Part 2

WHAT are the books that tempt? Are they the old, familiar volumes, old friends in old clothes--well-worn editions of the classics? Or are they those same old friends decked in rich and fanciful bindings? I am acquainted with a book-lover who confesses that he has no taste for the fanciful modern reprint. You may show him Lamb, or Hazlitt, or Hunt, or Jefferies, or Stevenson in the richest of binding, and tempt him not. He is not, he declares, to be caught that way. As well might the reader go arrayed in frills and furbelows to a masculine friend and expect to be received with decorum. This friend of mine, I say, is as contemptuous of the modern, richly-bound classic as of any other form of foppery. He insists on meeting his friends, whether it be in print or in the flesh, in unaffected, homely attire.

He will tell you that the ‘gentle Elia’ was of the same way of thinking, and that he wrote in effect: ‘How beautiful to a genuine lover of reading are the sullied leaves and worn-out appearance, nay, the very odour (beyond Russia) if we would not forget the kind feeling in fastidiousness, of old circulating library volumes! How they speak of the thousand thumbs that have turned over their pages with delight! of the lone seamstress, whom they cheered (milliner or hard-working mantua-maker) after her long day’s needle-toil, running far into midnight, when she has snatched an hour, ill spared from sleep, to steep her cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling out their enchanting contents! Who would have them a whit less soiled? What better condition could you desire to see them in?’

Fastidious readers who insist upon having new books, or books ‘good as new,’ must, I fancy, feel a ‘twinge of guilt’ in the face of such humane sentiments. I confess, to my shame, that I am of the guilty company; that I am fastidious as regards the condition of a book; that torn, well-thumbed books do not tempt me, whatever their contents. And not only am I guilty, but would seek to defend my guilt. I protest that it is the pleasurable duty of the book-lover to keep his treasured volumes in goodly condition; that a cover is but a new home, and that when the old one has served its purpose it should be replaced as readily as one would find a worthy dwelling-place for a beloved relative. I like to see my friends in the best possible circumstances. I like to see them bearing a well-cared-for, well-favoured appearance.

I do not forget the ‘lone sempstress’ spoken of so tenderly by Lamb. I would have torn volumes repaired and shabby ones replaced in all circulating libraries. In no circumstances would I permit a treasured classic to go forth in a shabby condition. I would place new volumes, or volumes good as new, within the reach of all.

But it cannot be denied that many tender associations are woven around numerous aged, _well-preserved_ volumes. Where is the true book-lover who could not give a list of such? ‘Their very odour,’ he will tell you, ‘is beyond Russia.’ How sacred their well-preserved pages! Your up-to-date reprints, with their fanciful covers, are no company for such. Their gaiety is shamed by stately calf-bound volumes.

Yes, there is a grave and sober dignity about old well-preserved books. It matters not whether they be bound in morocco, calf, or russia. The sacred associations of old age are theirs. If we do not love them, at least we reverence them. ‘What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the souls of the Bodleians were reposing here as in some dormitory or middle state.... I seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odour of the old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grow amid the happy orchard.’

Yes, to many the old ‘moth-scented’ volumes are the books that tempt. I have a friend who has placed a standing order with a bookseller to supply him with all old calf-bound volumes to be procured at a certain sum. Dare I state the sum fixed? It is counted in pence--pence only, mark you! But as my friend has made no stipulations as regards the contents of the desired volumes, he has a goodly array of books, each one ‘moth-scented,’ each one a model of dignity.

My friend, however, is not a great reader. He is not, I venture to assert, a book-lover. I fancy he should be called an antiquarian. Certainly his liking for antiquities is greater than his love for the contents of books. Books to him are rather furniture for rooms than for minds. Show him an example of skilfully ‘tooled’ calf, and you will please him better than if you had voiced an inspiring thought. But wait! I must hold my pen. Who can say to what depths of thought and feeling my friend is moved by the sight of his well-filled shelves? Has it not been said that there is inspiration in a mere glance at old volumes; that they seem to exhale learning?

Still, I, for one, am ready enough to confess that old calf-bound volumes as such leave me unmoved. Too often have I, together with other lovers of books, found them dry, as well as dusty. I respect their age. I consider the mellowed calf in which they are bound admirable material. I admire their durability. But such features do not greatly tempt me. I am for volumes of homely appearance. My own coat being of simple homespun, I am more at home with volumes bound in cloth. Give me for my daily companions unpretentious books. Many in my possession cost no more than from two to three pence. For I, too, am of the company of book-lovers who dip at times into the ‘lucky-tubs’ to be found outside booksellers’ shops. I confess, moreover, that I belong to the class ‘of street reader who, not having the wherewithal to buy or hire a book, filch a little learning at the open stalls.’ Often and often have I been tempted by the well-worn volumes--so unpretentious without, so rich within--that await the attention of the leisurely passer-by. Two humble pence, and a mine of wisdom becomes one’s own.

