Part 3
I never upbraid these Old periwigged sinners, Their songs and light ladies, Their dances and dinners; My book-shelf's a haven From storms puritanic,-- We sure may be gay when Of death we've no panic!
My parlor is little, And poor are its treasures; All pleasures are brittle, And so are my pleasures; But though I shall never Be Beckford or Locker, While Fate does not sever The door from the knocker,
No book shall tap vainly At latch or at lattice (If costumed urbanely, And worth our care, that is): My poets from slumber Shall rise in morocco, To shield the new comer From storm or sirocco.
* * * * *
I might prate thus for pages, The theme is so pleasant; But the gloom of the ages Lies on me at present; All business and fear to The cold world I banish. Hush! like the Ameer, to My harem I vanish!
OUR BOOK-SHELVES.
THOMAS GORDON HAKE. _From the 'State' of April 17, 1886._
What solace would those books afford, In gold and vellum cover, Could men but say them word for word Who never turn them over!
Books that must know themselves by heart As by endowment vital, Could they their truths to us impart Not stopping with the title!
Line after line their wisdom flows, Page after page repeating; Yet never on our ears bestows A single sound of greeting.
As thus they lie upon the shelves, Such wisdom in their pages, Do they rehearse it to themselves, Or rest like silent sages?
One book we know such fun invokes, As well were worth the telling: Must it not chuckle o'er the jokes That it is ever spelling?
And for the Holy Bible there, It greets us with mild teaching; Though no one its contents may hear, Does it not go on preaching?
TO HIS BOOK.
ROBERT HERRICK. _Prefixed to 'Hesperides.' 1648._
While thou didst keep thy candor undefiled, Dearly I loved thee, as my first-born child; But when I sent thee wantonly to roam From house to house, and never stay at home; I brake my bonds of love, and bade thee go, Regardless whether well thou sped'st or no, On with thy fortunes then, whate'er they be; If good I'll smile, if bad I'll sigh for thee.
TO HIS BOOK.
ROBERT HERRICK.
Make haste away, and let one be A friendly patron unto thee; Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie Torn for the use of pastery; Or see thy injured leaves serve well To make loose gowns for mackerel; Or see the grocers, in a trice, Make hoods of thee to serve out spice.
TO HIS BOOKS.
_Imitated by Austin Dobson from the_ Q. HORATIUS FLACCUS. _'Epistles,' i. 20, for the present collection._
For mart and street you seem to pine With restless glances, Book of mine! Still craving on some stall to stand, Fresh pumiced from the binder's hand. You chafe at locks, and burn to quit Your modest haunt and audience fit, For hearers less discriminate. I reared you up for no such fate. Still, if you _must_ be published, go; But mind, you can't come back, you know!
"What have I done?"--I hear you cry, And writhe beneath some critic's eye; 'What did I want?'--when, scarce polite, They do but yawn, and roll you tight. And yet, methinks, if I may guess (Putting aside your heartlessness In leaving me, and this your home), You should find favor, too, at Rome. That is, they'll like you while you're young. When you are old, you'll pass among The Great Unwashed,--then thumbed and sped, Be fretted of slow moths, unread, Or to Ilerda you'll be sent, Or Utica, for banishment! And I, whose counsel you disdain, At that your lot shall laugh amain, Wryly, as he who, like a fool, Pushed o'er the cliff his restive mule. Stay, there is worse behind. In age They e'en may take your babbling page In some remotest "slum" to teach Mere boys the rudiments of speech! But go. When on warm days you see A chance of listeners, speak of me. Tell them I soared from low estate, A freedman's son, to higher fate (That is, make up to me in worth What you must take in point of birth); Then tell them that I won renown In peace and war, and pleased the Town; Paint me as early gray, and one Little of stature, fond of sun, Quick-tempered, too,--but nothing more. Add (if they ask) I'm forty-four, Or was, the year that over us Both Lollius ruled and Lepidus.
SONNET.
_Found by Mr. Alexander Ireland in_ LEIGH HUNT. _the London 'Examiner' of December 24, 1815, and not anywhere included in the poet's collected works._
Were I to name, out of the times gone by, The poets dearest to me, I should say, Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way; Chaucer for manners, and close, silent eye; Milton for classic taste, and harp strung high; Spenser for luxury, and sweet, sylvan play; Horace for chatting with, from day to day; Shakspere for all, but most society.
But which take with me, could I take but one? Shakspere, as long as I was unoppressed With the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser; But did I wish, out of the common sun, To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest, And dream of things far off and healing,--Spenser.
MY BOOKS.
