Part 3

And thus one may journey from house to house, from street to street, from county to county, and from country to country, to wellnigh any spot between the two Poles, there to find some old friend or other whom one has met in Bookland. And how varied is the company, how representative, how cosmopolitan, how sure one may be of finding just the very persons one wishes to meet! The child, still in the ‘Age of Innocence,’ looking for a playmate, may find one in Bookland. The youth whose blood runs hot and strong, and who desires a companion who can speak of mighty enterprises, may make his choice. The young woman who desires lessons in deportment and manners will find many good souls waiting to instruct her. And what company, what models of virtue and loveliness, await the young man whose ‘fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love’!

Yes, in Bookland there are persons to suit all ages, and all types, and all moods. Can we who have read with delight from our childhood days onward ever forget our dear old friends? Can we forget the characters, some simple, sweet, and charming, others strange, wild, grotesque, with whom we became acquainted in our nursery days? Can we forget Alice and her adventures in Wonderland, or the army of whimsical beings found in books of the same alluring order? Do they not still influence us and guide our morals?

And what of the book-born acquaintances of our youth? Is it not true that ‘the books that charmed us in youth recall the delight ever afterwards’? What a time for reading is that period when the blood runs warm and strong, and the mind is vigorous--one’s whole nature keen and impressionable! Ah! youth is the time to meet a maiden in a book, to feel--just as the author, no doubt, felt himself--that she is wonderfully fair to look upon, charming alike in manners, voice, and looks. One may venture to suspect that many a young man has lost his heart to the maidens who flit so gracefully through the pages of books.

The young women of Bookland are not, however, all of fairy-like type. Who can forget the many whose goodness of heart surpass their bewitching looks--heroic women, true as steel, and faithful unto death? Ideals must surely have been formed by readers from such as these, and their like sought no doubt in real life. And one may go further and venture to hope that they have been found and have given their hearts to noble seekers, and lived with them, as the story-books say, ‘happily ever after.’

Then what of the more staid, and, it may be, more serious, period in life? We are, let us say, now beginning to settle down, to feel a sense of responsibility. Father Time with his scythe has not greatly concerned us up to now; but we fancy that we see his figure, faint and shadowy, and, it may be, only just discernible, coming towards us from over the horizon.... We are ready for serious books now.

But, bless you! that is just a stage--a period in our pilgrimage through life. The old loves return. The volumes that charmed us in childhood and in youth again claim our affections. And with what zest we re-read those precious volumes! How heartily we greet our dear old friends! How grateful we are to the authors who have introduced us to this or that genial fellow, to this sedate and scholarly gentleman, to this winsome maid, to that noble man, to this gracious lady! And how many more await us!

Yes, the persons one meets in Bookland form an ever-increasing army--so vast, so numerous, that when meditating upon them and their characteristics, their virtues, their weaknesses, their foibles, their whimsicalities, their sins, and their noble deeds, one is led to divide them into classes and place them under the names of their creators--to set apart the delicately but firmly pictured characters of Jane Austen in a line running parallel with, say, the creations of Mrs. Gaskell and other lady novelists, taking care to keep them some little distance apart from the creations of Fielding and Sterne. For in Bookland, as in real life, it is unreasonable to expect persons of widely different temperaments to live on amicable terms.

That was a good plan, surely, of the book-lover who not only classified the characters of his favourite authors under the name of their creators, but also, after carefully considering their various characteristics, grouped them in little compartments. It is good, however, to feel that the characters of many of our famous novelists may be left to mix freely. One cannot, for example, doubt that the great majority of the creations of Charles Dickens were meant to ‘rub shoulders.’ So wide were the sympathies of that great delineator of human life that few indeed are the children of his imagination who are lacking in some point or other of common interest. Tapley, Pinch, Micawber, Toots, and the lovable Pickwick, and a host besides, may be left safely in one compartment.

But all this may lead you to suppose that the persons who played a part in real life as well as in Bookland are being forgotten. That can never be. For who can forget the chief characters in the historical works of our great novelists? These, in a sense, are more real to us than children of the imagination. For we may first study the conditions in which this or that great figure played a part in life, and then look upon them in the searching light of the skilful novelist.

How natural, however, if the lover of books should at times overlook the greatest of figures in a company so vast! He will do well if he but keeps a warm corner or two in his heart for old friends and an open place for new ones. And if meanwhile he can manage to keep his mind fresh and active, ready to receive new ideas and eager for fresh knowledge, he may surely rest content. Happily for the makers of books we have not all the same taste. Some are for this class of book; others for that. Some seek knowledge; others seek entertainment.

