Part 24

I saw a boy with eager eye Open a book upon a stall, And read, as he'd devour it all; Which when the stall-man did espy, Soon to the boy I heard him call, 'You, Sir, you never buy a book, Therefore in one you shall not look.' The boy passed slowly on and with a sigh He wished he never had been taught to read, Then of the old churl's books he should have had no need.

Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy: I soon perceived another boy, Who looked as if he'd not had any Food, for that day at least--enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy's case, then thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry, longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty-dressèd meat: No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learned to eat.

C. LAMB. _Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading._

TETRACHORDON

A book was writ of late called Tetrachordon; And woven close, both matter, form and style; The subject new: it walked the town awhile, Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on. Cries the stall-reader, bless us! what a word on A title-page is this! and some in file Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile- End Green. Why is it harder, Sirs, than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp; When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.

J. MILTON.

THE SECOND-HAND CATALOGUE

A Second-hand Bookseller's Catalogue is not a mere catalogue or list of saleables, as the uninitiated may fancy. Even a common auctioneer's catalogue of goods and chattels suggests a thousand reflections to a peruser of any knowledge; judge then what the case must be with a catalogue of Books; the very titles of which run the rounds of the whole world, visible and invisible; geographies--biographies-- histories--loves--hates--joys--sorrows--cookeries--sciences--fashion--and eternity! We speak on this subject from the most literal experience; for often and often have we cut open a new catalogue of old books, with all the fervour and ivory folder of a first love; often read one at tea; nay, at dinner; and have put crosses against dozens of volumes in the list, out of the pure imagination of buying them, the possibility being _out of the question_!--

Nothing delights us more than to overhaul some dingy tome, and read a chapter gratuitously. Occasionally when we have opened some very attractive old book, we have stood reading for hours at the stall, lost in a brown study and worldly forgetfulness, and should probably have read on to the end of the last chapter, had not the vendor of published wisdom offered, in a satirically polite way, to bring us out a chair--'Take a chair, sir; you must be tired.'--J. H. LEIGH HUNT. _Retrospective Review._

THE FIND

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about By the crumpled vellum covers,--pure crude fact Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard, And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since? Examine it yourselves! I found this book, Gave a _lira_ for it, eightpence English just, (Mark the predestination!) when a Hand, Always above my shoulder, pushed me once, One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm, Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths, Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time; Toward Baccio's marble,--ay, the basement-ledge O' the pedestal where sits and menaces John of the Black Bands with the upright spear, 'Twixt palace and church,--Riccardi where they lived, His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie. This book,--precisely on that palace-step Which, meant for lounging knaves o' the Medici, Now serves re-venders to display their ware,-- 'Mongst odds and ends of ravage, picture-frames White through the worn gilt, mirror-sconces chipped, Bronze angel-heads once knobs attached to chests, (Handled when ancient dames chose forth brocade) Modern chalk drawings, studies from the nude, Samples of stone, jet, breccia, porphyry Polished and rough, sundry amazing busts In baked earth, (broken, Providence be praised!) A wreck of tapestry, proudly-purposed web When reds and blues were indeed red and blue, Now offered as a mat to save bare feet (Since carpets constitute a cruel cost) Treading the chill scagliola bedward: then A pile of brown-etched prints, two _crazie_ each, Stopped by a conch a-top from fluttering forth --Sowing the Square with works of one and the same Master, the imaginative Sienese Great in the scenic backgrounds--(name and fame None of you know, nor does he fare the worse:) From these.... Oh, with a Lionard going cheap If it should prove, as promised, that Joconde Whereof a copy contents the Louvre!--these I picked this book from. Five compeers in flank Stood left and right of it as tempting more-- A dogseared Spicilegium, the fond tale O' the Frail One of the Flower, by young Dumas, Vulgarized Horace for the use of schools, The Life, Death, Miracles of Saint Somebody, Saint Somebody Else, his Miracles, Death, and Life,-- With this, one glance at the lettered back of which, And 'Stall!' cried I: a _lira_ made it mine.

Here it is, this I toss and take again; Small-quarto size, part print part manuscript: A book in shape but, really, pure crude fact Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard, And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since. Give it me back! The thing's restorative I' the touch and sight.

R. BROWNING. _The Ring and the Book._

PURCHASING AN ACT OF PIETY

When Providence throws a good book in my way, I bow to its decree and purchase it as an act of piety, if it is reasonably or unreasonably cheap. I _adopt_ a certain number of books every year, out of a love for the foundlings and stray children of other people's brains that nobody seems to care for. Look here.

He took down a Greek Lexicon finely bound in calf, and spread it open.

