she is underexisting circumstances. On one occasion, having found the Judge on twosuccessive afternoons sitting alone in the library with Pliny in hislap, this spirited lady snatched the insidious volume from herhusband's embraces and locked it up in one of the kitchen pantries; nordid she release the object of her displeasure until the Judge hadpromised solemnly to be more circumspect in the future, and had furthermollified his wife's anger by bringing home a new silk dress and abonnet of exceptional loveliness. 

Other instances of a similar character have demonstrated that Mrs. Methuen regards with implacable antipathy the volumes upon which mylearned and ingenious friend would fain lavish the superabundance ofhis affection. Many years ago the Judge was compelled to resort toevery kind of artifice in order to sneak new books into his house, andhad he not been imbued with the true afflatus of bibliomania he wouldlong ago have broken down under the heartless tyranny of his vindictivespouse. 

When I look around me and survey the persecution to which book-loversare subjected by their wives, I thank the goddess Fortune that she hascast my lot among the celibates; indeed, it is still one of the fewserious questions I have not yet solved, viz. : whether a man can at thesame time be true to a wife and to bibliomania. Both are exactingmistresses, and neither will tolerate a rival. 

Dr. O'Rell has a theory that the trouble with most wives is that theyare not caught young enough; he quotes Dr. Johnson's sage remark to theeffect that "much can be made of a Scotchman if caught young, " and heasserts that this is equally true of woman. Mrs. O'Rell was a meregirl when she wedded with the doctor, and the result of thirty years'experience and training is that this model woman sympathizes with herexcellent husband's tastes, and actually has a feeling of contempt forother wives who have never heard of Father Prout and Kit North, and whoobject to their husbands' smoking in bed. 

I recall with what enthusiasm I once heard this superior creaturecommend the doctor for having accepted in lieu of a fee a set ofCalvin's "Institutes, " with copious notes, in twelve octavo volumes, and a portfolio of colored fox-hunting prints. My admiration for thismodel wife could find expression in no other way; I jumped from mychair, seized her in my arms, and imprinted upon her brow a fervent butrespectful kiss. 

It would be hard to imagine a prettier picture than that presented tomy vision as I looked in from the porch of the doctor's residence uponthe doctor's family gathered together in the library after dinner. Thedoctor himself, snuggled down in a vast easy-chair, was dividing hisattention between a brier pipe and the odes of Propertius; his wife, beside him in her rocker, smiled and smiled again over the quaint humorof Mrs. Gaskell's "Cranford"; upon yonder settee, Francis MahonyMethuen, the oldest son, was deep in the perusal of Wilson's "Tales ofthe Border"; his brother, Russell Lowell, was equally absorbed in thepathetic tale of "The Man without a Country"; Letitia Landon Methuen, the daughter, was quietly sobbing over the tragedy of "Evangeline"; inhis high chair sat the chubby baby boy, Beranger Methuen, crowinggleefully over an illustrated copy of that grand old classic, "Poemsfor Infant Minds by Two Young Persons. "

For several moments I stood spellbound, regarding with ineffablerapture this inspiring spectacle. "How manifold are thy blessings, OBibliomania, " thought I, "and how graciously they are distributed inthis joyous circle, wherein it is permitted to see not only the maturermembers, but, alas, the youth and even the babes and sucklings drinkingfreely and gratefully at the fountain-head of thy delights!"

Dr. O'Rell's library is one of the most charming apartments I know of. It looks out upon every variety of scenery, for Dr. O'Rell has hadconstructed at considerable expense a light iron framework from whichare suspended at different times cunningly painted canvasesrepresenting landscapes and marines corresponding to the most whimsicalfancy. 

In the dead of winter, the doctor often has a desire to look out upon acheery landscape; thereupon, by a simple manipulation of a keyboard, there is unrolled a panorama of velvety hillsides and flowery meads, ofgrazing sheep, and of piping rustics; so natural is the spectacle thatone can almost hear the music of the reeds, and fancy himself inArcadia. If in midsummer the heat is oppressive and life seemsburthensome, forthwith another canvas is outspread, and the glories ofthe Alps appear, or a stretch of blue sea, or a corner of a primevalforest. 

So there is an outlook for every mood, and I doubt not that thisingenious provision contributes potently towards promoting bibliomaniacharmony and prosperity in my friend's household. It is true that Imyself am not susceptible to external influences when once I amsurrounded by books; I do not care a fig whether my library overlooks agarden or a desert; give me my dear companions in their dress ofleather, cloth, or boards, and it matters not to me whether God sendsstorm or sunshine, flowers or hail, light or darkness, noise or calm. Yet I know and admit that environment means much to most people, and Ido most heartily applaud Dr. O'Rell's versatile device. 