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON. _From the Boston 'Transcript.'_
On my study shelves they stand, Well known all to eye and hand, Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold, In morocco rich and old. Some in paper, plain and cheap, Some in muslin, calf, and sheep; Volumes great and volumes small, Ranged along my study wall; But their contents are past finding By their size or by their binding.
There is one with gold agleam, Like the Sangreal in a dream, Back and boards in every part Triumph of the binder's art; Costing more, 'tis well believed, Than the author e'er received. But its contents? Idle tales, Flappings of a shallop's sails! In the treasury of learning Scarcely worth a penny's turning.
Here's a tome in paper plain, Soiled and torn and marred with stain, Cowering from each statelier book In the darkest, dustiest nook. Take it down, and lo! each page Breathes the wisdom of a sage: Weighed a thousand times in gold, Half its worth would not be told, For all truth of ancient story Crowns each line with deathless glory.
On my study shelves they stand; But my study walls expand, As thought's pinions are unfurled, Till they compass all the world. Endless files go marching by, Men of lowly rank and high, Some in broadcloth, gem-adorned, Some in homespun, fortune-scorned; But God's scales that all are weighed in Heed not what each man's arrayed in!
TO MY BOOKSELLER.
_This is from the third of the poet's books_ BEN JONSON. _of epigrams. Bucklersbury was the street most affected by grocers and apothecaries._
Thou that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well, Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell, Use mine so too; I give thee leave; but crave, For the luck's sake, it thus much favor have, To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought; Not offered, as it made suit to be bought; Nor have my title-leaf on posts or walls, Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls For termers, or some clerk-like serving-man, Who scarce can spell thy hard names; whose knight less can. If without these vile arts it will not sell, Send it to Bucklersbury, there 't will well.
TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE.
_This is the eighty-sixth of the poet's first book of epigrams, and, like its immediate_ BEN JONSON. _predecessor, it was addressed to a gentleman bound in bonds of friendship to many of the men of genius of his time._
When I would know thee, Goodyere, my thought looks Upon thy well-made choice of friends and books; Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends In making thy friends books, and thy books friends: Now must I give thy life and deed the voice Attending such a study, such a choice; Where, though 't be love that to thy praise doth move, It was a knowledge that begat that love.
IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.
CHARLES LAMB. _Written in 1824 for the daughter of his friend Bernard Barton._
Little Book, surnamed of _white_, Clean as yet and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right.
Never disproportioned scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall!
In each letter, here designed, Let the reader emblemed find Neatness of the owner's mind.
Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within;
Saying fetched from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold:
Lighter fancies not excluding; Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding,
Amid strains of graver measure: Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but _shades_--he banished hence.
Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress.
BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER.
A. LANG. _From 'Ballades in Blue China.' 1880._
In torrid heats of late July, In March, beneath the bitter _bise_, He book-hunts while the loungers fly,-- He book-hunts, though December freeze; In breeches baggy at the knees, And heedless of the public jeers, For these, for these, he hoards his fees,-- Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
No dismal stall escapes his eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled Romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies; Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
With restless eyes that peer and spy, Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is _Spes_! But ah! the fabled treasure flees; Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their ease, Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
ENVOY.
Prince, all the things that tease and please, Fame, love, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, What are they but such toys as these-- Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?
BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM.
A. LANG. _From 'Ballades in Blue China.' 1880._
While others are asking for beauty or fame, Or praying to know that for which they should pray, Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame, Or chasing the Muses the weary and gray, The sage has found out a more excellent way,-- To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers, And his humble petition puts up day by day, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
Inventors may bow to the God that is lame, And crave from the light of his stithy a ray; Philosophers kneel to the God without name, Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they; The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay, The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours,-- But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
Oh grant me a life without pleasure or blame (As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame). Oh grant me a house by the beach of a bay, Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers! And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
ENVOY.
Gods, give or withhold it! Your "yea" and your "nay" Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours: But life _is_ worth living, and here we would stay For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
BALLADE OF THE BOOKMAN'S PARADISE.
A. LANG. _From 'Rhymes à la Mode.' 1885._
There _is_ a Heaven, or here, or there,-- A Heaven there is, for me and you, Where bargains meet for purses spare, Like ours, are not so far and few. Thuanus' bees go humming through The learned groves, 'neath rainless skies, O'er volumes old and volumes new, Within that Bookman's Paradise!
There treasures bound for Longepierre Keep brilliant their morocco blue, There Hookes' 'Amanda' is not rare, Nor early tracts upon Peru! Racine is common as Rotrou, No Shakspere Quarto search defies, And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew, Within that Bookman's Paradise!
There's Eve,--not our first mother fair,-- But Clovis Eve, a binder true; Thither does Bauzonnet repair, Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup! But never come the cropping crew, That dock a volume's honest size, Nor they that "letter" backs askew, Within that Bookman's Paradise!
