There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poemsMade to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own;Read the pastoral parts of Spenser—or the subtle interflowingsFound in Petrarch's sonnets—here's the book—the leaf is folded down!Or at times a modern volume,—Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl,Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie,—Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate', which, if cut deep down the middle,Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.E. B. Browning.Lady Geraldine's Courtship.
There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poemsMade to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own;Read the pastoral parts of Spenser—or the subtle interflowingsFound in Petrarch's sonnets—here's the book—the leaf is folded down!
Or at times a modern volume,—Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl,Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie,—Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate', which, if cut deep down the middle,Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.
E. B. Browning.Lady Geraldine's Courtship.
I sate on in my chamber green,And lived my life, and thought my thoughts, and prayedMy prayers without the vicar; read my books,Without considering whether they were fitTo do me good. Mark, there. We get no goodBy being ungenerous, even to a book,And calculating profits,—so much helpBy so much reading. It is rather whenWe gloriously forget ourselves and plungeSoul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth—'Tis then we get the right good from a book.I read much. What my father taught beforeFrom many a volume, Love re-emphasizedUpon the self-same pages: TheophrastGrew tender with the memory of his eyes,And Aelian made mine wet. The trick of GreekAnd Latin, he had taught me, as he wouldHave taught me wrestling or the game of fivesIf such he had known,—most like a shipwrecked manWho heaps his single platter with goats' cheeseAnd scarlet berries; or like any manWho loves but one, and so gives all at once,Because he has it, rather than becauseHe counts it worthy. Thus, my father gave;And thus, as did the women formerlyBy young Achilles, when they pinned the veilAcross the boy's audacious front, and sweptWith tuneful laughs the silver-fretted rocks,He wrapt his little daughter in his largeMan's doublet, careless did it fit or no....I read books bad and good—some bad and goodAt once (good aims not always make good books:Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soilsIn digging vineyards even); books that proveGod's being so definitely, that man's doubtGrows self-defined the other side the line,Made atheist by suggestion; moral books,Exasperating to licence; genial books,Discounting from the human dignity;And merry books, which set you weeping whenThe sun shines,—aye, and melancholy books,Which make you laugh that any one should weepIn this disjointed life for one wrong more.The world of books is still the world, I write,And both worlds have God's providence, thank God,To keep and hearten.E. B. Browning.Aurora Leigh.
I sate on in my chamber green,And lived my life, and thought my thoughts, and prayedMy prayers without the vicar; read my books,Without considering whether they were fitTo do me good. Mark, there. We get no goodBy being ungenerous, even to a book,And calculating profits,—so much helpBy so much reading. It is rather whenWe gloriously forget ourselves and plungeSoul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth—'Tis then we get the right good from a book.
I read much. What my father taught beforeFrom many a volume, Love re-emphasizedUpon the self-same pages: TheophrastGrew tender with the memory of his eyes,And Aelian made mine wet. The trick of GreekAnd Latin, he had taught me, as he wouldHave taught me wrestling or the game of fivesIf such he had known,—most like a shipwrecked manWho heaps his single platter with goats' cheeseAnd scarlet berries; or like any manWho loves but one, and so gives all at once,Because he has it, rather than becauseHe counts it worthy. Thus, my father gave;And thus, as did the women formerlyBy young Achilles, when they pinned the veilAcross the boy's audacious front, and sweptWith tuneful laughs the silver-fretted rocks,He wrapt his little daughter in his largeMan's doublet, careless did it fit or no....
I read books bad and good—some bad and goodAt once (good aims not always make good books:Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soilsIn digging vineyards even); books that proveGod's being so definitely, that man's doubtGrows self-defined the other side the line,Made atheist by suggestion; moral books,Exasperating to licence; genial books,Discounting from the human dignity;And merry books, which set you weeping whenThe sun shines,—aye, and melancholy books,Which make you laugh that any one should weepIn this disjointed life for one wrong more.
The world of books is still the world, I write,And both worlds have God's providence, thank God,To keep and hearten.
E. B. Browning.Aurora Leigh.
We have often heard men who wish, as almost all men of sense wish, that women should be highly educated, speak with rapture of the English ladies of the sixteenth century, and lament that they can find no modern damsel resembling those fair pupils of Ascham and Aylmer who compared, over their embroidery, the styles of Isocrates and Lysias, and who, while the horns were sounding and the dogs in full cry, sat in the lonely oriel, with eyes riveted to that immortal page which tells how meekly and bravely the first great martyr of intellectual liberty took the cup from his weeping gaoler. But surely these complaints have very little foundation. We would by no means disparage the ladies of the sixteenth century or their pursuits. But we conceive that those who extol them at the expense of the women of our time forget one very obvious and very important circumstance. In the time of Henry the Eighth and Edward the Sixth, a person who did not read Greek and Latin could read nothing, or next to nothing. The Italian was the only modern language which possessed anything that could be called a literature. All the valuable books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a single shelf. England did not yet possess Shakespeare's plays and theFaery Queene, nor France Montaigne'sEssays, nor SpainDon Quixote. In looking round a well-furnished library, how many English or French books can we find which were extant when Lady Jane Grey and Queen Elizabeth received their education? Chaucer,Gower, Froissart, Comines, Rabelais, nearly complete the list. It was therefore absolutely necessary that a woman should be uneducated or classically educated.—Lord Macaulay.Lord Bacon.