So much, then, for old volumes. Now, what of the new? What of the many dainty volumes sent out daily by modern makers of books? I am thinking at the moment of the men whose business it is to bind and print, who with amazing ingenuity send forth volumes having the appearance of jewel caskets--wondrous designs of every tint to be found on a painter’s palette. I confess that I find such productions exceedingly attractive. I confess that I am frequently tempted by them. It would be good, I feel, to be the possessor of a volume of Selected English Essays bound in ‘leather soft as velvet.’ I am more fanciful in my tastes than that friend of mine who insists upon seeing his old comrades in well-worn attire. I like to see Charles Lamb strutting forth in purple and gold. I am touched when I behold the great men who reign in the ‘world of the classics’ standing shoulder to shoulder, arrayed in ‘gorgeous confections’ upon a shelf in a bookseller’s window.

But I have no desire to possess the large and weighty volume that falls under the title _Edition de Luxe_. I am not tempted by bulky volumes, however elaborately they may be adorned. I have no desire to undergo the painful experience of a certain gentleman pictured in _Punch_, who, after making valiant efforts to handle one such volume, was finally reduced to an abject state of exhaustion. Give me volumes of convenient size. Give me, I pray, volumes I can master.

IV

‘OUTSIDE THEIR BOOKS’

The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend.--GOLDSMITH.

I HAVE confessed that I like to feel the heart, the humanity, of an author. How natural, then, if I desire to know something about his home-life, his family, his manner of living, his favourite means of recreation. Surely such curiosity is free from censure. Of what stuff are the fine gentlemen made who tell us that we have no business with the private affairs of our great writers? Does not our curiosity spring from respect, from admiration--from _love_? Am I to be blamed if I desired to know how the affairs of this world went with the writer who has charmed and instructed me, who has led me into new worlds of thought and feeling? If I have learned to love an author through his books, may I not be permitted to ask whether he was happily situated? We speak glibly enough of the ‘friendship of books,’ and what, pray, does that mean but the friendship of _authors_? I have still to learn that it is no part of a man’s duty to take an interest in the home-life of his friends.

‘We are not all hero-worshippers,’ says Alexander Smith, ‘but most of us are so to a large extent. A large proportion of mankind feel a quite peculiar interest in famous writers. Concerning such men no bit of information is too trifling; everything helps to make out the mental image we have dimly formed for ourselves. And this kind of interest is heightened by the artistic way in which Time occasionally groups them. We think of the wild geniuses who came up from the Universities to London in the dawn of the English drama. Greene, Nash, Marlowe--our professional men of letters--how they cracked their satirical whips, how pinched they were at times; how, when they possessed money, they flung it from them as if it was poison; with what fierce speed they wrote, how they shook the stage.’

Wherefore I say let the fine gentlemen who boast of their superiority to the so-called trivialities of life go their way, whilst I go mine. Let them stand upon their lofty pedestals, whilst I inquire how my favourite authors lived, how they spent their days, how they divided their time, how many hours were given to work and how many to recreation. I have no fear that such knowledge will lessen my admiration for my heroes. I look up, it is true, with feelings akin to awe at the great men who have influenced me. But I desire at times to have a clearer view, I like to walk round and about them, to peer through the brilliant glow by which they are surrounded, to see the _men_, to feel their humanity, to learn how they met the ‘common daily round.’

And I confess that it matters little to me how I glean the desired information. But for preference give me the records of a trained observer. For how much better to see with the eyes of one whose vision is clear, keen, and penetrating! How good, for instance, to accompany Alexander Smith on a visit to the ‘Mermaid’ in session, and there behold the great ‘Shakespeare’s bland oval face, the light of a smile spread over it, and Ben Jonson’s truculent image, and Beaumont and Fletcher sitting together in their beautiful friendship!’ And how good to think that we may go in the company of the same gracious guide, to the famous Literary Club, and there find Burke and Johnson and Garrick and Goldsmith. ‘The Doctor has been talking there for a hundred years, and there will talk for many a hundred more.’ And then, so highly are we favoured, we may go (and who would not?) to Charles Lamb’s snug little room in Inner Temple Lane, and there find ‘the hush of a whist-table in one corner, the host stuttering puns as he deals the cards, and sitting about; Hunt, whose every sentence is flavoured with the hawthorn and the primrose, and Hazlitt maddened by Waterloo and St. Helena, and Goodwin with his wild theories, and Kemble with his Roman look. And before the morning comes, and Lamb stutters yet more thickly--for there is a slight flavour of punch in the apartment--what talk there has been of Hogarth’s prints, of Izaak Walton, of the old dramatists, of Sir Thomas Browne’s _Urn Burial_, with Elia’s quaint humour breaking through every interstice, and flowing in every fissure and cranny of the conversation.’

