THE DELIBERATIONS OF A DOFOB
In the neighboring city of Chicago they have a club which boasts the name of “The Dofobs”. It is not a pretty name, but it means much to the members. Every two or three years it produces a Year Book and it has printed “The Love Letters of Nathaniel Hawthorne”, a copy of which now and then appears at the auction block and is sold for a fabulous price. Aside from such occasional diversions, these people indulge in pure Dofobery, which is not really as bad as it sounds. It signifies a peculiar relation towards books and bookish things; not a mania for books, but a comfortable enjoyment of them; not a craving for them solely because they happen to be old, or rare, or famous, but a delight in them and in the associations which cluster about them, in talking about them, in scribbling about them, in amusing oneself with them. It does not require much sagacity to read between the letters of the name; for most people know what “d.f.” stands for, and “d.o.f.” is only a variation.
A Dofob does not trouble himself much about what others think of him or of his favorite pursuits, because he has what may be fairly styled the true Dofobian spirit and lives up to the immortal definition of an honest man as enunciated by the philosopher Timothy Toodles. The honest man, according to thedictumof that profound observer, was one who did not care a small Indian copper coin of trifling value—that is to say, a dam; although I think the philosopher addedsome superfluous words about not caring that for what sort of coat a man wore as long as his heart was in the right place. This sartorial and physiological supplement is immaterial, for the truth of the characterization lies in the primary expression: perhaps the word “continental” prefixed to the name of the coin would impart to the definition a distinctively American flavor.
Mr. Growoll in his interesting account of American Book Clubs tells of a number of these associations, whose laudable purposes are grave, serious and edifying; wrapped in a mantle of dignity which is most becoming but which arouses emotions of awe rather than of sympathy. The Dofob is not as serious as the Grolierite or the Caxtonian. The fact that many of his fellow-beings look upon him as an individual of imperfect intelligence because of his inordinate interest in books, he considers to be equivalent to a patent of nobility; for if he loves a particular book with a passion transcending all others, he is thereby raised, in his own estimation, far above the ordinary level of mankind and looks down from empyrean heights on those who are not sufficiently endowed with intellect or with intuition to comprehend that the veritable Dofob is the only person who possesses the power of recognizing at sight the very best and worthiest of all the books ever printed since the days of Fust and Gutenberg. With a superb self-appreciation and yet with the greatest affection and respect for my companions in Dofobishness, I own that in the depths of my being I consider no individual Dofob to be quite as praiseworthy, deserving and omniscient as I am. I regard myself as preeminently a D.O.F. and all that those letters imply, happy in the contentment which usually results from absolute self conceit. Our chief pleasure is in being regarded as confirmedand irresponsible cranks, defying the contumely of the world, hugging to our bosoms our pet delusions and willing to let other Dofobs hug theirs as closely. I might however be jealous if any one of them should hug too long and affectionately my own sweetheart book, for lovely books are as delightful but often as untrustworthy as lovely women. They are apt to run off with some millionaire. I am sadly conscious of the fact that the much prized Davenant folio or my Beaumont and Fletcher would be as happy in the arms of another as they are in my own. I think that I may as well abandon the metaphor here and now, for I may be unwittingly led into something which is described in the catalogues as “curious” or “facetious”. The man who was arrested for stealing a folio Shakespeare which he was lugging home after the fashion of Charles Lamb and who pleaded that it was a joke, was justly reminded by the wise magistrate that he was carrying the joke too far. (Cf. Joseph Miller’s Reports,passim). There is such a thing as carrying an analogy a little too far.
Parenthetically, one is moved to inquire why it is that we Dofobs who write about books are accustomed to adopt a style of labored facetiousness, for books are serious things. It is like the fashion of those who relate the history of old New York and who assume the tone of “Knickerbocker”: or of the delineator of life in the far west who cannot help imitating Bret Harte as the novelist of adventure in knighthood days imitates Sir Walter Scott. Books ought to be worthy of pure Johnsonese, the only dialect of dignity enough to deal with so solemn a subject.