Whether novels, or poetry, or history be read, they should be chosen, not for what isoutof them, but for what isinthem. The chance and scattered evil that may here and there haunt, or hide itself in, a powerful book, never does any harm to a noble girl; but the emptiness of an author oppresses her, and his amiable folly degrades her. And if she can have access to a good library of old and classical books, there need be no choosing at all. Keep the modern magazine and novel out of your girl's way: turn her loose into the old library every wet day, and let her alone. She will find what is good for her; you cannot: for there is just this difference between the making of a girl's character and a boy's—you may chisel a boy into shape, as you would a rock, or hammer him into it, if he be of a better kind, as you would a piece of bronze. But you cannot hammer a girl into anything. She grows as a flower does,—she will wither without sun; she will decay in her sheath, as the narcissus does, if you do not give her air enough; she may fall, and defile her head in dust, if you leave her without help at some moments of her life; but you cannot fetter her; she must take her own fair form and way, if she take any, and in mind as in body, must have always
Her household motions light and freeAnd steps of virgin liberty.
Her household motions light and freeAnd steps of virgin liberty.
Let her loose in the library, I say, as you do a fawn in a field. It knows the bad weeds twenty times better than you; and the good ones too, and will eat some bitter and prickly ones, good for it, which you had not the slightest thought were good.—J. Ruskin.Sesame and Lilies.
'Twere well with most, if books, that could engageTheir childhood, pleased them at a riper age.W. Cowper.Tirocinium.
'Twere well with most, if books, that could engageTheir childhood, pleased them at a riper age.
W. Cowper.Tirocinium.
Flavia buys all books of wit and humour, and has made an expensive collection of all our English poets. For, she says, one cannot have a true taste of any of them without being very conversant with them all.
She will sometimes read a book of piety, if it is a short one, if it is much commended for style and language, and she can tell where to borrow it.—W. Law.A serious Call to a devout and holy Life.
Non illa colo calathisve MinervaeFoemineas assueta manus.—Virg.
Non illa colo calathisve MinervaeFoemineas assueta manus.—Virg.
Some months ago, my friend Sir Roger, being in the country, enclosed a letter to me, directed to a certain lady whom I shall here call by the name of Leonora, and as it contained matters of consequence, desired me to deliver it to her with my own hand. Accordingly I waited upon her ladyship pretty early in the morning, and was desired by her woman to walk into her lady's library, till such time as she was in readiness to receive me. The very sound of a lady's library gave me a great curiosity to see it; and, as it was some time before the lady came to me, I had an opportunity of turning over a great many of her books, which were ranged together in a very beautiful order. At the end of the folios (which were finely bound and gilt) were great jars of china placed one above another in a very noble piece of architecture. The quartos were separated from the octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which rose in a delightful pyramid. The octavos were bounded by tea-dishes of all shapes, colours, and sizes, which were so disposed on a wooden frame, that they looked like one continued pillar indented with the finest strokes of sculpture, and stained with the greatest variety of dyes. That part of the library which was designed for the reception of plays and pamphlets, and other loose papers, was enclosed in a kind of square, consisting of one of the prettiest grotesque works that I ever saw, and made up of scaramouches, lions, monkeys, mandarins, trees, shells, and a thousand other odd figures in china ware. In the midstof the room was a little japan table, with a quire of gilt paper upon it, and upon the paper a silver snuff-box made in the shape of a little book. I found there were several other counterfeit books upon the upper shelves, which were carved in wood, and served only to fill up the number, like faggots in the muster of a regiment. I was wonderfully pleased with such a mixed kind of furniture as seemed very suitable both to the lady and the scholar, and did not know at first whether I should fancy myself in a grotto or in a library.
Upon my looking into the books I found there were some few which the lady had bought for her own use, but that most of them had been got together, either because she had heard them praised, or because she had seen the authors of them. Among several that I examined, I very well remember these that follow:
Ogilby'sVirgil. Dryden'sJuvenal.Cassandra.Cleopatra.Astraea.Sir Isaac Newton's works.The Grand Cyrus, with a pin stuck in one of the middle leaves. Pembroke'sArcadia. Locke ofHuman Understanding; with a paper of patches in it. A spelling-book. A dictionary for the explanation of hard words. Sherlock upon Death.The Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony.Sir William Temple's Essays. Father Malebranche'sSearch after Truth, translated into English. A book of Novels.The Academy of Compliments.Culpepper'sMidwifery.The Ladies' Calling.Tales in Verse by Dr. D'Urfey: bound in red leather, gilt on the back, and doubled down in several places. All the Classic authors, in wood. A set of Elzevirs by the same hand.Clelia: which opened of itself in the place that describes two lovers in a bower. Baker'sChronicle.Advice to a Daughter.The New Atlantis, with a key to it. Mr. Steele'sChristian Hero. A Prayer-book: with a bottle of Hungary water by the side of it. Dr. Sacheverell's Speech. Fielding's Trial. Seneca'sMorals. Taylor'sHoly Living and Dying. La Ferte'sInstructions for Country-dances.