ENVOY.
Friend, do not Heber and De Thou, And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise, _La chasse au bouquin_ still pursue Within that Bookman's Paradise?
THE ROWFANT BOOKS.
_Ballade en guise de rondeau, written for_ A. LANG. _the catalogue of Mr. Frederick Locker's books._
The Rowfant books, how fair they show, The Quarto quaint, the Aldine tall, Print, autograph, portfolio! Back from the outer air they call, The athletes from the Tennis ball, This Rhymer from his rod and hooks,-- Would I could sing them, one and all,-- The Rowfant books!
The Rowfant books! In sun and snow They're dear, but most when tempests fall; The folio towers above the row As once, o'er minor prophets,--Saul! What jolly jest books, and what small "Dear dumpy Twelves" to fill the nooks. You do not find on every stall The Rowfant books!
The Rowfant books! These long ago Were chained within some College hall; These manuscripts retain the glow Of many a colored capital; While yet the satires keep their gall, While the Pastissier puzzles cooks, Theirs is a joy that does not pall,-- The Rowfant books!
ENVOY.
The Rowfant books,--ah, magical As famed Armida's golden looks, They hold the Rhymer for their thrall,-- The Rowfant books!
THE ROWFANT LIBRARY.
A. LANG. _Written for the catalogue of Mr. Frederick Locker's books._
I mind me of the Shepherd's saw, For, when men spoke of Heaven, quoth he, "It's everything that's bright and braw, But _Bourhope's_ good enough for me."
Among the green deep bosomed hills That guard St. Mary's Loch it lies, The silence of the pastures fills That yeoman's homely paradise!
Enough for him his mountain lake, His glen the burn goes singing through; And _Rowfant_, when the thrushes wake, Might well seem Paradise to you!
For all is old, and tried, and dear, And all is fair, and all about The brook that murmurs from the mere Is dimpled with the rising trout.
And when the skies of shorter days Are dark, and all the paths are mire, How kindly o'er your _Books_ the blaze Sports from the cheerful study fire;
O'er Quartos, where our Fathers read Entranced, the Book of Shakspere's play, O'er all that Poe has dreamed of dread, And all that Herrick sang of gay!
Rare First Editions, duly prized, Among them dearest far I rate The tome where _Walton's_ hand revised His magical receipts for bait.
Happy, who rich in toys like these Forgets a weary nation's ills, Who, from his study window sees The circle of the Sussex hills!
But back to town my Muse must fly, And taste the smoke, and list to them Who cry the News, and seem to cry (With each Gladstonian victory), _Woe, woe unto Jerusalem!_[20]
[20] During the General Election, November, 1885.
GHOSTS IN THE LIBRARY.
A. LANG. _From 'Longman's Magazine,' July, 1886._
Suppose, when now the house is dumb, When lights are out, and ashes fall,-- Suppose their ancient owners come To claim our spoils of shop and stall, Ah me! within the narrow hall How strange a mob would meet and go, What famous folk would haunt them all, Octavo, quarto, folio!
The great Napoleon lays his hand Upon this eagle-headed N, That marks for his a pamphlet banned By all but scandal-loving men,-- A libel from some nameless den Of Frankfort--_Arnaud, à la Sphère_, Wherein one spilt, with venal pen, Lies o'er the loves of Molière.[21]
Another shade--he does not see "Boney," the foeman of his race-- The great Sir Walter, this is he With that grave homely Border face. He claims his poem of the chase That rang Benvoirlich's valley through; And _this_, that doth the lineage trace And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch;[22]
For these were his, and these he gave To one who dwelt beside the Peel, That murmurs with its tiny wave To join the Tweed at Ashestiel. Now thick as motes the shadows wheel, And find their own, and claim a share Of books wherein Ribou did deal, Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert.[23]
What famous folk of old are here! A royal duke comes down to us, And greatly wants his Elzevir, His Pagan tutor, Lucius.[24] And Beckford claims an amorous Old heathen in morocco blue;[25] And who demands Eobanus But stately Jacques Auguste de Thou![26]
They come, the wise, the great, the true, They jostle on the narrow stair, The frolic Countess de Verrue, Lamoignon, ay, and Longepierre, The new and elder dead are there-- The lords of speech, and song, and pen, Gambetta,[27] Schlegel,[28] and the rare Drummond of haunted Hawthornden.[29]
Ah, and with those, a hundred more, Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot: Brave 'Smiths' and 'Thompsons' by the score, Scrawled upon many a shabby 'lot.' This play-book was the joy of Pott[30]-- Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves. Our names, like his, remembered not, Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves!
