The women-folk are few up there,
For ’t were
not fair, you know,
That they our heavenly bliss should share
Who vex us here
below!
The few are those who have been kind
To husbands such
as we:
They knew our fads and didn’t mind
Says Dibdin’s
ghost to me.
It has never been explained to my
satisfaction why women, as a class, are the enemies
of books, and are particularly hostile to bibliomania.
The exceptions met with now and then simply prove the
rule. Judge Methuen declares that bibliophobia
is but one phase of jealousy; that one’s wife
hates one’s books because she fears that her
husband is in love, or is going to be in love, with
those companions of his student hours. If, instead
of being folios, quartos, octavos, and the like, the
Judge’s books were buxom, blithe maidens, his
wife could hardly be more jealous of the Judge’s
attentions to them than she is under existing circumstances.
On one occasion, having found the Judge on two successive
afternoons sitting alone in the library with Pliny
in his lap, this spirited lady snatched the insidious
volume from her husband’s embraces and locked
it up in one of the kitchen pantries; nor did she
release the object of her displeasure until the Judge
had promised solemnly to be more circumspect in the
future, and had further mollified his wife’s
anger by bringing home a new silk dress and a bonnet
of exceptional loveliness.
Other instances of a similar character
have demonstrated that Mrs. Methuen regards with implacable
antipathy the volumes upon which my learned and ingenious
friend would fain lavish the superabundance of his
affection. Many years ago the Judge was compelled
to resort to every kind of artifice in order to sneak
new books into his house, and had he not been imbued
with the true afflatus of bibliomania he would long
ago have broken down under the heartless tyranny of
his vindictive spouse.
When I look around me and survey the
persecution to which book-lovers are subjected by
their wives, I thank the goddess Fortune that she has
cast my lot among the celibates; indeed, it is still
one of the few serious questions I have not yet solved,
viz.: whether a man can at the same time
be true to a wife and to bibliomania. Both are
exacting mistresses, and neither will tolerate a rival.
Dr. O’Rell has a theory that
the trouble with most wives is that they are not caught
young enough; he quotes Dr. Johnson’s sage remark
to the effect that “much can be made of a Scotchman
if caught young,” and he asserts that this is
equally true of woman. Mrs. O’Rell was
a mere girl when she wedded with the doctor, and the
result of thirty years’ experience and training
is that this model woman sympathizes with her excellent
husband’s tastes, and actually has a feeling
of contempt for other wives who have never heard of
Father Prout and Kit North, and who object to their
husbands’ smoking in bed.
I recall with what enthusiasm I once
heard this superior creature commend the doctor for
having accepted in lieu of a fee a set of Calvin’s
“Institutes,” with copious notes, in twelve
octavo volumes, and a portfolio of colored fox-hunting
prints. My admiration for this model wife could
find expression in no other way; I jumped from my
chair, seized her in my arms, and imprinted upon her
brow a fervent but respectful kiss.
It would be hard to imagine a prettier
picture than that presented to my vision as I looked
in from the porch of the doctor’s residence upon
the doctor’s family gathered together in the
library after dinner. The doctor himself, snuggled
down in a vast easy-chair, was dividing his attention
between a brier pipe and the odes of Propertius; his
wife, beside him in her rocker, smiled and smiled
again over the quaint humor of Mrs. Gaskell’s
“Cranford”; upon yonder settee, Francis
Mahony Methuen, the oldest son, was deep in the perusal
of Wilson’s “Tales of the Border”;
his brother, Russell Lowell, was equally absorbed
in the pathetic tale of “The Man without a Country”;
Letitia Landon Methuen, the daughter, was quietly
sobbing over the tragedy of “Evangeline”;
in his high chair sat the chubby baby boy, Beranger
Methuen, crowing gleefully over an illustrated copy
of that grand old classic, “Poems for Infant
Minds by Two Young Persons.”
For several moments I stood spellbound,
regarding with ineffable rapture this inspiring spectacle.
“How manifold are thy blessings, O Bibliomania,”
thought I, “and how graciously they are distributed
in this joyous circle, wherein it is permitted to
see not only the maturer members, but, alas, the youth
and even the babes and sucklings drinking freely and
gratefully at the fountain-head of thy delights!”
Dr. O’Rell’s library is
one of the most charming apartments I know of.
It looks out upon every variety of scenery, for Dr.
O’Rell has had constructed at considerable expense
a light iron framework from which are suspended at
different times cunningly painted canvases representing
landscapes and marines corresponding to the most whimsical
fancy.
In the dead of winter, the doctor
often has a desire to look out upon a cheery landscape;
thereupon, by a simple manipulation of a keyboard,
there is unrolled a panorama of velvety hillsides and
flowery meads, of grazing sheep, and of piping rustics;
so natural is the spectacle that one can almost hear
the music of the reeds, and fancy himself in Arcadia.
If in midsummer the heat is oppressive and life seems
burthensome, forthwith another canvas is outspread,
and the glories of the Alps appear, or a stretch of
blue sea, or a corner of a primeval forest.
So there is an outlook for every mood,
and I doubt not that this ingenious provision contributes
potently towards promoting bibliomaniac harmony and
prosperity in my friend’s household. It
is true that I myself am not susceptible to external
influences when once I am surrounded by books; I do
not care a fig whether my library overlooks a garden
or a desert; give me my dear companions in their dress
of leather, cloth, or boards, and it matters not to
me whether God sends storm or sunshine, flowers or
hail, light or darkness, noise or calm. Yet I
know and admit that environment means much to most
people, and I do most heartily applaud Dr. O’Rell’s
versatile device.