Ogilby'sVirgil. Dryden'sJuvenal.Cassandra.Cleopatra.Astraea.Sir Isaac Newton's works.The Grand Cyrus, with a pin stuck in one of the middle leaves. Pembroke'sArcadia. Locke ofHuman Understanding; with a paper of patches in it. A spelling-book. A dictionary for the explanation of hard words. Sherlock upon Death.The Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony.Sir William Temple's Essays. Father Malebranche'sSearch after Truth, translated into English. A book of Novels.The Academy of Compliments.Culpepper'sMidwifery.The Ladies' Calling.Tales in Verse by Dr. D'Urfey: bound in red leather, gilt on the back, and doubled down in several places. All the Classic authors, in wood. A set of Elzevirs by the same hand.Clelia: which opened of itself in the place that describes two lovers in a bower. Baker'sChronicle.Advice to a Daughter.The New Atlantis, with a key to it. Mr. Steele'sChristian Hero. A Prayer-book: with a bottle of Hungary water by the side of it. Dr. Sacheverell's Speech. Fielding's Trial. Seneca'sMorals. Taylor'sHoly Living and Dying. La Ferte'sInstructions for Country-dances.
I was taking a catalogue in my pocket-book of these and several other authors, when Leonora entered.—J. Addison.Spectator, 37.
Except some professed scholars, I have often observed that women in general read much more than men; but, for want of a plan, a method, a fixed object, their reading is of little benefit to themselves, or others.—E. Gibbon.Autobiography.
Convivae prope dissentire videntur,Poscentes vario multum diversa palato.Quid dem? quid non dem?Hor.
Convivae prope dissentire videntur,Poscentes vario multum diversa palato.Quid dem? quid non dem?
Hor.
Since I have called out for help in my catalogue of a lady's library, I have received many letters upon that head, some of which I shall give an account of. In the first class I shall take notice of those which come to me from eminent booksellers, who every one of them mention with respect the authors they have printed, and consequently have an eye to their own advantage more than to that of the ladies. One tells me, that he thinks it absolutely necessary for women to have true notions of right and equity, and that therefore they cannot peruse a better book than Dalton'sCountry Justice: another thinks they cannot be withoutThe Compleat Jockey. A third, observing the curiosity and desire of prying into secrets, which he tells me is natural to the fair sex, is of opinion this female inclination, if well directed, might turn very much to their advantage, and therefore recommends to meMr. Mede upon the Revelations. A fourth lays it down as an unquestioned truth, that a lady cannot be thoroughly accomplished who has not read theSecret Treaties and Negotiations of Marshal d'Estrades. Mr. Jacob Tonson, junior, is of opinion, thatBayle's Dictionarymight be of very great use to the ladies, in order to make them general scholars. Another, whose name I have forgotten, thinks it highly proper that every woman with child should read Mr. Wall'sHistory of Infant Baptism: as another is very importunate with me to recommend to all my female readersThe Finishing Stroke: Being a Vindication of the Patriarchal Scheme, &c.
In the second class I shall mention books which are recommended by husbands, if I may believe the writers of them. Whether or no they are real husbands or personated ones I cannot tell, but the books they recommend are as follow.A Paraphrase on the History of Susanna.Rules to keep Lent.The Christian's Overthrow prevented.A Dissuasive from the Playhouse.The Virtues of Camphire, with Directions to make Camphire Tea.The pleasures of a CountryLife.The Government of the Tongue.A letter dated from Cheapside desires me that I would advise all young wives to make themselves mistresses of Wingate'sArithmetic, and concludes with a postscript, that he hopes I will not forgetThe Countess of Kent's Receipts.
I may reckon the ladies themselves as a third class among these my correspondents and privy-councillors. In a letter from one of them, I am advised to placePharamondat the head of my catalogue, and, if I think proper, to give the second place toCassandra. Coquetilla begs me not to think of nailing women upon their knees with manuals of devotion, nor of scorching their faces with books of housewifery. Florella desires to know if there are any books written against prudes, and entreats me, if there are, to give them a place in my library. Plays of all sorts have their several advocates:All for Loveis mentioned in above fifteen letters;Sophonisba, orHannibal's Overthrow, in a dozen;The Innocent Adulteryis likewise highly approved of;Mithridates, King of Pontushas many friends;Alexander the GreatandAurengzebehave the same number of voices; butTheodosius, orThe Force of Love, carries it from all the rest.—J. Addison.Spectator, 92.
When just proportion in each part,And colours mixed with nicest art,Conspire to show the grace and mienOf Chloe or the Cyprian queen:With elegance throughout refined,That speaks the passions of the mind,The glowing canvas will proclaimA Raphael's or a Titian's name.So when through every learnèd pageEach distant clime, each distant ageDisplay a rich varietyOf wisdom in epitome;Such elegance and taste will tellThe hand that could select so well.But when we all their beauties view,United and improved by you,We needs must own an emblem faintTo express those charms no art can paint.Books must, with such correctness writ,Refine another's taste and wit;'Tis to your merit only dueThat theirs can be refined by you.R. Jago.