Do you see that Hedericus? I had Greek dictionaries enough and to spare, but I saw that noble quarto lying in the midst of an ignoble crowd of cheap books, and marked with a price which I felt to be an insult to scholarship, to the memory of Homer, sir, and the awful shade of Aeschylus, I paid the mean price asked for it, and I wanted to double it, but I suppose it would have been a foolish sacrifice of coin to sentiment. I love that book for its looks and behaviour. None of your 'half-calf' economies in that volume, sir! And see how it lies open anywhere! There isn't a book in my library that has such a generous way of laying its treasures before you. From Alpha to Omega, calm, assured rest at any page that your choice or accident may light on. No lifting of a rebellious leaf like an upstart servant that does not know his place and can never be taught manners, but tranquil, well-bred repose. A book may be a perfect gentleman in its aspect and demeanour, and this book would be good company for personages like Roger Ascham and his pupils the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Jane Grey.--O. W. HOLMES. _The Poet at the Breakfast-Table._

A FORCED SALE

I fear that I must sell this residue Of my father's books; although the Elzevirs Have fly-leaves over-written by his hand, In faded notes as thick and fine and brown As cobwebs on a tawny monument Of the old Greeks--_conferenda haec cum his_-- _Corruptè citat_--_lege potiùs_, And so on, in the scholar's regal way Of giving judgement on the parts of speech, As if he sate on all twelve thrones up-piled, Arraigning Israel. Ay, but books and notes Must go together. And this Proclus too, In quaintly dear contracted Grecian types, Fantastically crumpled, like his thoughts Which would not seem too plain; you go round twice For one step forward, then you take it back, Because you're somewhat giddy! there's the rule For Proclus. Ah, I stained this middle leaf With pressing in't my Florence iris-bell, Long stalk and all: my father chided me For that stain of blue blood,--I recollect The peevish turn his voice took,--'Silly girls, Who plant their flowers in our philosophy To make it fine, and only spoil the book! No more of it, Aurora.' Yes--no more! Ah, blame of love, that's sweeter than all praise Of those who love not! 'tis so lost to me, I cannot, in such beggared life, afford To lose my Proclus....

The kissing Judas, Wolff, shall go instead, Who builds us such a royal book as this To honour a chief-poet, folio-built, And writes above, 'The house of Nobody': Who floats in cream, as rich as any sucked From Juno's breasts, the broad Homeric lines, And, while with their spondaic prodigious mouths They lap the lucent margins as babe-gods, Proclaims them bastards. Wolff's an atheist; And if the Iliad fell out, as he says, By mere fortuitous concourse of old songs, We'll guess as much, too, for the universe.

E. B. BROWNING. _Aurora Leigh._

THE VOCATION

One of the shop-windows he paused before was that of a second-hand book-shop, where, on a narrow table outside, the literature of the ages was represented in judicious mixture, from the immortal verse of Homer to the mortal prose of the railway novel. That the mixture was judicious was apparent from Deronda's finding in it something that he wanted--namely, that wonderful bit of autobiography, the life of the Polish Jew, Salomon Maimon; which, as he could easily slip it into his pocket, he took from its place, and entered the shop to pay for, expecting to see behind the counter a grimy personage showing that nonchalance about sales which seems to belong universally to the second-hand book-business. In most other trades you find generous men who are anxious to sell you their wares for your own welfare; but even a Jew will not urge Simson's Euclid on you with an affectionate assurance that you will have pleasure in reading it, and that he wishes he had twenty more of the article, so much is it in request. One is led to fear that a second-hand bookseller may belong to that unhappy class of men who have no belief in the good of what they get their living by, yet keep conscience enough to be morose rather than unctuous in their vocation.--G. ELIOT. _Daniel Deronda._

TO MY BOOKSELLER

Thou that makst gain thy end, and, wisely well, Callst 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 favour 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 servingman, Who scarce can spell the hard names: whose knight less can. If without these vile arts it will not sell, Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill well.

BEN JONSON.

THE WRITER TO HIS BOOK

Whither thus hastes my little book so fast? To Paul's Churchyard. What? in those cells to stand, With one leaf like a rider's cloak put up To catch a termer? or lie musty there With rhymes a term set out, or two, before? Some will redeem me. Few. Yes, read me too. Fewer. Nay, love me. Now thou dot'st, I see. Will not our English Athens art defend? Perhaps. Will lofty courtly wits not aim Still at perfection? If I grant? I fly. Whither? To Paul's. Alas, poor book, I rue Thy rash self-love; go, spread thy papery wings: Thy lightness cannot help or hurt my fame.