At least in pleasant company We bookish ghosts, perchance, may flit; A man may turn a page, and sigh, Seeing one's name, to think of it. Beauty, or Poet, Sage, or Wit, May ope our book, and muse awhile, And fall into a dreaming fit, As now we dream, and wake, and smile!
[21] 'Histoire des Intrigues Amoureuses de Molière et de celles de sa femme. (A la Sphère.) A Francfort, chez Frédéric Arnaud, MDCXCVII.' This anonymous tract has actually been attributed, among others, to Racine. The copy referred to is marked with a large N in red, with an eagle's head.
[22] 'The Lady of the Lake,' 1810. 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel,' 1806. "To Mrs. Robert Laidlaw. Peel. From the Author."
[23] 'Dictys Cretensis.' Apud Lambertum Roulland. Lut. Paris. 1680. In red morocco, with the arms of Colbert.
[24] 'L. Annæi Senecæ Opera Omnia.' Lug. Bat., apud Elzevirios. 1649. With book-plate of the Duke of Sussex.
[25] 'Stratonis Epigrammata.' Altenburgi, 1764. Straton bound up in one volume with Epictetus! From the Beckford library.
[26] 'Opera Helii Eobani Hessi.' Yellow morocco, with the first arms of De Thou. Include a poem addressed "LANGE, _decus meum_." Quantity of penultimate "Eobanus" taken for granted, _metri gratiâ_.
[27] 'La Journée du Chrétien.' Coutances, 1831. With inscription, "Léon Gambetta. Rue St. Honoré. Janvier 1, 1848."
[28] Villoison's 'Homer.' Venice, 1788. With Tessier's ticket and Schlegel's book-plate.
[29] 'Les Essais de Michel.' Seigneur de Montaigne. "Pour François le Febvre de Lyon, 1695." With autograph of Gul. Drummond, and _cipresso e palma_.
[30] "The little old foxed Molière," once the property of William Pott, unknown to fame.
THE BOOK BATTALION.
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. _Written for the present collection._
Wherever I go, there's a trusty battalion That follows me faithfully, steady, and true; Their force, when I falter, I safely may rally on, Knowing their stoutness will carry me through: Some fifteen hundred in order impartial, So ranged that they tell what they mean by their looks. Of all the armies the world can marshal There are no better soldiers than well-tried books.
Dumb in their ranks on the shelves imprisoned, They never retreat. Give the word, and they'll fire! A few with scarlet and gold are bedizened, But many muster in rough attire; And some, with service and scars grown wizened, Seem hardly the mates for their fellows in youth; Yet they, and the troops armed only with quiz and Light laughter, all battle alike for the truth.
Here are those who gave motive to sock and to buskin; With critics, historians, poets galore; A cheaply uniformed set of Ruskin, Which Ruskin would hate from his heart's very core; Molière ('99), an old calf-bound edition, "_De Pierre Didot l'aîné, et de Firmin Didot_." Which, meek and demure, with a sort of contrition, Is masking its gun-lights, with fun all aglow;
And Smollett and Fielding, as veterans battered-- Cloth stripped from their backs, and their sides out of joint, Their pictures of life all naked and tattered Being thus applied to themselves with a point; And six or eight books that I wrote myself, To look at which, even, I'm half afraid; They brought me more labor and pleasure than pelf, And are clamoring still because they're not paid.
But these raw levies remain still faithful, Because they know that volumes old Stand by me, although their eyes dim and wraithful Remind me they seldom at profit were sold. So I say, be they splendid or tatterdemalion, If only you know what they mean by their looks, You will never find a better battalion Of soldiers to serve you than well-tried books.
ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS.
WALTER LEARNED. _Written for the present collection._
At Cato's-Head in Russell Street These leaves she sat a-stitching; I fancy she was trim and neat, Blue-eyed and quite bewitching.
Before her, in the street below, All powder, ruffs, and laces, There strutted idle London beaux To ogle pretty faces;
While, filling many a Sedan chair With hoop and monstrous feather, In patch and powder London's fair Went trooping past together.
Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap They sauntered slowly past her, Or printer's boy, with gown and cap For Steele, went trotting faster.
For beau nor wit had she a look, Nor lord nor lady minding; She bent her head above this book, Attentive to her binding.
And one stray thread of golden hair, Caught on her nimble fingers, Was stitched within this volume, where Until to-day it lingers.
Past and forgotten, beaux and fair; Wigs, powder, all out-dated; A queer antique, the Sedan chair; Pope, stiff and antiquated.
Yet as I turn these odd old plays, This single stray lock finding, I'm back in those forgotten days And watch her at her binding.