When just proportion in each part,And colours mixed with nicest art,Conspire to show the grace and mienOf Chloe or the Cyprian queen:With elegance throughout refined,That speaks the passions of the mind,The glowing canvas will proclaimA Raphael's or a Titian's name.So when through every learnèd pageEach distant clime, each distant ageDisplay a rich varietyOf wisdom in epitome;Such elegance and taste will tellThe hand that could select so well.But when we all their beauties view,United and improved by you,We needs must own an emblem faintTo express those charms no art can paint.Books must, with such correctness writ,Refine another's taste and wit;'Tis to your merit only dueThat theirs can be refined by you.
R. Jago.
LUCY.Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at.LYDIA LANGUISH.And could not you getThe Reward of Constancy?LUCY.No, indeed, ma'am.LYDIA.NorThe Fatal Connexion?LUCY.No, indeed, ma'am.LYDIA.NorThe Mistakes of the Heart?LUCY.Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away.LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—Did you inquire forThe Delicate Distress?LUCY.——Or,The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read.LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and I believe cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes.—Well, child, whathaveyou brought me?LUCY.Oh! here, ma'am.[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.]This isThe Gordian Knot, and thisPeregrine Pickle. Here areThe Tears of Sensibility, andHumphrey Clinker. This isThe Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written byherself, and here the second volume ofThe Sentimental Journey.LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—What are those books by the glass?LUCY.The great one is onlyThe Whole Duty of Man, where I press a few blonds, ma'am.... O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming upstairs....LYDIA.Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. FlingPeregrine Pickleunder the toilet—throwRoderick Randominto the closet—putThe Innocent AdulteryintoThe Whole Duty of Man—thrustLord Aimworthunder the sofa—cramOvidbehind the bolster—there—putThe Man of Feelinginto your pocket—so, so, now layMrs. Chaponein sight, and leaveFordyce's Sermonsopen on the table.LUCY.Oh, burn it, ma'am, the hairdresser has torn away as far asProper Pride.LYDIA. Never mind—open atSobriety. Fling meLord Chesterfield's Letters.—Now for 'em.[Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute enter and after Lydia hasbeen ordered to her room—]MRS. MALAPROP.There's a little intricate hussy for you!SIR ANTHONY.It is not to be wondered at, ma'am—all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet!MRS. MALAPROP.Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy.SIR ANTHONY.In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library! She had a book in each hand—they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!MRS. MALAPROP.Those are vile places, indeed!SIR ANTHONY.Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.—R. B. Sheridan.The Rivals.
LUCY.Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at.LYDIA LANGUISH.And could not you getThe Reward of Constancy?LUCY.No, indeed, ma'am.LYDIA.NorThe Fatal Connexion?LUCY.No, indeed, ma'am.LYDIA.NorThe Mistakes of the Heart?LUCY.Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away.LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—Did you inquire forThe Delicate Distress?LUCY.——Or,The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read.LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and I believe cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes.—Well, child, whathaveyou brought me?LUCY.Oh! here, ma'am.[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.]This isThe Gordian Knot, and thisPeregrine Pickle. Here areThe Tears of Sensibility, andHumphrey Clinker. This isThe Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written byherself, and here the second volume ofThe Sentimental Journey.LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—What are those books by the glass?LUCY.The great one is onlyThe Whole Duty of Man, where I press a few blonds, ma'am.... O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming upstairs....LYDIA.Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. FlingPeregrine Pickleunder the toilet—throwRoderick Randominto the closet—putThe Innocent AdulteryintoThe Whole Duty of Man—thrustLord Aimworthunder the sofa—cramOvidbehind the bolster—there—putThe Man of Feelinginto your pocket—so, so, now layMrs. Chaponein sight, and leaveFordyce's Sermonsopen on the table.LUCY.Oh, burn it, ma'am, the hairdresser has torn away as far asProper Pride.LYDIA. Never mind—open atSobriety. Fling meLord Chesterfield's Letters.—Now for 'em.[Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute enter and after Lydia hasbeen ordered to her room—]MRS. MALAPROP.There's a little intricate hussy for you!SIR ANTHONY.It is not to be wondered at, ma'am—all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet!MRS. MALAPROP.Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy.SIR ANTHONY.In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library! She had a book in each hand—they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!MRS. MALAPROP.Those are vile places, indeed!SIR ANTHONY.Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.—R. B. Sheridan.The Rivals.
LUCY.Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at.
LYDIA LANGUISH.And could not you getThe Reward of Constancy?
LUCY.No, indeed, ma'am.
LYDIA.NorThe Fatal Connexion?
LUCY.No, indeed, ma'am.
LYDIA.NorThe Mistakes of the Heart?
LUCY.Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away.
LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—Did you inquire forThe Delicate Distress?
LUCY.——Or,The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read.
LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and I believe cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes.—Well, child, whathaveyou brought me?
LUCY.Oh! here, ma'am.
[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.]
[Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.]
This isThe Gordian Knot, and thisPeregrine Pickle. Here areThe Tears of Sensibility, andHumphrey Clinker. This isThe Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written byherself, and here the second volume ofThe Sentimental Journey.
LYDIA.Heigh-ho!—What are those books by the glass?
LUCY.The great one is onlyThe Whole Duty of Man, where I press a few blonds, ma'am.
... O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming upstairs....