A Dofob would not assert with offensive pride that the majority of people in this prosperous country aredevoid of a real affection for books, but he is sorry for some of those who fondly imagine that they are bookish, occasionally reveal their inmost thoughts about books, and unconsciously disclose their sad incapacity to understand the essential nature of book-loving. In the matter of bindings, for example, there is commonly a lamentable ignorance. A few years ago I fortunately discovered a book printed in the latter part of the eighteenth century, produced in New York, and bound in the fine old calf of the period: a little dilapidated by the ravages of time and the bookseller’s shelves, but by no means in a state of ruin. That very binding made it cost me a goodly sum, for the contents were of no general interest; the book itself, the entity, binding and all, gave it value. I honored that book and after petting it properly, gladly gave it to a dear old gentleman, the only man in the city who knew anything about the subject dealt with in the book. A few weeks later he proudly brought it back to me in order that I might inscribe a few words on the fly leaf, and he said with considerable satisfaction, “You see, sir, that I have it neatly rebound!” And so he had, to my horror. The splendid old calf—I am referring to the binding—in which a Dofob would have rejoiced greatly, had been replaced by smug, cheap and modern cloth. Then it was that I grieved because my vocabulary was limited to the few thousand words which the devotee of statistics allows to the average man. All the languages of Mezzofanti could not have done justice to the situation; but the heroic self-restraint of a Dofob came into play and I suffered in silence. The honest but misguided friend will never know the full extent of the crime, and as the book is more to his liking in its present garb than it was in what he was pleased to call its “shabby”dress, it would have been needlessly cruel to undeceive him; and, after all, the matter was beyond remedy.
The kind friend who understands the intricacies of the stock-market and who tells me much that I care not for, about my garden, where I should buy my clothes, and what I should have in my library; who enlightens me, as many of our merciless fellow-beings love to do, about all questions of religion or of politics; the dear creature who is fond of saying “Now, whatyouought to do is”—whatever in the plentitude of his self-contentment he ardently believes to be what every one else should do, becausehedoes it; this one, I say, seldom knows anything about bindings. “Ibuy books to read”, he brags, as if one could not read comfortably a well-bound book. If you mention Tout, or Rivière, or Hayley, or Zaehnsdorf, to say nothing of Lortic, Prideaux, De Sauty or Cobden-Sanderson, he stares at you with glassy eyes of indifference and perhaps he calls your attention to a Barrie “edition de looks”, or to some of the paralyzing productions which the simple-minded are deluded into purchasing by the influence of alluring advertisements and insinuating circulars designed to mislead the ambitious but unwary buyers of books in the market-place.
I plead guilty to the charge of being a dreary old fool over books, but chiefly over old books, for they have a settled and permanent character which no one may impeach. We may be tolerably sure about them; they are generally what they seem to be, with their broad margins, their solid, substantial type, and their charming air of dignity. Most of the books of our day are unworthy of absolute confidence, and their paper, their binding, and their typography are a source of griefto the judicious. The man whose literary pabulum is sufficiently supplied by his daily newspaper may ask why an old book, with aged and decayed covers, is better than a new one with that outward adornment of gilt which some publishers delight to lavish upon us. The sagacious Dofob will not undertake the task of breaking his way into the solid density of such a mind or of explaining to him the reason, for the game is not worth the candle. When I was a boy I rashly attempted to convince a likely colored lad that slavery was right and should never be abolished, but to my fervid eloquence he invariably responded “Well, I doan’ know ’bout that”. It was an effective rejoinder and I now believe that he was fairly entitled to his name of Solomon. The smart individual of these times is beyond the reach of argument, and all one can do is to say to him, “Go to your newspaper, buy subscription editions of ‘standard authors’, fill your shelves with ‘the best sellers’, and be as happy as you may”.
But notwithstanding what I have just said, it is a favorite fallacy quite prevalent among the uninitiated that a book must be old in order to attract the bibliolater. True, as Emily Dickinson, with a magnificent disregard of rhyme, sings:
“A precious mouldering pleasure ’tisTo meet an antique book,In just the dress his century wore:A privilege, I think.”
“A precious mouldering pleasure ’tisTo meet an antique book,In just the dress his century wore:A privilege, I think.”
