I have heard that the late Mr. Edward Solly, a very pious9 and worshipful lover of books, under several examples of whose book-plate I have lately reverently10 placed my own, was so anxious to fly all outward noise that he built himself a library in his garden. I have been told that the books stood there in perfect order, with the rose-spray flapping at the window, and great Japanese vases exhaling11 such odours as most annoy an insect-nostril. The very bees would come to the window, and sniff12, and boom indignantly away again. The silence there was perfect. It must have been in such a secluded13 library that Christian14 Mentzelius was at work when he heard the male book-worm flap his wings, and crow like a cock in calling to his mate. I feel sure that even Mentzelius, a very courageous15 writer, would hardly pretend that he could hear such a "shadow of all sound" elsewhere. That is the library I should like to have. In my sleep, "where dreams are multitude," I sometimes fancy that one day I shall have a library in a garden. The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man—"a library in a garden!" It sounds like having a castle in Spain, or a sheep-walk in Arcadia, and I suppose that merely to wish for it is to be what indignant journalists call "a faddling hedonist."
In the meanwhile, my books are scattered17 about in cases in different parts of a double sitting-room18, where the cats carouse19 on one side, and the hurdy-gurdy man girds up his loins on the other. A friend of Boethius had a library lined with slabs20 of ivory and pale green marble. I like to think of that when I am jealous of Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, as the peasant thinks of the White Czar when his master's banqueting hall dazzles him. If I cannot have cabinets of ebony and cedar21, I may just as well have plain deal, with common glass doors to keep the dust out. I detest22 your Persian apparatus23.
It is a curious reflection, that the ordinary private person who collects objects of a modest luxury, has nothing about him so old as his books. If a wave of the rod made everything around him disappear that did not exist a century ago, he would suddenly find himself with one or two sticks of furniture, perhaps, but otherwise alone with his books. Let the work of another century pass, and certainly nothing but these little brown volumes would be left, so many caskets full of passion and tenderness, disappointed ambition, fruitless hope, self-torturing envy, conceit24 aware, in maddening lucid25 moments, of its own folly26. I think if Mentzelius had been worth his salt, those ears of his, which heard the book-worm crow, might have caught the echo of a sigh from beneath many a pathetic vellum cover. There is something awful to me, of nights, and when I am alone, in thinking of all the souls imprisoned27 in the ancient books around me. Not one, I suppose, but was ushered28 into the world with pride and glee, with a flushed cheek and heightened pulse; not one enjoyed a career that in all points justified29 those ample hopes and flattering promises.
The outward and visible mark of the citizenship30 of the book-lover is his book-plate. There are many good bibliophiles who abide31 in the trenches32, and never proclaim their loyalty33 by a book-plate. They are with us, but not of us; they lack the courage of their opinions; they collect with timidity or carelessness; they have no need for the morrow. Such a man is liable to great temptations. He is brought face to face with that enemy of his species, the borrower, and dares not speak with him in the gate. If he had a book-plate he would say, "Oh! certainly I will lend you this volume, if it has not my book-plate in it; of course, one makes a rule never to lend a book that has." He would say this, and feign34 to look inside the volume, knowing right well that this safeguard against the borrower is there already. To have a book-plate gives a collector great serenity35 and self-confidence. We have laboured in a far more conscientious36 spirit since we had ours than we did before. A learned poet, Lord De Tabley, wrote a fascinating volume on book-plates, some years ago, with copious37 illustrations. There is not, however, one specimen38 in his book which I would exchange for mine, the work and the gift of one of the most imaginative of American artists, the late Edwin A. Abbey. It represents a very fine gentleman of about 1610, walking in broad sunlight in a garden, reading a little book of verses. The name is coiled around him, with the motto, Gravis cantantibus umbra. I will not presume to translate this tag of an eclogue, and I only venture to mention such an uninteresting matter, that my indulgent readers may have a more vivid notion of what I call my library. Mr. Abbey's fine art is there, always before me, to keep my ideal high.
To possess few books, and those not too rich and rare for daily use, has this advantage, that the possessor can make himself master of them all, can recollect39 their peculiarities40, and often remind himself of their contents. The man that has two or three thousand books can be familiar with them all; he that has thirty thousand can hardly have a speaking acquaintance with more than a few. The more conscientious he is, the more he becomes like Lucian's amateur, who was so much occupied in rubbing the bindings of his books with sandal-wood and saffron, that he had no time left to study the contents. After all, with every due respect paid to "states" and editions and bindings and tall copies, the inside of the volume is really the essential part of it.