LYDIA.Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. FlingPeregrine Pickleunder the toilet—throwRoderick Randominto the closet—putThe Innocent AdulteryintoThe Whole Duty of Man—thrustLord Aimworthunder the sofa—cramOvidbehind the bolster—there—putThe Man of Feelinginto your pocket—so, so, now layMrs. Chaponein sight, and leaveFordyce's Sermonsopen on the table.
LUCY.Oh, burn it, ma'am, the hairdresser has torn away as far asProper Pride.
LYDIA. Never mind—open atSobriety. Fling meLord Chesterfield's Letters.—Now for 'em.
[Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute enter and after Lydia hasbeen ordered to her room—]
[Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute enter and after Lydia hasbeen ordered to her room—]
MRS. MALAPROP.There's a little intricate hussy for you!
SIR ANTHONY.It is not to be wondered at, ma'am—all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet!
MRS. MALAPROP.Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy.
SIR ANTHONY.In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library! She had a book in each hand—they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress!
MRS. MALAPROP.Those are vile places, indeed!
SIR ANTHONY.Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.—R. B. Sheridan.The Rivals.
My books were changed; I now preferred the truthTo the light reading of unsettled youth;Novels grew tedious, but by choice or chance,I still had interest in the wild romance:There is an age, we know, when tales of loveForm the sweet pabulum our hearts approve;Then as we read we feel, and are indeed,We judge, the heroic men of whom we read;But in our after life these fancies fail,We cannot be the heroes of the tale;The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles playWe cannot,—cannot be so smart and gay.But all the mighty deeds and matchless powersOf errant knights we never fancied ours,And thus the prowess of each gifted knightMust at all times create the same delight;Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem,But Lancelot never,—that he could not dream;Nothing reminds us in the magic pageOf old romance, of our declining age:If once our fancy mighty dragons slew,This is no more than fancy now can do;But when the heroes of a novel come,Conquered and conquering, to a drawing-room,We no more feel the vanity that seesWithin ourselves what we admire in these,And so we leave the modern tale, to flyFrom realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy.Not quite a Quixote, I could not supposeThat queens would call me to subdue their foes;But, by a voluntary weakness swayed,When fancy called, I willingly obeyed.G. Crabbe.Tales of the Hall.
My books were changed; I now preferred the truthTo the light reading of unsettled youth;Novels grew tedious, but by choice or chance,I still had interest in the wild romance:There is an age, we know, when tales of loveForm the sweet pabulum our hearts approve;Then as we read we feel, and are indeed,We judge, the heroic men of whom we read;But in our after life these fancies fail,We cannot be the heroes of the tale;The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles playWe cannot,—cannot be so smart and gay.But all the mighty deeds and matchless powersOf errant knights we never fancied ours,And thus the prowess of each gifted knightMust at all times create the same delight;Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem,But Lancelot never,—that he could not dream;Nothing reminds us in the magic pageOf old romance, of our declining age:If once our fancy mighty dragons slew,This is no more than fancy now can do;But when the heroes of a novel come,Conquered and conquering, to a drawing-room,We no more feel the vanity that seesWithin ourselves what we admire in these,And so we leave the modern tale, to flyFrom realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy.Not quite a Quixote, I could not supposeThat queens would call me to subdue their foes;But, by a voluntary weakness swayed,When fancy called, I willingly obeyed.
G. Crabbe.Tales of the Hall.
The state, whereon I studied,Is like a good thing, being often read,Grown feared and tedious.W. Shakespeare.Measure for Measure.
The state, whereon I studied,Is like a good thing, being often read,Grown feared and tedious.
W. Shakespeare.Measure for Measure.
A clerk ther was of Oxenford alsoThat un-to logik hadde long y-go.As lene was his hors as is a rake,And he was nat right fat, I undertake;But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly.Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy;For he had geten him yet no benefyce,Ne was so worldly for to have offyce.For him was lever have at his beddes heedTwenty bokes, clad in blak or reed,Of Aristotle and his philosophye,Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye.But al be that he was a philosophre,Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;But al that he mighte of his freendes hente,On bokes and on lerninge he it spente,And bisily gan for the soules preyeOf hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye.Of studie took he most cure and most hede.Noght o word spak he more than was nede,And that was seyd in forme and reverence,And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence.Souninge in moral vertu was his speche,And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.G. Chaucer.The Canterbury Tales.
A clerk ther was of Oxenford alsoThat un-to logik hadde long y-go.As lene was his hors as is a rake,And he was nat right fat, I undertake;But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly.Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy;For he had geten him yet no benefyce,Ne was so worldly for to have offyce.For him was lever have at his beddes heedTwenty bokes, clad in blak or reed,Of Aristotle and his philosophye,Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye.But al be that he was a philosophre,Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;But al that he mighte of his freendes hente,On bokes and on lerninge he it spente,And bisily gan for the soules preyeOf hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye.Of studie took he most cure and most hede.Noght o word spak he more than was nede,And that was seyd in forme and reverence,And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence.Souninge in moral vertu was his speche,And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