I have always thought that De Quincey's workshop would have given megreat delight. The particular thing that excited De Quincey's cholerwas interference with his books and manuscripts, which he piled atop ofone another upon the floor and over his desk, until at last there wouldbe but a narrow little pathway from the desk to the fireplace and fromthe fireplace to the door; and his writing-table--gracious! what aPelion upon Ossa of confusion it must have been!

Yet De Quincey insisted that he knew "just where everything was, " andhe merely exacted that the servants attempt no such vandalism as"cleaning up" in his workshop. Of course there would presently come atime when there was no more room on the table and when the littlepathway to the fireplace and the door would be no longer visible; then, with a sigh, De Quincey would lock the door of that room and betakehimself to other quarters, which in turn would eventually become quiteas littered up, cluttered up, and impassable as the first rooms. 

From all that can be gathered upon the subject it would appear that DeQuincey was careless in his treatment of books; I have read somewhere(but I forget where) that he used his forefinger as a paper-cutter andthat he did not hesitate to mutilate old folios which he borrowed. Buthe was extraordinarily tender with his manuscripts; and he was wont tocarry in his pockets a soft brush with which he used to dust off hismanuscripts most carefully before handing them to the publisher. 

Sir Walter Scott was similarly careful with his books, and he used, forpurposes of dusting them, the end of a fox's tail set in a handle ofsilver. Scott, was, however, particular and systematic in thearrangement of his books, and his work-room, with its choicebric-a-brac and its interesting collection of pictures and framedletters, was a veritable paradise to the visiting book-lover andcurio-lover. He was as fond of early rising as Francis Jeffrey wasaverse to it, and both these eminent men were strongly attached toanimal pets. Jeffrey particularly affected an aged and garrulousparrot and an equally disreputable little dog. Scott was so stanch afriend of dogs that wherever he went he was accompanied by one ortwo--sometimes by a whole kennel--of these faithful brutes. 

In Mrs. Gordon's noble "Memoirs" we have a vivid picture of ProfessorWilson's workroom. All was confusion there: "his room was a strangemixture of what may be called order and untidiness, for there was not ascrap of paper or a book that his hand could not light upon in amoment, while to the casual eye, in search of discovery, it wouldappear chaos. " Wilson had no love for fine furniture, and he seems tohave crowded his books together without regard to any system ofclassification. He had a habit of mixing his books around withfishing-tackle, and his charming biographer tells us it was no uncommonthing to find the "Wealth of Nations, " "Boxiana, " the "Faerie Queen, "Jeremy Taylor, and Ben Jonson occupying close quarters withfishing-rods, boxing-gloves, and tins of barley-sugar. 

Charles Lamb's favorite workshop was in an attic; upon the walls ofthis room he and his sister pasted old prints and gay pictures, andthis resulted in giving the place a cheery aspect. Lamb loved oldbooks, old friends, old times; "he evades the present, he works at thefuture, and his affections revert to and settle on the past, "--so saysHazlitt. His favorite books seem to have been Bunyan's "Holy War, "Browne's "Urn-Burial, " Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy, " Fuller's"Worthies, " and Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying. " Thomas Westwoodtells us that there were few modern volumes in his library, it beinghis custom to give away and throw away (as the same writer asserts)presentation copies of contemporaneous literature. Says BarryCornwall: "Lamb's pleasures lay amongst the books of the old Englishwriters, " and Lamb himself uttered these memorable words: "I cannotsit and think--books think for me. "

Wordsworth, on the other hand, cared little for books; his library wasa small one, embracing hardly more than five hundred volumes. He drewhis inspiration not from books, but from Nature. From all that I haveheard of him I judge him to have been a very dull man. Allibonerelates of him that he once remarked that he did not consider himself awitty poet. "Indeed, " quoth he, "I don't think I ever was witty butonce in my life. "

His friends urged him to tell them about it. After some hesitation, hesaid: "Well, I will tell you. I was standing some time ago at theentrance of Rydal Mount. A man accosted me with the question: 'Pray, sir, have you seen my wife pass by?' Whereupon I retorted, 'Why, mygood friend, I didn't know till this moment that you had a wife. '"

Illustrative of Wordsworth's vanity, it is told that when it wasreported that the next Waverley novel was to be "Rob Roy, " the poettook down his "Ballads" and read to the company "Rob Roy's Grave. "Then he said gravely: "I do not know what more Mr. Scott can have tosay on the subject. "

Wordsworth and Dickens disliked each other cordially. Having beenasked his opinion of the young novelist, Wordsworth answered: "Why, I'm not much given to turn critic on people I meet; but, as you ask me, I will cordially avow that I thought him a very talkative youngperson--but I dare say he may be very clever. Mind, I don't want tosay a word against him, for I have never read a line he has written. "

The same inquirer subsequently asked Dickens how he liked Wordsworth. 