Ah, yes! it is good to have such glimpses as these, to find the authors who have charmed and instructed us free from the ‘fetters of the pen’--their own good or bad, sweet or petulant, always brilliant selves. And how true it is that such glimpses lend peculiar interest to written words! The book-lovers who like to feel the humanity of an author must surely form a vast and ever-increasing company.

You know how it fares with the superior individual who bears himself as though unmoved by feelings common to the average mortal. He does not inspire friendship, or admiration, or, for that matter, any feeling worth the having. Knowing the frailty of human nature, we suspect him of playing a double part. And so it is, surely, with the author who addresses us in the manner of one who is a stranger to the feelings that mould this mortal clay. We know better. We know full well that ‘the writer is not continually dwelling amongst the roses and lilies of life; he is not continually uttering generous sentiments and saying fine things. On him, as on his brethren, the world presses with prosaic needs. He has to make love, and marry, and run the usual matrimonial risks. The income-tax collector visits him as well as others. Around his head at Christmas drives a snow-storm of bills.’ Outside of his books he is pretty much the same as other men. And so, I say, we have greater sympathy with an author if he takes us into his confidence, allows us to bear a part of his burdens--to feel that he, too, is subject to human trials and difficulties.

It is interesting to note that authors themselves are of the same way of thinking. They, too, like to get at the hearts of men. Speaking of a visit paid to Coleridge at Highgate, Emerson complained that he was in his company for about an hour, but found it impossible to recall the largest part of his discourse, which was often like so many printed paragraphs in his books--perhaps the same--so readily did the great Coleridge fall into certain commonplaces.... ‘The visit was rather a spectacle than a conversation.’

And so, you see, we who desire at times to meet authors outside their books are in good company. And if we are not so fortunate as to play Boswell’s part, if we cannot sit at the feet of our heroes, if we cannot mourn or make merry in their company, we can, at least, approach them through the medium of a printed page. And that, I hold, is as good a way as any other--if not the best. Few are the books so deep in human interest as biographies of men of letters. This, it is said, arises from the pictures of comparative defeat which, in almost every instance, such books contain. ‘We see failure more or less--seldom clear, victorious effort. Like the Old Guard at Waterloo, they are fighting bravely on a lost field. In literary biography there is always an element of tragedy, and the love we bear the dead is mingled with pity.’

V

BOOKS THAT CAPTIVATE

If thought unlock her mysteries, If friendship on me smile, I walk in marble galleries, I talk with kings the while. EMERSON.

THE world of books is full of friendly voices. Where is the book-lover who has not at times felt like a sulky guest in genial, well-disposed company? Many authors who await our attentions have no other desire than to entertain, to please, to delight, ‘All authors are not preachers.’ I confess, however, that for my part I like to be ‘preached at.’ But my preacher must be of the gentle, captivating type--one who employs the beckoning finger. I am willing enough to be led, but immediately adopt a proverbial stubbornness at the touch of a rod. This reminds me of a certain book-lover who declares that he is only influenced by authors who preach from his own pulpit. That is his way of saying that the authors who captivate him are the authors who touch a responsive chord in his nature, who view affairs from his standpoint.

How greatly tastes differ! I know of many persons, book-lovers of a kind, who must have what they are pleased to call original books. But where, I ask, are such books to be found? Is it not true that there is no such thing as original thought? A writer expresses his views with regard to this, that, or the other subject, only to find that the same observations have been made before, or were made at the same moment by some other person in some other quarter of the globe. ‘Ideas march along in extended order. They are not isolated discoveries made by specially brilliant individuals. Their influence is in the air. It is felt by numbers of thinkers at the same time. Often it is by no means the greatest of them who first announces that he has felt it.’

Thus we come to see that style is the immortal thing in literature. The style that echoes a charming personality is ever fresh. Who can deny that many an author has earned popularity by expressing in a winsome manner thoughts that are common to every thinking mind? I confess that I, as in the case of many others, am not so anxious to come across fresh and startling views as I am to find writers who bring fresh light to bear upon the old problems. I would rather dwell upon the descriptive passages quoted elsewhere in these pages than keep company with a mental acrobat. Too often one finds that the so-termed original author is a mere trickster, who does not hesitate to employ any means that promise to produce a startling effect. I am of the same opinion as the book-lover who declares that ‘any merry-andrew can blow down the wrong end of a trumpet.’