G. Chaucer.The Canterbury Tales.
I am the first fool of all the whole navy,To keep the poop, the helm and eke the sail.For this is my mind, this one pleasure have I:Of books to have great plenty and aparayle.I take no wisdom by them, nor yet availNor them preceive not: and then I them despise.Thus am I a fool and all that sew that guise.That in this ship the chief place I govern,By this wide sea with fools wandering,The cause is plain and easy to discern;Still am I busy books assembling,For to have plenty it is a pleasant thing,In my conceit, and to have them ay in hand,But what they mean do I not understand.But yet I have them in great reverenceAnd honour, saving them from filth and ordure,By often brushing and much diligence,Full goodly bound in pleasant covertureOf damask, satin, or else of velvet pure:I keep them sure, fearing lest they should be lost,For in them is the cunning wherein I me boast.But if it fortune that any learned menWithin my house fall to disputation,I draw the curtain to show my books then,That they of my cunning should make probationI care not to fall in altercation:And while they commune, my books I turn and windFor all is in them, and nothing in my mind.Tholomeus the rich caused, long agone,Over all the world good books to be sought;Done was his commandment anon.These books he had and in his study broughtWhich passed all earthly treasure as he thought,But nevertheless he did him not applyUnto their doctrine, but lived unhappily.Lo in likewise of books I have store,But few I read, and fewer understand;I follow not their doctrine, nor their lore,It is enough to bear a book in hand;It were too much to be in such a band,For to be bound to look within the book;I am content on the fair covering to look.Why should I study to hurt my wit thereby,Or trouble my mind with study excessive?Sith many are which study right busilyAnd yet thereby shall they never thrive:The fruit of wisdom can they not contrive.And many to study so much are inclinedThat utterly they fall out of their mind.Each is not lettered that now is made a lord,Nor each a clerk that hath a benefice;They are not all lawyers that pleas do record,All that are promoted are not fully wise;On such chance now fortune throws her dice,That though one know but the Irish gameYet would he have a gentleman's name.So in likewise, I am in such case,Though I naught can, I would be called wise;Also I may set another in my placeWhich may for me my books exercise;Or else I shall ensue the common guise,And sayconcedoto every argument,Lest by much speech my Latin should be spent.S. Brant.Shyp of Folys of the Worlde, 1509.
I am the first fool of all the whole navy,To keep the poop, the helm and eke the sail.For this is my mind, this one pleasure have I:Of books to have great plenty and aparayle.I take no wisdom by them, nor yet availNor them preceive not: and then I them despise.Thus am I a fool and all that sew that guise.
That in this ship the chief place I govern,By this wide sea with fools wandering,The cause is plain and easy to discern;Still am I busy books assembling,For to have plenty it is a pleasant thing,In my conceit, and to have them ay in hand,But what they mean do I not understand.
But yet I have them in great reverenceAnd honour, saving them from filth and ordure,By often brushing and much diligence,Full goodly bound in pleasant covertureOf damask, satin, or else of velvet pure:I keep them sure, fearing lest they should be lost,For in them is the cunning wherein I me boast.
But if it fortune that any learned menWithin my house fall to disputation,I draw the curtain to show my books then,That they of my cunning should make probationI care not to fall in altercation:And while they commune, my books I turn and windFor all is in them, and nothing in my mind.
Tholomeus the rich caused, long agone,Over all the world good books to be sought;Done was his commandment anon.These books he had and in his study broughtWhich passed all earthly treasure as he thought,But nevertheless he did him not applyUnto their doctrine, but lived unhappily.
Lo in likewise of books I have store,But few I read, and fewer understand;I follow not their doctrine, nor their lore,It is enough to bear a book in hand;It were too much to be in such a band,For to be bound to look within the book;I am content on the fair covering to look.
Why should I study to hurt my wit thereby,Or trouble my mind with study excessive?Sith many are which study right busilyAnd yet thereby shall they never thrive:The fruit of wisdom can they not contrive.And many to study so much are inclinedThat utterly they fall out of their mind.
Each is not lettered that now is made a lord,Nor each a clerk that hath a benefice;They are not all lawyers that pleas do record,All that are promoted are not fully wise;On such chance now fortune throws her dice,That though one know but the Irish gameYet would he have a gentleman's name.
So in likewise, I am in such case,Though I naught can, I would be called wise;Also I may set another in my placeWhich may for me my books exercise;Or else I shall ensue the common guise,And sayconcedoto every argument,Lest by much speech my Latin should be spent.
S. Brant.Shyp of Folys of the Worlde, 1509.
Say worthy doctors and clerks curious:What moveth you of books to have such number,Since divers doctrines through ways contrariousDoth man's mind dsitract and sore encumber;Alas, blind men awake, out of your slumber,And if ye will needs your books mutliplyWith diligence endeavour you some to occupy.A. Barclay.
Say worthy doctors and clerks curious:What moveth you of books to have such number,Since divers doctrines through ways contrariousDoth man's mind dsitract and sore encumber;Alas, blind men awake, out of your slumber,And if ye will needs your books mutliplyWith diligence endeavour you some to occupy.