"Like him!" roared Dickens, "not at all; he is a dreadful Old Ass!"

XIX

OUR DEBT TO MONKISH MEN

Where one has the time and the money to devote to the collection ofmissals and illuminated books, the avocation must be a very delightfulone. I never look upon a missal or upon a bit of antique illuminationthat I do not invest that object with a certain poetic romance, and Ipicture to myself long lines of monkish men bending over their tasks, and applying themselves with pious enthusiasm thereto. We should notflatter ourselves that the enjoyment of the delights of bibliomania wasreserved to one time and generation; a greater than any of us livedmany centuries ago, and went his bibliomaniacal way, gathering togethertreasures from every quarter, and diffusing every where a venerationand love for books. 

Richard de Bury was the king, if not the father, of bibliomaniacs; hisimmortal work reveals to us that long before the invention of printingmen were tormented and enraptured by those very same desires, envies, jealousies, greeds, enthusiasms, and passions which possess and controlbibliomaniacs at the present time. That vanity was sometimes thecontrolling passion with the early collectors is evidenced in a passagein Barclay's satire, "The Ship of Fools"; there are the stanzas whichapply so neatly to certain people I know that sometimes I actuallysuspect that Barclay's prophetic eye must have had thesenineteenth-century charlatans in view. 

 But yet I have them in great reverence And honor, saving them from filth and ordure By often brushing and much diligence. Full goodly bound in pleasant coverture Of damask, satin, or else of velvet pure, I keep them sure, fearing lest they should be lost, For in them is the cunning wherein I me boast. 

 But if it fortune that any learned man Within my house fall to disputation, I draw the curtains to show my books them, That they of my cunning should make probation; I love not to fall into altercation, And while they come, my books I turn and wind, For all is in them, and nothing in my mind. 

Richard de Bury had exceptional opportunities for gratifying hisbibliomaniac passions. He was chancellor and treasurer of Edward III. , and his official position gained him access to public and privatelibraries and to the society of literary men. Moreover, when it becameknown that he was fond of such things, people from every quarter senthim and brought him old books; it may be that they hoped in this wiseto court his official favor, or perhaps they were prompted by the lessselfish motive of gladdening the bibliomaniac soul. 

"The flying fame of our love, " says de Bury, "had already spread in alldirections, and it was reported not only that we had a longing desirefor books, and especially for old ones, but that any one could moreeasily obtain our favors by quartos than by money. Wherefore, whensupported by the bounty of the aforesaid prince of worthy memory, wewere enabled to oppose or advance, to appoint or to discharge; crazyquartos and tottering folios, precious however in our sight as in ouraffections, flowed in most rapidly from the great and the small, instead of new year's gifts and remunerations, and instead of presentsand jewels. Then the cabinets of the most noble monasteries wereopened, cases were unlocked, caskets were unclasped, and sleepingvolumes which had slumbered for long ages in their sepulchres wereroused up, and those that lay hid in dark places were overwhelmed withthe rays of a new light. Among these, as time served, we sat down morevoluptuously than the delicate physician could do amidst his stores ofaromatics, and where we found an object of love we found also anassuagement. "

"If, " says de Bury, "we would have amassed cups of gold and silver, excellent horses, or no mean sums of money, we could in those days havelaid up abundance of wealth for ourselves. But we regarded books, notpounds; and valued codices more than florins, and preferred paltrypamphlets to pampered palfreys. On tedious embassies and in periloustimes, we carried about with us that fondness for books which manywaters could not extinguish. "

And what books they were in those old days! What tall folios! Whatstout quartos! How magnificent were the bindings, wrought often insilver devices, sometimes in gold, and not infrequently in silver andgold, with splendid jewels and precious stones to add their value tothat of the precious volume which they adorned. The works of Justin, Seneca, Martial, Terence, and Claudian were highly popular with thebibliophiles of early times; and the writings of Ovid, Tully, Horace, Cato, Aristotle, Sallust, Hippocrates, Macrobius, Augustine, Bede, Gregory, Origen, etc. But for the veneration and love for books whichthe monks of the mediaeval ages had, what would have been preserved tous of the classics of the Greeks and the Romans?

The same auspicious fate that prompted those bibliomaniacal monks tohide away manuscript treasures in the cellars of their monasteries, inspired Poggio Bracciolini several centuries later to hunt out andinvade those sacred hiding-places, and these quests were rewarded withfinds whose value cannot be overestimated. All that we have of thehistories of Livy come to us through Poggio's industry as amanuscript-hunter; this same worthy found and brought away fromdifferent monasteries a perfect copy of Quintilian, a Cicero's orationfor Caecina, a complete Tertullian, a Petronius Arbiter, and fifteen ortwenty other classics almost as valuable as those I have named. FromGerman monasteries, Poggio's friend, Nicolas of Treves, brought awaytwelve comedies of Plautus and a fragment of Aulus Gellius. 