T. CAMPION.

AD BIBLIOPOLAM

Printer or stationer or whate'er thou prove Shalt me record to Time's posterity: I'll not enjoin thee, but request in love, Thou so much deign my Book to dignify, As, first, it be not with your ballads mixed Next, not at play-houses 'mongst pippins sold: Then that on posts by the ears it stand not fixt, For every dull mechanic to behold. Last, that it come not brought in pedler's packs, To common fairs, of country, town, or city: Sold at a booth 'mongst pins and almanacks; Yet on thy hands to lie, thou'lt say 'twere pity; Let it be rather for tobacco rent, Or butchers-wives, next Cleansing-week in Lent.

H. PARROT. _The Mastive, or Young-Whelpe of the Olde-Dogge._

IN BONDAGE TO THE BOOKSELLER

Nevertheless conceive me not, I pray you, that I go about to lay a general imputation upon all stationers. For to disparage the whole profession were an act neither becoming an honest man to do, nor a prudent auditory to suffer. Their mystery, as they not untruly term it, consists of divers trades incorporated together: as printers, book-binders, clasp-makers, booksellers, &c. And of all these be some honest men, who to my knowledge are so grieved, being overborne by the notorious oppressions and proceedings of the rest, that they have wished themselves of some other calling. The printers' mystery is ingenious, painful, and profitable: the book-binders' necessary; the clasp-makers' useful. And indeed, the retailer of books, commonly called a bookseller, is a trade, which, being well governed and limited within certain bounds, might become somewhat serviceable to the rest. But as it is now, for the most part abused, the bookseller hath not only made the printer, the binder, and the clasp-maker a slave to him: but hath brought authors, yea, the whole Commonwealth, and all the liberal sciences into bondage. For he makes all professors of Art labour for his profit, at his own price, and utters it to the Commonwealth in such fashion, and at those rates, which please himself. Insomuch, that I wonder so insupportable and so impertinent a thing as a mere bookseller, considering what the profession is become now, was ever permitted to grow up in the Commonwealth.--G. WITHER. _The Schollers Purgatory._

IN PATERNOSTER ROW

Methinks, oh vain, ill-judging book! I see thee cast a wistful look, Where reputations won and lost are In famous row called _Paternoster_. Incensed to find your precious olio Buried in unexplored port-folio, You scorn the prudent lock and key; And pant, well-bound and gilt, to see Your volume in the window set Of Stockdale, Hookham, and Debrett. Go then, and pass that dangerous bourne Whence never book can back return; And when you find--condemned, despised, Neglected, blamed, and criticized-- Abuse from all who read you fall (If haply you be read at all), Sorely will you for folly sigh at, And wish for me, and home, and quiet.

Assuming now a conjurer's office, I Thus on your future fortune prophesy:-- Soon as your novelty is o'er, And you are young and new no more, In some dark dirty corner thrown, Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown, Your leaves shall be the bookworm's prey; Or sent to chandler's shop away, And doomed to suffer public scandal, Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle.

M. G. LEWIS. _The Monk._

THE ELEPHANT AND THE BOOKSELLER

The Bookseller, who heard him speak, And saw him turn a page of Greek, Thought, what a genius have I found! Then thus addressed with bow profound: 'Learned Sir, if you'd employ your pen Against the senseless sons of men, Or write the history of Siam, No man is better pay than I am. Or, since you're learned in Greek, let's see Something against the Trinity.' When, wrinkling with a sneer his trunk, 'Friend', quoth the Elephant, 'you're drunk: E'en keep your money, and be wise; Leave man on man to criticize: For that you ne'er can want a pen Among the senseless sons of men. They unprovoked will court the fray; Envy's a sharper spur than pay. No author ever spared a brother; Wits are gamecocks to one another.'

J. GAY. _Fables._

LITERARY UPHOLSTERERS

Our booksellers here at London disgrace literature by the trash they bespeak to be written, and at the same time prevent everything else from being sold. They are little more or less than upholsterers, who sell _sets_ or _bodies_ of arts and sciences for furniture; and the purchasers, for I am very sure they are not readers, buy only in that view. I never thought there was much merit in reading: but yet it is too good a thing to be put upon no better footing than damask and mahogany.--H. WALPOLE. EARL OF ORFORD (Letter to Sir David Dalrymple).