“A precious mouldering pleasure ’tisTo meet an antique book,In just the dress his century wore:A privilege, I think.”
“A precious mouldering pleasure ’tis
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore:
A privilege, I think.”
A Dofob, however, does not restrict himself to such dolorous delights as “mouldering pleasures”, and sees no good reason why he should not be fascinated by something fresh from a good press as well as by what writers about books are addicted to calling “mustytomes”. A “tome”, I believe has come to mean “a large book”, but a Dofob does not necessarily prize it above a slender duodecimo, any more than he would prefer a fat friend to a thin one; and while gray hairs may be held dear, blond locks and jetty curls may be just as winning. A thoughtful physician once told me that he never read a book that was less than ten years old; he was not and could never be a Dofob. The rule may be well enough when applied to fiction, and a rigid observance of it would save some valuable time; but why should a man living in the earliest quarter of the last century have delayed for a decade the reading of Shelley’s “Prometheus Unbound”, or “Rob Roy”, or “The Heart of Midlothian,” or the two precious volumes of “Charles Lamb’s works”, then given to the world? A Dofob cannot be persuaded that any book should be neglected because it is old or condemned merely because it is new. The passion for rare relics of antiquity is one not difficult to comprehend, but it is not exclusive of a passion for the best of modern books. Whether the date upon the title be that of the reign of Elizabeth or of the time of Victoria or Edward, “a book’s a book for a’ that”.
There is a good deal of sameness in the praises of books by book-lovers. In his Anthology called “Book Song”, Mr. Gleeson White says: “friends that never tire, that cannot be scorned or dallied with, is an idea that recurs constantly”, and in regard to those eulogies of special volumes with which most of us are familiar, he remarks justly, “at times the pride of ownership becomes a little irritating and seems deliberately worded to provoke jealousy”. It is a characteristic of Dofobishness that the Dofob does not indulge in panegyrics upon his own property, although he may do a little privatebragging among intimates. He may dote upon the book of another, and borrow it too, giving no credence to the common delusion that a borrowed book is never returned. That is where he shows his superiority over the ordinary man. Nor does he glorify his books as “friends who never tire”. I would not care much for any friend who was so devoid of human qualities as not to be tiresome now and then. A companion who was always entertaining would be a cloying sort of person, and even his perfections would grow wearisome in time. The book has an advantage over a friend in this, that it may be thrown in a corner, or thrust in a cabinet, or banished to the back-rows when its allurements begin to pall, and if it experiences any sense of resentment or mortification at such a summary dismissal, it gives no outward or visible signs of dissatisfaction. Moreover books are immensely superior to human friends for they never “call one up” on the telephone, that imperious invader of peace and comfort, a modern affliction more dreadful even than the motor-cycle, that Moloch of the highways, because it has a wider field of operation. One may have some respect for the automobile, king of our roads, but for the vulgar, snorting tyrant, the degradation of a graceful, noiseless bicycle, naught but disgust and horror. No self-respecting horse can meet it without justifiable rebellion. I have found it the Juggernaut of New Jersey.
Few comprehend fully the bookishness of a book, its deserving dignity, and its peculiar sensitiveness. This man will deliberately turn down the corner of a leaf, and that man will cut the sheets with rude, iconoclastic finger or ruthlessly bend open the tender volume until its back is well-nigh broken. There ought to be a constitutionalprovision against cruel and unusual punishments of books, for surely they are fellow-citizens of worth and as much entitled to protection as the red men of the West who have recently been added to the number of our masters, or the voluble and dagger-loving emigrant from Italy who comes to us with droves of his kind and cheerfully stabs his women or his rivals in our public streets. I shudder when I remember how often I have beheld the shocking spectacle of a Philistine actually pulling a book from the shelf by the top, or wetting his fingers as he turned the pages of a sacred first edition. But it is better not to dwell upon such harrowing subjects.