But I am running away from the vein in which this little book was started. I am forgetting to set forth my own little likes and dislikes. There is a reason, however, and it is this: I have nothing more exciting to confess at this point than the plain fact that I am of the company of bookmen who read _simply for the love of it_.

VII

SECOND-HAND BOOKS

The love of books is a love which requires neither justification, apology, nor defence.--LANGFORD.

I HAVE confessed that I am of the company of book-lovers who delight in dipping into the ‘lucky-tubs’ to be found outside booksellers’ windows. I know of no pleasanter way of spending a spare half-hour. Give me a few ‘loose’ coppers, place my feet upon a likely road, and I am content. I am now, let me say, of the happy company of _book-fishermen_. And this, mark you, is fishing in real earnest, this effort to ‘hook’ good food for the mind, to place in one’s basket a ‘book that delighteth and giveth perennial satisfaction.’

Ah! it is a good road I am on--one of London’s happiest thoroughfares--a road rich in book-shops. Here for a humble penny one may dip into tub or barrel and perchance pick out a volume worth its weight in gold! We hear so frequently of marvellous ‘catches.’ You know how this, that, or the other fine sportsman boasts of landing fish of amazing weight--well, it is so with your _book-fisherman_. Has he not told you of first editions procured for a single copper? And who shall say what fine day may not find us among Fortune’s favoured ones?

And so now to our fishing! Here is a copy of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, ‘hooked’ in the deep waters of a ‘penny tub.’ It is calf-bound, mark you, and in fairish condition, though much stained with the passing of years. My heart leaps; it is very old--a first edition possibly! But no; it is anything but that, and alas! like the egg that has grown into a proverb, it is only good in parts. Many of the pages are entirely missing, and others partially so. Judged by the books that surround me, it is dear at a penny ... _Paradise Lost_!

Yes, I confess that this fishing has its distressing side. One is frequently disappointed. And how heart-rending it is to find great works in a soiled and tattered condition, to discover, on drawing one’s hand from some ‘lucky-tub,’ that one holds the remains, a few pages, it may be, or the cover only, of a book that has played a part in the making of this world’s history! And how touching to find a winsome companion like the gentle Elia soiled, torn, bereft of covering, showing yellow gum and coarse stitching! I confess that such a sight almost moves me to tears. Fair wear and tear would never have reduced the gentle Elia to so pitiable a state. I suspect hands as callous as those of the butcher in the slaughterhouse across the way. Alas! that there should be men to whom books are merely so much paper and cloth. ‘A book,’ you tell them, ‘is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured upon purpose, to a life beyond.’ And their answer is a smile. But this is no time for repining. The great army of book-lovers swells with each passing year. From all sides come recruits, often from the most unexpected quarters, from mill and factory, mean street and slum. Yes; ’tis a great day for books, and soon _Everyman_ will have his library, in fact as well as in name. And who dare say, who can guess, what treasures his library will hold?

Now back to our fishing. Here is a tub that promises well; the price per volume, as aforetime, is only one penny. See! Here is a dainty volume, slim and shapely of form, and clothed in a delicate green. A minor poet, you guess. Yes; the work of a minor poet, published, no doubt, at the author’s own expense. But do not turn aside. Do not say that such books are of no value. I confess that I am for lingering over this slender booklet. Its cover is very pleasing; the type is large and clear; the paper is of good texture. And what anxiety, what patient care, probably went to the making of its contents! Brave minor poet! You have withstood many rebuffs. The road you travel holds, I doubt not, many pure delights: you walk, it may be, beneath a star-strewn sky. But star-gazing has proved in your case a dangerous occupation. ‘He who raises his eyes to the heavens forgets the stones and puddles at his feet.’ Alas! you have had many falls. And when perchance you have come to the ground, it has often been to the accompaniment of heartless laughter. ‘Here,’ cry the critics, ‘is another minor poet on all fours.’ And with ill-timed jests they proceed to point out your weaknesses; how that you have not the feet to walk aright, much less run; and as for wings, there is not, ’tis frequently said, so much as a sign of their sprouting. But for all that you have scrambled to your feet, and marching bravely forward, continued to give generously of your gentle fancy. Long may you live! In you we have (and here is my strongest point in your favour) many a great and worthy poet in the bud.

And so I confess gladly, and, indeed, with a proud heart, that in my bookshelves you hold a warm, well-sheltered corner. I love to handle your slender volumes, to pore over your early fancies, ill-expressed at times, it may be, but with a sincerity that is refreshing, and a simplicity that is delightful. And if your work is poor from cover to cover--which is rarely, if ever the case--well, you have given us a book.