The excuses for collecting, however, are more than satire42 is ready to admit. The first edition represents the author's first thought; in it we read his words as he sent them out to the world in his first heat, with the type he chose, and with such peculiarities of form as he selected to do most justice to his creation. We often discover little individual points in a first edition, which never occur again. And if it be conceded that there is an advantage in reading a book in the form which the author originally designed for it, then all the other refinements43 of the collector become so many acts of respect paid to this first virgin44 apparition45, touching46 and suitable homage47 of cleanness and fit adornment48. It is only when this homage becomes mere16 eye-service, when a book radically49 unworthy of such dignity is too delicately cultivated, too richly bound, that a poor dilettantism50 comes in between the reader and what he reads. Indeed, the best of volumes may, in my estimation, be destroyed as a possession by a binding41 so sumptuous51 that no fingers dare to open it for perusal52. To the feudal53 splendours of Mr. Cobden-Sanderson, a tenpenny book in a ten-pound binding, I say fie. Perhaps the ideal library, after all, is a small one, where the books are carefully selected and thoughtfully arranged in accordance with one central code of taste, and intended to be respectfully consulted at any moment by the master of their destinies. If fortune made me possessor of one book of excessive value, I should hasten to part with it. In a little working library, to hold a first quarto of Hamlet, would be like entertaining a reigning54 monarch55 in a small farmhouse56 at harvesting.
Much has of late been written, however, and pleasantly written, about the collecting and preserving of books. It is not my intention here to add to this department of modern literature. But I shall select from among my volumes some which seem less known in detail to modern readers than they should be, and I shall give brief "retrospective reviews" of these as though they were new discoveries. In other cases, where the personal history of a well-known book seems worth detaching from our critical estimate of it, that shall be the subject of my lucubration. Perhaps it may not be an unwelcome novelty to apply to old books the test we so familiarly apply to new ones. They will bear it well, for in their case there is no temptation to introduce any element of prejudice. Mr. Bludyer himself does not fly into a passion over a squat57 volume published two centuries ago, even when, as in the case of the first edition of Harrington's Oceana, there is such a monstrous58 list of errata that the writer has to tell us, by way of excuse, that a spaniel has been "questing" among his papers.
These scarce and neglected books are full of interesting things. Voltaire never made a more unfortunate observation than when he said that rare books were worth nothing, since, if they were worth anything, they would not be rare. We know better nowadays; we know how much there is in them which may appeal to only one man here and there, and yet to him with a voice like a clarion59. There are books that have lain silent for a century, and then have spoken with the trumpet60 of a prophecy. We shall disdain61 nothing; we shall have a little criticism, a little anecdote62, a little bibliography; and our old book shall go back to the shelves before it has had time to be tedious in its babbling63.
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1 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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2 glimmering | |
n.微光,隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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3 hearths | |
壁炉前的地板,炉床,壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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4 munificence | |
n.宽宏大量,慷慨给与 | |
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5 bibliophile | |
n.爱书者;藏书家 | |
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6 borough | |
n.享有自治权的市镇;(英)自治市镇 | |
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7 royalty | |
n.皇家,皇族 | |
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8 bibliography | |
n.参考书目;(有关某一专题的)书目 | |
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9 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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10 reverently | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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11 exhaling | |
v.呼出,发散出( exhale的现在分词 );吐出(肺中的空气、烟等),呼气 | |
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12 sniff | |
vi.嗅…味道;抽鼻涕;对嗤之以鼻,蔑视 | |
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13 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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14 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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15 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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16 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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17 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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18 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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19 carouse | |
v.狂欢;痛饮;n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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20 slabs | |
n.厚板,平板,厚片( slab的名词复数 );厚胶片 | |
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21 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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22 detest | |
vt.痛恨,憎恶 | |
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23 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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24 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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25 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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26 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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27 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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30 citizenship | |
n.市民权,公民权,国民的义务(身份) | |
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31 abide | |
vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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32 trenches | |
深沟,地沟( trench的名词复数 ); 战壕 | |
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33 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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34 feign | |
vt.假装,佯作 | |
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35 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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36 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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37 copious | |
adj.丰富的,大量的 | |
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38 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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39 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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40 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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41 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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42 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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43 refinements | |
n.(生活)风雅;精炼( refinement的名词复数 );改良品;细微的改良;优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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44 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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45 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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46 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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47 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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48 adornment | |
n.装饰;装饰品 | |
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49 radically | |
ad.根本地,本质地 | |
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50 dilettantism | |
n.业余的艺术爱好,浅涉文艺,浅薄涉猎 | |
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51 sumptuous | |
adj.豪华的,奢侈的,华丽的 | |
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52 perusal | |
n.细读,熟读;目测 | |
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53 feudal | |
adj.封建的,封地的,领地的 | |
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54 reigning | |
adj.统治的,起支配作用的 | |
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55 monarch | |
n.帝王,君主,最高统治者 | |
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56 farmhouse | |
n.农场住宅(尤指主要住房) | |
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57 squat | |
v.蹲坐,蹲下;n.蹲下;adj.矮胖的,粗矮的 | |
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58 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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59 clarion | |
n.尖音小号声;尖音小号 | |
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60 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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61 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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62 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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63 babbling | |
n.胡说,婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 );作潺潺声(如流水);含糊不清地说话;泄漏秘密 | |
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