No furniture so charming as books, even if you never open them or read a single word.--S. SMITH. _Memoirs._

ON A MISCELLANY OF POEMS

To BERNARD LINTOTT

_'Ipsa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia aliis, quaedam fortasse omnibus placeant.'_ _Plin. Epist._

As when some skilful cook, to please each guest, Would in one mixture comprehend a feast, With due proportion and judicious care He fills his dish with different sorts of fare, Fishes and fowls deliciously unite, To feast at once the taste, the smell, and sight. So, Bernard, must a Miscellany be Compounded of all kinds of poetry; The Muses' olio, which all tastes may fit, And treat each reader with his darling wit. Wouldst thou for Miscellanies raise thy fame, And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name, Let all the Muses in the piece conspire; The lyric bard must strike the harmonious lyre; Heroic strains must here and there be found; And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound; Let elegy in moving numbers flow, And fill some pages with melodious woe; Let not your amorous songs too numerous prove, Nor glut thy reader with abundant love; Satire must interfere, whose pointed rage May lash the madness of a vicious age; Satire! the Muse that never fails to hit, For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit. Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays, Those swell the piece, but very rarely please; Let short-breathed epigram its force confine, And strike at follies in a single line. Translations should throughout the work be sown, And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own; Horace in useful numbers should be sung, And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue. Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain, And at her door in melting notes complain; His tender accents pitying virgins move, And charm the listening ear with tales of love Let every classic in the volume shine, And each contribute to thy great design; Through various subjects let the reader range, And raise his fancy with a grateful change. Variety's the source of joy below, From whence still fresh revolving pleasures flow. In books and love, the mind one end pursues, And only _change_ the expiring flame renews. Where Buckingham will condescend to give, That honoured piece to distant times must live; When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings, The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings; Anacreon lives, they cry, the harmonious swain Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain, 'Tis he--our lost Anacreon lives again. But, when the illustrious poet soars above The sportive revels of the God of Love, Like Mars's Muse, he takes a loftier flight, And towers beyond the wondering Cupid's sight. If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the test, And of all others be reputed best, Let Congreve teach the listening groves to mourn, As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn. Let Prior's Muse with softening accents move, Soft as the strains of constant Emma's love: Or let his fancy choose some jovial theme, As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream; Prior the admiring reader entertains With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenser's strains. Waller in Granville lives; when Mira sings, With Waller's hand he strikes the sounding strings, With sprightly turns his noble genius shines, And manly sense adorns his easy lines. On Addison's sweet lays attention waits, And silence guards the place while he repeats; His Muse alike on every subject charms, Whether she paints the god of love, or arms: In him pathetic Ovid sings again, And Homer's _Iliad_ shines in his _Campaign_. Whenever Garth shall raise his sprightly song, Sense flows in easy numbers from his tongue; Great Phoebus in his learned son we see, Alike in physic, as in poetry. When Pope's harmonious Muse with pleasure roves Amidst the plains, the murmuring streams, and groves, Attentive Echo, pleased to hear his songs, Through the glad shade each warbling note prolongs; His various numbers charm our ravished ears, His steady judgement far out-shoots his years, And early in the youth the god appears. From these successful bards collect thy strains; And praise with profit shall reward thy pains: Then, while calf's-leather-binding bears the sway, And sheepskin to its sleeker gloss gives way; While neat old Elzevir is reckoned better Than Pirate Hill's brown sheets and scurvy letter; While print-admirers careful Aldous choose, Before John Morphew, or the Weekly News; So long shall live thy praise in books of fame, And Tonson yield to Lintott's lofty name.

J. GAY.

VERSES TO BE PREFIXED BEFORE BERNARD LINTOTT'S NEW MISCELLANY

Some Colinaeus praise, some Bleau, Others account them but so so; Some Plantin to the rest prefer, And some esteem old Elzevir; Others with Aldous would besot us; I, for my part, admire Lintotus.-- His character's beyond compare, Like his own person, large and fair. They print their names in letters small, But LINTOTT stands in capital: Author and he with equal grace Appear, and stare you in the face. Stephens prints Heathen Greek, 'tis said, Which some can't construe, some can't read; But all that comes from Lintott's hand, Even Rawlinson might understand. Oft in an Aldous, or a Plantin, A page is blotted, or leaf wanting: Of Lintott's books this can't be said, All fair, and not so much as read. Their copy cost 'em not a penny To Homer, Virgil, or to any; They ne'er gave sixpence for two lines To them, their heirs, or their assigns: But Lintott is at vast expense, And pays prodigious dear for--sense. Their books are useful but to few, A scholar or a wit or two; Lintott's for general use are fit.

A. POPE.

TO MR. MURRAY

Strahan, Tonson, Lintott of the times, Patron and publisher of rhymes, For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb, The unpledged MS. authors come; Thou printest all--and sellest some-- My Murray.

Upon thy table's baize so green The last new _Quarterly_ is seen,-- But where is thy new Magazine, My Murray?

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine The works thou deemest most divine-- The 'Art of Cookery', and mine, My Murray.

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist; And then thou hast the 'Navy List', My Murray.

And heaven forbid I should conclude Without 'the Board of Longitude', Although this narrow paper would, My Murray.

G. GORDON, LORD BYRON.