Dear as their pagan books were to the monkish collectors, it was upontheir Bibles, their psalters, and their other religious books thatthese mediaeval bibliomaniacs expended their choicest art and theirmost loving care. St. Cuthbert's "Gospels, " preserved in the BritishMuseum, was written by Egfrith, a monk, circa 720; Aethelwald bound thebook in gold and precious stones, and Bilfrid, a hermit, illuminated itby prefixing to each gospel a beautiful painting representing one ofthe Evangelists, and a tessellated cross, executed in a most elaboratemanner. Bilfrid also illuminated the large capital letters at thebeginning of the gospels. This precious volume was still furtherenriched by Aldred of Durham, who interlined it with a Saxon Gloss, orversion of the Latin text of St. Jerome. 

"Of the exact pecuniary value of books during the middle ages, " saysMerryweather, "we have no means of judging. The few instances thathave accidentally been recorded are totally inadequate to enable us toform an opinion. The extravagant estimate given by some as to thevalue of books in those days is merely conjectural, as it necessarilymust be when we remember that the price was guided by the accuracy ofthe transcription, the splendor of the binding (which was oftengorgeous to excess), and by the beauty and richness of theilluminations. Many of the manuscripts of the middle ages aremagnificent in the extreme; sometimes inscribed in liquid gold onparchment of the richest purple, and adorned with illuminations ofexquisite workmanship. "

With such a veneration and love for books obtaining in the cloister andat the fireside, what pathos is revealed to us in the supplicationwhich invited God's blessing upon the beloved tomes: "O Lord, send thevirtue of thy Holy Spirit upon these our books; that cleansing themfrom all earthly things, by thy holy blessing, they may mercifullyenlighten our hearts and give us true understanding; and grant that bythy teachings they may brightly preserve and make full an abundance ofgood works according to thy will. "

And what inspiration and cheer does every book-lover find in the letterwhich that grand old bibliomaniac, Alcuin, addressed to Charlemagne:"I, your Flaccus, according to your admonitions and good will, administer to some in the house of St. Martin the sweets of the HolyScriptures; others I inebriate with the study of ancient wisdom; andothers I fill with the fruits of grammatical lore. Many I seek toinstruct in the order of the stars which illuminate the glorious vaultof heaven, so that they may be made ornaments to the holy church of Godand the court of your imperial majesty; that the goodness of God andyour kindness may not be altogether unproductive of good. But indoing this I discover the want of much, especially those exquisitebooks of scholastic learning which I possessed in my own country, through the industry of my good and most devout master, Egbert. Itherefore entreat your Excellence to permit me to send into Britainsome of our youths to procure those books which we so much desire, andthus transplant into France the flowers of Britain, that they mayfructify and perfume, not only the garden at York, but also theParadise of Tours, and that we may say in the words of the song: 'Letmy beloved come into his garden and eat his pleasant fruit;' and to theyoung: 'Eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved;' orexhort in the words of the prophet Isaiah: 'Every one that thirstethto come to the waters, and ye that have no money, come ye, buy and eat:yea, come buy wine and milk, without money and without price. '"

I was meaning to have somewhat to say about Alcuin, and had intended topay my respects to Canute, Alfred, the Abbot of St. Albans, theArchbishop of Salzburg, the Prior of Dover, and other mediaevalworthies, when Judge Methuen came in and interrupted the thread of mymeditation. The Judge brings me some verses done recently by apoet-friend of his, and he asks me to give them a place in thesememoirs as illustrating the vanity of human confidence. 

 One day I got a missive Writ in a dainty hand, Which made my manly bosom With vanity expand. 'T was from a "young admirer" Who asked me would I mind Sending her "favorite poem" "In autograph, and signed. "

 She craved the boon so sweetly That I had been a churl Had I repulsed the homage Of this gentle, timid girl; With bright illuminations I decked the manuscript, And in my choicest paints and inks My brush and pen I dipt. 

 Indeed it had been tedious But that a flattered smile Played on my rugged features And eased my toil the while. I was assured my poem Would fill her with delight-- I fancied she was pretty-- I knew that she was bright!

 And for a spell thereafter That unknown damsel's face With its worshipful expression Pursued me every place; Meseemed to hear her whisper: "O, thank you, gifted sir, For the overwhelming honor You so graciously confer!"

 But a catalogue from Benjamin's Disproves what things meseemed-- Dispels with savage certainty The flattering dreams I dreamed; For that poor "favorite poem, " Done and signed in autograph, Is listed in "Cheap Items" At a dollar-and-a-half.