A. Barclay.
Dionysius scoffeth at those grammarians who ploddingly labour to know the miseries of Ulysses, and are ignorant of their own.... Except our mind be the better, unless our judgement be the sounder, I had rather my scholar had employed his time in playing at tennis; I am sure his body would be the nimbler. See but one of these our university men or bookish scholars return from school, after he hath there spent ten or twelve years under a pedant's charge: who is so inapt for any matter? who so unfit forany company? who so to seek if he come into the world? all the advantage you discover in him is that his Latin and Greek have made him more sottish, more stupid, and more presumptuous, than before he went from home.... My vulgar Perigordian speech doth very pleasantly term such self-conceited wizards, letter-ferrets, as if they would say letter-stricken men, to whom (as the common saying is) letters have given a blow with a mallet.—Montaigne.
Sir, he hath not fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts.—W. Shakespeare.Love's Labour's Lost.
He loves no library, but where there are more spiders' volumes than authors', and looks with great admiration on the antique work of cobwebs. Printed books he contemns, as a novelty of this latter age; but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly, especially if the cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis between every syllable. He would give all the books in his study (which are rarities all) for one of the old Roman binding, or six lines of Tully in his own hand.—J. Earle.Microcosmographie.
With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,And Epictetus is a perfect beau.How fit for thee bound up in crimson too,Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hardThat Science should be purchased by the yard,And T——n, turned upholsterer, send homeThe gilded leather to fit up thy room.If not to some peculiar end assigned,Study's the specious trifling of the mind;Or is at best a secondary aim,A chase for sport alone, not game:If so, sure they who the mere volume prize,But love the thicket where the quarry lies.On buying books Lorenzo long was bent;But found at length that it reduced his rent.His farms were flown; when lo! a sale comes on,A choice collection! What is to be done?He sells his last; for he the whole will buy;Sells even his house, nay wants whereon to lie:So high the generous ardour of the manFor Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,Lorenzo signed the bargain—with his mark.Unlearned men of books assume the care,As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.Not in his authors' liveries aloneIs Codrus' erudite ambition shown.Editions various, at high prices bought,Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;And, to his cost, another must succeed,To pay a sage, who says that he can read,Who titles knows, and Indexes has seen;But leaves to —— what lies between,Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,And humbly is contented with the sense.E. Young.The Love of Fame.
With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit.Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,And Epictetus is a perfect beau.How fit for thee bound up in crimson too,Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hardThat Science should be purchased by the yard,And T——n, turned upholsterer, send homeThe gilded leather to fit up thy room.If not to some peculiar end assigned,Study's the specious trifling of the mind;Or is at best a secondary aim,A chase for sport alone, not game:If so, sure they who the mere volume prize,But love the thicket where the quarry lies.On buying books Lorenzo long was bent;But found at length that it reduced his rent.His farms were flown; when lo! a sale comes on,A choice collection! What is to be done?He sells his last; for he the whole will buy;Sells even his house, nay wants whereon to lie:So high the generous ardour of the manFor Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,Lorenzo signed the bargain—with his mark.Unlearned men of books assume the care,As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.Not in his authors' liveries aloneIs Codrus' erudite ambition shown.Editions various, at high prices bought,Inform the world what Codrus would be thought;And, to his cost, another must succeed,To pay a sage, who says that he can read,Who titles knows, and Indexes has seen;But leaves to —— what lies between,Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,And humbly is contented with the sense.
E. Young.The Love of Fame.
What wild desires, what restless torments seizeThe hapless man, who feels the book-disease,If niggard Fortune cramp his generous mind,And Prudence quench the spark by heaven assigned!With wistful glance his aching eyes beholdThe Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold,Where the tall Book-case, with partition thin,Displays, yet guards, the tempting charms within:So great Facardin viewed, as sages tell,Fair Crystalline immured in lucid cell.Not thus the few, by happier fortune graced,And blessed, like you, with talents, wealth, and taste,Who gather nobly, with judicious hand,The Muse's treasures from each lettered strand.For you the Monk illumed his pictured page,For you the press defies the spoils of age;Faustus for you infernal tortures bore,For you Erasmus starved on Adria's shore.The Folio-Aldus loads your happy shelves,And dapper Elzevirs, like fairy elves,Show their light forms amidst the well-gilt Twelves,In slender type the Giolitos shine,And bold Bodoni stamps his Roman line.For you the Louvre opes its regal doors,And either Didot lends his brilliant stores:With faultless types, and costly sculptures bright,Ibarra's Quixote charms your ravished sight:Laborde in splendid tablets shall explainThy beauties, glorious though unhappy Spain!O hallowed name, the theme of future years,Embalmed in Patriot-blood, and England's tears,Be thine fresh honours from the tuneful tongue,By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung!But devious oft from every classic Muse,The keen Collector meaner paths will choose:And first the margin's breadth his soul employs,Pure, snowy, broad, the type of nobler joys.In vain might Homer roll the