VIISECOND-HAND BOOKS
The love of books is a love which requires neither justification, apology, nor defence.—Langford.
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 ofbook-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 ofamazing weight—well, it is so with yourbook-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’sParadise 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 reducedthe 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 soonEverymanwill 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 patientcare, 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-expressedat 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 arepriceless.