But it does not follow that the style that captivates me will captivate my neighbour. I am for a ‘mellow style’ in letters, for delicate phrasing--the polite manner. My neighbour may prefer ‘the style that has a sting in it.’ I am acquainted with a book-lover who confesses that he has no objection to being driven by an author. He likes to feel that an author has a firm hand upon the reins, and will use a whip if the need arises. Gentle, conciliatory authors bore this friend of mine. Others are for whimsical authors; others again are for writers who ‘play’ with their readers’ emotions, now drawing forth tears, now causing laughter. A few are for grave and solemn teachers. Many are for the authors whose only ambition is to entertain. There is no limit to the world’s requirements. But, happily, ‘of the making of books there is no end.’ We need have no fear of the supply running short, or of our own peculiar needs going unsupplied. ‘Books,’ says Langford, ‘are always with us, and always ready to respond to our wants.’ ‘As you grow ready for it,’ adds another, ‘somehow or other you will find what is needful for you in a book.’

A wise man will select his book with the utmost care. ‘He will not wish to class them all under the sacred name of friends.’ For my own part, I confess that I like to turn at times to authors of ‘humbler sorts.’ I like to dip into the volumes which booksellers label ‘Remainders.’ How frequently one finds in such books the very features that captivate--the style and matter that immediately touch a responsive chord in one’s temperament! Many a book labelled ‘Remainder’ deserves our warmest gratitude. ‘Learning,’ says Fuller, ‘has gained most by those books by which the printers have lost.’

But it must not be supposed that I crave for ‘new’ books. I beg leave to be of the same opinion as Lowell, who says in his _Fables for Critics_: ‘Reading new books is like eating new bread. One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he is brought to death’s door of a mental dyspepsy.’

The truth is, no hard-and-fast rule can be set down with regard to the books that captivate. But it is, I fancy, pretty safe to affirm that the books that please us most are the books that reflect our own thoughts and feelings. There has been a ‘run’ of late upon authors who are wise enough to recognize that the majority of persons are more or less simple and unaffected at heart, nursing their pet aspiration as a child nurses a beloved toy. For my own part, I desire to retain a certain youthfulness of heart and mind. I am, therefore, willing enough to confess that the books that captivated me in early life are the books that captivate me still. We ‘grown-ups’ make a brave outward show, but at the back of it there is still the old craving for a friendly hand, a kindly word, a sympathetic friend.

And when it comes to the question of fiction, I confess that my own liking is for books that introduce pleasing characters. I have no desire to meet again in novels the type of individual who glares at me from the ‘police columns’ of the daily press. Murderers, thieves, and adulterers are not to my mind less unpleasant because they happened to occupy a ‘romantic platform.’ Give me, I pray, congenial company. And if, as some declare, we must needs have all types represented, then let the artist who draws them employ the touch that convinces and yet spares. I do not desire to see black laid upon black. To dwell unduly in fiction upon sin and sinners is neither instructive nor entertaining, and it is, as inferred, a poor sort of artist whose pictures are all shade.

I beg leave to be of the company of book-lovers who prefer a pleasant flavour to their fiction, and, happily, we are well supplied. ‘Bookland’ is rich in winsome personalities, both as regards authors and their creations. When we speak of the books that captivate, how often we have in mind the charming persons who in the working out of this, that, or the other story played so noble and inspiring a part!

VI

PERSONALITIES IN ‘BOOKLAND’

Give me leave T’ enjoy myself; that place that does contain My books, the best companions, is to me A glorious court, where hourly I converse With the old sages and philosophers; And sometimes for variety, I confer With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

IT is good to think of the many captivating personalities one has met on one’s rambles through ‘Bookland’--to greet again with extended hands the genial Vicar immortalized by Goldsmith, to ponder in one’s mind his godly charity, to listen enthralled to his delicate and gracious observations. It is good, I say, to set forth on a ‘mental pilgrimage’ to the homes of the entertaining folk who were first made known to us through those ‘little sheets of paper,’ and who are ever ready to ‘amuse us, teach us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers.’

One may select one’s own company, and may, as the mood takes one, be learned or flippant, grave or gay. One may visit the famous Vicarage, or, in another mood and with another end in view, go in the enchanting company of Goldsmith to the home of Beau Tibbs, there to laugh at poor Tibbs’ foibles, to learn from his old Scotch servant that his good lady is away washing his ‘twa shirts’ at the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending their tub out any longer. But eventually the good lady presents herself, making ‘twenty apologies’ for the carelessness of her attire, and explaining in a grand manner that she had stayed the night at Vauxhall Gardens with a certain countess.

We are invited to dinner, something elegant being suggested by Mr. Tibbs--a turbot or an ortolan. Whereupon Mrs. Tibbs cries, ‘What do you think, my dear, of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce?’ ‘The very thing!’ cries Mr. Tibbs. ‘I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high life.’ But we do not remain for the dainty morsel. For, as our guide whispers, ‘the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy.’ And so we take our leave, assured by Beau Tibbs that had we remained, dinner would have been ready in less than two hours.