However boastful, arrogant and censorious these deliberations may appear, I protest that I am not quite as conceited as I pretend to be. The bravado is assumed. I am really humble, conscious of my limitations, and profoundly deferential towards the experts who are masters of book-history and are able to “collate”, while I am, by natural incapacity, utterly unable to share in the collation. I admire these mighty men afar off, and am devoured by envy of their learning. Let me however disclose the miserable truth that I find old Dibdin stupid, that I am dreadfully bored by the tedious catalogues given to us from time to time by some of our non-Dofobian book clubs, and that in fact I abhor all catalogues of things which I can never hope to call my own. It may be a mark of genuine Dofobery to scorn scientific book-description; it always makes me uneasy and discontented. It affects me much in the same way as the formal phrases of what the companion of my childhood, (bookishly speaking) Captain Mayne Reid, used to call “the closet naturalists”—now known as“nature fakirs”—must affect men who pursue the tremendous teddy-bear and the bodacious bob-cat in their native wilds. I am so much in love with my own few books that I would no more dream of regarding them from the cataloguer’s point of view than I would of measuring my Dulcinea’s features in order to ascertain whether or not she comes up to the standard of beauty prescribed by the dull and pedantic persons who reduce everything to formulas.
Candidly, anything hereinbefore contained to the contrary notwithstanding, I believe that in our beloved country there are more enthusiastic lovers of books than may be found in any other land. Yet, if I am not sadly mistaken, England is the paradise of Dofobs. She ought to be; she is so much older than we are; she was bookish when we were busy in building an empire and boasted more bears than books. It makes my heart palpitate when I glance over the fascinating lists of Sotheby, Wilkinson and Hodge, and see what the libraries of the well-to-do Britons disgorge without ostentation,—treasures which make the book-lover’s soul thrill with the indescribable tremor which only a long-desired book can bring. I find myself wondering whether it will go on forever, if the resources of the innumerable “gentleman’s libraries” in England will be exhausted in our own time at least. I trust not, although I fear that the insatiable demands of American buyers may ultimately absorb the supply. I am not by any means an Anglomaniac, for our English cousins are fast becoming too socialistic for my taste, but surely their auction-sales are more attractive than ours, and what is more delectable than one of their best “book shops”? Why cannot we have such palaces of joy asthose which may be found on the Strand, or in Piccadilly, or in the regions adjacent to the British Museum, or indeed in other places than London, where a Dofob may discover almost everything necessary to sate his appetite. I am affectionately reminiscent of Maggs’s. I am not trying to advertise Maggs’s; the name is not beautiful, euphonious, or seductive; it reminds one of the nomenclature of Dickens. But the shop is a dream, the managers are tactful and considerate, and there one may browse undisturbed and uninterrupted, with no sorrow but that which comes from the fact that while the prices are low when compared with ours, the purse of a plutocrat could never suffice to give us all the jewels preserved in the coffers of those polite and kindly vendors of dainties. I do not know what may be in Chicago, but in New York we have scarcely anything as alluring or as charming. Why are we denied such luxuries? When I am daring enough to enter the precincts of a New York “book-store”—it is never a “shop”—I approach the majestic salesman with fear and trembling, having already left my pocket-book with the gentle cabman. Does the nobleman lead me smilingly to a quiet recess, place a chair and a table at my disposal, and with tender solicitude submit to me the latest acquisition, the first edition, the extra-illustrated treasure, the autograph letter or manuscript which has just “come in” and has not yet been advertised or catalogued? By no means; he regards me with the same contemptuous hauteur which is displayed by the clerk of a popular hotel when I register my name and plead for “a room with bath”. I depart from the chilly halls feeling that I ought to be ashamed for having disturbed the lofty serenity of the supercilious magnate. They do these things better in France and in England: better in almostevery other country as those who have had experience well know. They are content, these foreigners, with moderate profits. It is true that an American bookseller is obliged to pay higher rent and is subjected to heavier expenses because of the extravagant exactions of almost every one in this free land of ours—except, of course, the modest and diffident lawyers. Patriotism does not require one to acquiesce uncomplainingly in the exorbitant prices of our own book dealers. Let me however be fair and qualify my sweeping assertions: I know a few very decent book-vendors in New York and in Boston who want to be reasonable and are “not so bad”. I am grateful to them for many favors. In the words of Heron-Allen’s “Ballade of Olde Books”,
“I’ve haunted Brentano and John Delay,And toyed with their stories of France so free,At Putnam’s and Scribner’s from day to dayI’ve flirted with Saltus and Roe (E. P.):But weary of all, I have turned with gleeTo Bouton’s murk shelves with their wealth untold,Yearning for Quaritch in PiccadillyWhere the second-hand books are bought and sold.”