Yes, I am of the company of book-lovers who revere anything in the form of a book. Lovers are made that way; and it is futile to inquire how I can bring myself to love books of ‘all sorts and conditions.’ As well might you ask the nature-lover why he speaks so tenderly of, say, the worm that peeps through the tender green of some sun-lit lawn. ’Tis simply love--love for the humblest children of dear Mother Earth. And so it is with the true book-lover; for the humblest volume he has a tender thought.

But what of our fishing? This is, I take it, a fitting place to record how on such and such a day I had the good fortune to ‘hook’ a copy of this or that desirable work for a few humble pence--a ‘mere song’! Well, so it has been, ‘day in and day out.’ But those books, I would remind you, are now my companions, my friends, and I can no more associate money with their value than I can judge a friend in the flesh by the contents of his purse. To me they are _priceless_.

VIII

‘THE CULT OF THE BOOKPLATE’

YOU have often heard the cry, and know full well its meaning, ‘My books are priceless.’ What wonder, then, if you and I--lovers of books--take lively interest in what an ingenuous man of business has called ‘_The Cult of the Bookplate_.’ ‘The mission of the bookplate,’ he advises us, ‘has always been, and must always be, primarily to indicate ownership of the books in which they are placed. They may be ornate or simple, as the taste or means of the owner may indicate; they may incorporate crests, arms, motto, or other family attribute; or, again, they may reflect the personal interests or occupations of the owner; but the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same--a reminder to those who borrow.’

Pretty ground this for contemplation--for doubts, counsels, hopes, fears, regrets; aye, and for _rejoicing_! How my mind leaps, first this way, then that, when I meditate upon that rich circle of friendship in which I may borrow from a fellow book-lover’s treasured volumes, and, of course, lend of my own! Yet by what unspeakable regrets am I possessed when I think of certain treasured volumes lent in wildly generous moments to good but ‘short-minded’ friends! I have in mind a little volume of essays--a first and only edition--by an unknown but charming writer, which is now in the possession of that restless fellow K----. May he see these words and repent! And what of that treasured edition--once mine, but, alas! mine no more--of certain writings of Dr. Johnson? Oh, that I could send the good doctor in quest of the volume! What blushes of shame he would bring to the cheeks of the heartless borrower! ‘Sir!’ he would cry. And what words would follow! Very speedily should I be in a position to fill the gap in my shelves.

And there is that dainty little calf-bound volume of Lamb’s essays, borrowed some months back by J----. Where are you and my little volume now, good friend? For reasons known to ourselves alone I address you tenderly. But I would that I could send the gentle Elia to recover my lost gem. Very gently would he deal with you, with quaint phrases, puns, and happy jests. Aye, and with little speeches uttered with that fascinating lisp of his. Indeed, I fear, now that I come to give the matter careful thought, that he would leave you empty handed. It would be so like his charming ways to console, comfort, and amuse you, and leave with you, after all, my volume of his incomparable essays.

The truth is, this work of restoring borrowed volumes to one’s shelves calls for a stout heart. I confess that I am wanting in the necessary qualifications. I have not the courage to speak harshly to a fellow book-lover. So firm is his hold on my affections that I am as wax in his hands. Yet book-lovers to a man agree that the borrower who never repays stands in dire need of correction. I must call another to the task--one of stronger metal.

Listen! ‘Even the fieldmouse,’ cries my champion, ‘has a russet gown to match the mould, but the book-lover who has let loose a borrower in his library is as forlorn as the goat tied up for tiger’s bait. True, that to spare your Homer you may plead you are re-acquainting yourself with the _Iliad_, but that is to save Homer and lose Virgil. You cannot profess that you study all the classics simultaneously; and who knows that better than the borrower? Snatch your Browning from his grip, and his talons sink into Goethe instead. What does it matter to him? He is out for books, and he will not be placated until he has left gaping rents in your shelves, like the hull of a bombarded battleship. These chasms shall burden your soul with the weight of many unkindly maledictions, but the borrower will return no evil thought, for the simple and satisfactory reason that he will now think no more either of you or of your books. Stabled securely upon his shelves, they will remain on one of those perpetual leases that amount to a freehold. It is useless to invade his lair with the hope of bringing back the spoil. Are you not instructed that he has not yet had time to read them, but that they are yours again whenever you will? Outgeneralled and outflanked, you retreat empty-handed.

‘Books are gentle, lovable company. Why should the lust of them corrupt human nature, turning an amiable citizen into that hopeless irreclaimable, the inveterate book-borrower? Is it that law of contrasts which associates with the noble steed the ignoble horse-coper, and with the gentle dove the cropped head and unshaven jowl of the pigeon-flyer? But truce to theories! It is the hour of action. Will not a benignly reforming Government insist that lent books shall be registered like bills of sale, and a list drawn up of notorious borrowers, with compulsory inspection of their dens, to protect our defenceless libraries from the ravages of the book-pirate? If it is hopeless to look for his cure, shall we not at least petition for his prevention?’