I have always thought that De Quincey’s
workshop would have given me great delight.
The particular thing that excited De Quincey’s
choler was interference with his books and manuscripts,
which he piled atop of one another upon the floor
and over his desk, until at last there would be but
a narrow little pathway from the desk to the fireplace
and from the fireplace to the door; and his writing-table gracious!
what a Pelion upon Ossa of confusion it must have
been!
Yet De Quincey insisted that he knew
“just where everything was,” and he merely
exacted that the servants attempt no such vandalism
as “cleaning up” in his workshop.
Of course there would presently come a time when
there was no more room on the table and when the little
pathway to the fireplace and the door would be no longer
visible; then, with a sigh, De Quincey would lock
the door of that room and betake himself to other
quarters, which in turn would eventually become quite
as littered up, cluttered up, and impassable as the
first rooms.
From all that can be gathered upon
the subject it would appear that De Quincey was careless
in his treatment of books; I have read somewhere (but
I forget where) that he used his forefinger as a paper-cutter
and that he did not hesitate to mutilate old folios
which he borrowed. But he was extraordinarily
tender with his manuscripts; and he was wont to carry
in his pockets a soft brush with which he used to dust
off his manuscripts most carefully before handing
them to the publisher.
Sir Walter Scott was similarly careful
with his books, and he used, for purposes of dusting
them, the end of a fox’s tail set in a handle
of silver. Scott, was, however, particular and
systematic in the arrangement of his books, and his
work-room, with its choice bric-a-brac and its
interesting collection of pictures and framed letters,
was a veritable paradise to the visiting book-lover
and curio-lover. He was as fond of early rising
as Francis Jeffrey was averse to it, and both these
eminent men were strongly attached to animal pets.
Jeffrey particularly affected an aged and garrulous
parrot and an equally disreputable little dog.
Scott was so stanch a friend of dogs that wherever
he went he was accompanied by one or two sometimes
by a whole kennel of these faithful brutes.
In Mrs. Gordon’s noble “Memoirs”
we have a vivid picture of Professor Wilson’s
workroom. All was confusion there: “his
room was a strange mixture of what may be called order
and untidiness, for there was not a scrap of paper
or a book that his hand could not light upon in a
moment, while to the casual eye, in search of discovery,
it would appear chaos.” Wilson had no
love for fine furniture, and he seems to have crowded
his books together without regard to any system of
classification. He had a habit of mixing his
books around with fishing-tackle, and his charming
biographer tells us it was no uncommon thing to find
the “Wealth of Nations,” “Boxiana,”
the “Faerie Queen,” Jeremy Taylor, and
Ben Jonson occupying close quarters with fishing-rods,
boxing-gloves, and tins of barley-sugar.
Charles Lamb’s favorite workshop
was in an attic; upon the walls of this room he and
his sister pasted old prints and gay pictures, and
this resulted in giving the place a cheery aspect.
Lamb loved old books, old friends, old times; “he
evades the present, he works at the future, and his
affections revert to and settle on the past,” so
says Hazlitt. His favorite books seem to have
been Bunyan’s “Holy War,” Browne’s
“Urn-Burial,” Burton’s “Anatomy
of Melancholy,” Fuller’s “Worthies,”
and Taylor’s “Holy Living and Dying.”
Thomas Westwood tells us that there were few modern
volumes in his library, it being his custom to give
away and throw away (as the same writer asserts) presentation
copies of contemporaneous literature. Says Barry
Cornwall: “Lamb’s pleasures lay amongst
the books of the old English writers,” and Lamb
himself uttered these memorable words: “I
cannot sit and think books think for me.”
Wordsworth, on the other hand, cared
little for books; his library was a small one, embracing
hardly more than five hundred volumes. He drew
his inspiration not from books, but from Nature.
From all that I have heard of him I judge him to
have been a very dull man. Allibone relates
of him that he once remarked that he did not consider
himself a witty poet. “Indeed,” quoth
he, “I don’t think I ever was witty but
once in my life.”
His friends urged him to tell them
about it. After some hesitation, he said:
“Well, I will tell you. I was standing
some time ago at the entrance of Rydal Mount.
A man accosted me with the question: ’Pray,
sir, have you seen my wife pass by?’ Whereupon
I retorted, ’Why, my good friend, I didn’t
know till this moment that you had a wife.’”
Illustrative of Wordsworth’s
vanity, it is told that when it was reported that
the next Waverley novel was to be “Rob Roy,”
the poet took down his “Ballads” and read
to the company “Rob Roy’s Grave.”
Then he said gravely: “I do not know what
more Mr. Scott can have to say on the subject.”
Wordsworth and Dickens disliked each
other cordially. Having been asked his opinion
of the young novelist, Wordsworth answered: “Why,
I’m not much given to turn critic on people I
meet; but, as you ask me, I will cordially avow that
I thought him a very talkative young person but
I dare say he may be very clever. Mind, I don’t
want to say a word against him, for I have never read
a line he has written.”
The same inquirer subsequently asked
Dickens how he liked Wordsworth.
“Like him!” roared Dickens,
“not at all; he is a dreadful Old Ass!”