“I’ve haunted Brentano and John Delay,And toyed with their stories of France so free,At Putnam’s and Scribner’s from day to dayI’ve flirted with Saltus and Roe (E. P.):But weary of all, I have turned with gleeTo Bouton’s murk shelves with their wealth untold,Yearning for Quaritch in PiccadillyWhere the second-hand books are bought and sold.”
“I’ve haunted Brentano and John Delay,And toyed with their stories of France so free,At Putnam’s and Scribner’s from day to dayI’ve flirted with Saltus and Roe (E. P.):But weary of all, I have turned with gleeTo Bouton’s murk shelves with their wealth untold,Yearning for Quaritch in PiccadillyWhere the second-hand books are bought and sold.”
“I’ve haunted Brentano and John Delay,
And toyed with their stories of France so free,
At Putnam’s and Scribner’s from day to day
I’ve flirted with Saltus and Roe (E. P.):
But weary of all, I have turned with glee
To Bouton’s murk shelves with their wealth untold,
Yearning for Quaritch in Piccadilly
Where the second-hand books are bought and sold.”
This would be more accurate if some of the names were changed. I plead not guilty to Saltus and Roe, and I may perhaps be forgiven for not remembering at the moment who John Delay was or is.
Why do we allow such sordid considerations as prices to influence us in any way? Most of us Dofobs are devoid of a surplus of funds, but we value our possessions all the more because we may have had to make some sacrifices to secure them. If we were indifferent about cost, we would lose much of the pleasure of ownership. I well remember the time when I abstainedfrom luncheon in order to buy a second-hand, shabby volume at Leggatt’s. I do not have to deny now my appetite for midday food, but whenever I come upon one of those old books in my peregrinations about the library, I have the pleasant little throb of the heart which brings back to me the ardor of youth, and those cheap treasures take to themselves a halo which transcends the brilliancy of even an illuminated missal or a noble Caxton. Those long cherished companions speak to me in eloquence scarcely to be comprehended by one who is not a Dofob to the core.
We are grateful to the kindly dealers who send to us catalogues full of temptations for those who are so ready to be tempted. With James Freeman Clarke already quoted, we repeat that “it is a pleasure even to read the description and the title”, and often like Eugene Field of blessed memory we mark the items which are too bewitching to resist as if we were going to acquire them and then either forget about them or resolve that our purse cannot afford the luxury, afterwards confident that we bought them and searching for them in vain in the entrancing regions of the book-cases.
Then what an insane joy there is in arranging the volumes, sometimes lamenting because the shelves are not exactly adapted to the association of fellow-books so that we fear that they will not be as friendly one to another as we would like to have them. If any one needs occupation for a rainy day, what more agreeable work may he find than that of assorting the books, so that not only will their sky-line be less jagged than that of lower New York, but that their contents may be of a nature to make them as sociable as they ought to be: while it must be borne in mind that the colors of their bindings should not be too glaringly inharmonious.And after all have been arranged, it is the joy of the genuine Dofob to arrange them all over again. There are times when the shelves overflow, and then comes the question of a new book-case and a still graver question as to where it shall be placed, leading to a further question about the enlargement of the house, which should be constructed on the Globe-Wernicke principle, for the main use of a house is to store books in it.
But there comes to every Dofob the thought that it will not be long before he must leave them. What is to become of them? No one will ever worship them as he has done all his life. They are interwoven with his existence and it is pitiful to think that he must be parted from them. I fear that in the world of the hereafter there may be no books, but it is not easy for me to imagine a heaven where books are not. I do not mean to be irreverent and I do not know whether I may attain even a bookless heaven, but I am unorthodox enough to own that I might prefer a bookish Hades.