You will allow that all this bears directly upon the subject in mind. Does not the ingenuous gentleman whom I have quoted at the head of this chapter aver that the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same--‘a reminder to those who borrow.’ Here, then, is one thread of hope, but only a very thin thread, I fear. Not for one moment dare I venture to think that it will bear the weight of our grievances. It is too fine, too delicate, to save us from the hands of the ruthless borrower. Indeed, I suspect that if it in any wise alters our position, it is only to draw us into fresh danger. For you know how many and how varied are the charms of bookplates, both old and new. Indeed, I have known book-lovers borrow a volume for the sole purpose of tracing the design upon the fly-leaf. It is a fault of which the present writer is guilty. With shame he confesses it.

But wait! Why should I speak with blushes of my admiration for the brave armorial designs which adorn the calf-bound volumes of my friend H----? Well may he be proud of his family attributes, and well may I admire the manner in which some skilful designer, long departed, has incorporated arms and family motto with the familiar words _Ex Libris_. I know not, by the way, how any book-lover can bring himself to ignore information so absolutely clear. The announcement ‘FROM MY LIBRARY’ seems in the case of the particular bookplate in mind to come, nay, _does_ come, from a trumpet of amazing dimensions. But it is to be feared that the imaginative designer has been allowed too free a hand. So rich is his fancy, so skilful his line work, that the force of his call to duty is dulled by admiration. Perhaps that is why my friend’s volume still rests on my shelves. And perchance herein may rest an explanation of the heartless manner in which my friend has held fast to my treasured volume of Cowper’s poems.

It is, I say, to be feared that designers of bookplates have sacrificed the primary aim of their calling to the elaboration of playful fancies. From the very birth of the bookplate the fault seems to have been present. I am told that the earliest specimens date back to 1516, and on the Continent, notably in Germany, even earlier than that. Far back into the ages must we travel to find the first offenders. Let the interested book-lover examine the ancient examples presented in 1574 by Sir Nicholas Bacon to the University of Cambridge. He will then see pretty clearly how the war has been waged between the pictorial and the practical, and how, all along the line, the victory has been with the former. And what wonder with such mighty craftsmen as Albrecht Durer, Lucas Cranach, and Hans Holbein to wield the steel point of the engraver! Can one be surprised if such men defeat the chief aim of the bookplate, and put to silence with their wonderful skill the simple cry _Ex Libris_? Bookplates by Durer, Cranach, or Holbein must surely give great value to the volumes in which they rest. Note the danger! True book-lovers will blush to own it, but we must acknowledge the fact that a bookplate may have greater attractions than the volume in which it rests!

Wherefore, I say, we book-lovers will be well advised if we see to it that we do not fall into the error of keeping on our shelves books which may be coveted for the plates they contain. Bookplates in the delicate manner of Chippendale, with ‘wreath and ribbon’ and open shell work, are too alluring. Designs in the manner of Sheraton are also dangerously attractive. Jacobean plates come nearer the desired mark. But to my mind the good old English style of plate, ‘simple armorial,’ is best fitted for the purpose.

Always must we remember that the primary object of the bookplate is _a reminder to those who borrow_. On this score I am disposed to favour those inexpensive modern plates in which are interwoven some dear, familiar scene--a nook or corner of one’s garden, or a beloved scene in one’s native place. If the ruthless borrower has aught of good in him, surely he will be affected by such tender personal associations! But we have seen that the average borrower of books is a strange fellow. Alas! I know him only too well. Indeed, I too must confess that ‘out of an intimate knowledge of my own sinful ways have I spoken.’

IX

BEDSIDE BOOKS

I come to my subject in a sleepy mood. It seems a daring confession to make. But you will allow that only when one’s mind is bent on thoughts of sleep can one hope to speak fittingly of bedside books. ’Tis a subject calling for gentle, quiet thoughts. And what better state of mind? You remember Robert Louis Stevenson’s prayer, ‘Give us the quiet mind.’ How often has a similar prayer been offered! Too often are we disturbed in thought--harassed, perplexed, worried. Let us now turn our attention to books that soothe and lull to rest. Here they stand, ready to hand. But name them I dare not, save in my own heart. For your taste in this matter may be totally different from mine. I dare only say at this point--for here surely I may speak with confidence--that no bedside shelf is complete without a copy of Stevenson’s prayers. With gratitude I confess that of the many volumes which have comforted me during dark hours not one is so dear, so close to my heart, as the little volume bearing the golden letters R. L. S.