tide of song,Or Horace smile, or Tully charm the throng;If crossed by Pallas' ire, the trenchant bladeOr too oblique, or near, the edge invade,The Bibliomane exclaims, with haggard eye,'No margin!' turns in haste, and scorns to buy.He turns where Pybus rears his Atlas-head,Or Madoc's mass conceals its veins of lead.The glossy lines in polished order stand,While the vast margin spreads on either hand,Like Russian wastes, that edge the frozen deep,Chill with pale glare, and lull to mortal sleep.Or English books, neglected and forgot,Excite his wish in many a dusty lot:Whatever trashMidwintergave to-day,OrHarper'srhyming sons, in paper gray,At every auction, bent on fresh supplies,He cons his Catalogue with anxious eyes:Where'er the slim italics mark the page,Curious and rarehis ardent mind engage.Unlike the swans, in Tuscan song displayed,He hovers eager o'er oblivion's shade.To snatch obscurest names from endless night,And give Cokain or Fletcher back to light.In red morocco dressed he loves to boastThe bloody murder, or the yelling ghost;Or dismal ballads, sung to crowds of old,Now cheaply bought for thrice their weight in gold.Yet to the unhonoured dead be Satire just;Some flowers 'smell sweet and blossom in their dust'.'Tis thus even Shirley boasts a golden line,And Lovelace strikes, by fits, a note divine.The unequal gleams like midnight-lightnings play,And deepened gloom succeeds, in place of day.But human bliss still meets some envious storm;He droops to view his Paynter's mangled form:Presumptuous grief, while pensive Taste repinesO'er the frail relics of her Attic shrines!O for that power, for which magicians vie,To look through earth, and secret hoards descry!I'd spurn such gems as Marinel beheld,And all the wealth Aladdin's cavern held,Might I divine in what mysterious gloomThe rolls of sacred bards have found their tomb:Beneath what mouldering tower, or waste champaign,Is hid Menander, sweetest of the train:Where rests Antimachus' forgotten lyre,Where gentle Sappho's still seductive fire;Or he, whom chief the laughing Muses own,Yet skilled with softest accents to bemoanSweet Philomel in strains so like her own.The menial train has proved the scourge of wit,Even Omar burnt less Science than the spit.Earthquakes and wars remit their deadly rage,But every feast demands some fated page.Ye Towers of Julius, ye alone remainOf all the piles that saw our nation's stain,When Harry's sway oppressed the groaning realm,And Lust and Rapine seized the wavering helm.Then ruffian-hands defaced the sacred fanes,Their saintly statues and their storied panes;Then from the chest, with ancient art embossed,The penman's pious scrolls were rudely tossed;Then richest manuscripts, profusely spread,The brawny churls' devouring oven fed:And thence collectors date the heavenly ireThat wrapt Augusta's domes in sheets of fire.Taste, though misled, may yet some purpose gain,But Fashion guides a book-compelling train.Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew,The travelled beau displayed his red-heeled shoe,Till Orford rose, and told of rhyming peers,Repeatingnoblewords to polished ears;Taught the gay crowd to prize a fluttering name,In trifling toiled, nor 'blushed to find it fame'.The lettered fop now takes a larger scope,With classic furniture, designed by Hope,(Hope whom upholsterers eye with mute despair,The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair;)Now warmed by Orford, and by Granger schooledIn Paper-books, superbly gilt and tooled,He pastes, from injured volumes snipped away,HisEnglish Heads, in chronicled array.Torn from their destined page (unworthy meedOf knightly counsel, and heroic deed)Not Faithorne's stroke, nor Field's own types can saveThe gallant Veres, and one-eyed Ogle brave.Indignant readers seek the image fled,And curse the busy fool, whowants a head.Proudly he shows, with many a smile elateThe scrambling subjects of theprivate plate;While Time their actions and their names bereaves,They grin for ever in the guarded leaves.Like poets, born, in vain collectors striveTo cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive.Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will,The Tyrant-passion drags them backward still:Even I, debarred of ease, and studious hours,Confess, 'mid anxious toil, its lurking powers.How pure the joy, when first my hands unfoldThe small, rare volume, black with tarnished gold!The eye skims restless, like the roving bee,O'er flowers of wit, or song, or repartee,While sweet as springs, new-bubbling from the stone,Glides through the breast some pleasing theme unknown.Now dipped in Rossi's terse and classic style,His harmless tales awake a transient smile.Now Bouchet's motley stores my thoughts arrest,With wondrous reading, and with learnèd jest.Bouchet whose tomes a grateful line demand,The valued gift of Stanley's liberal hand.Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray,And mix regrets with gentle Du Bellay;Or turn, with keen delight, the curious page,Where hardly Pasquin braves the Pontiff's rage.But D——n's strains should tell the sad reverse,When Business calls, inveterate foe to verse!Tell how 'the Demon claps his iron hands','Waves his lank locks, and scours along the lands.'Through wintry blasts, or summer's fire I go,To scenes of danger, and to sights of woe.Even when to Margate every Cockney roves,And brainsick-poets long for sheltering groves,Whose lofty shades exclude the noontide glow,While Zephyrs breathe, and waters trill below,The rigid Fate averts, by tasks like these,From heavenly musings, and from lettered ease.Such wholesome checks the better genius sends,From dire rehearsals to protect our friends:Else when the social rites our joys renew,The stuffed portfolio would alarm your view,Whence volleying rhymes your patience would o'ercome,And, spite of kindness, drive you early home.So when the traveller's hasty footsteps glideNear smoking lava on Vesuvio's side,Hoarse-muttering thunders from the depths proceed,And spouting fires incite his eager speed.Appalled he flies, while rattling showers invade,Invoking every saint for instant aid:Breathless, amazed, he seeks the distant shore,And vows to tempt the dangerous gulf no more.J. Ferriar.The Bibliomania.
What wild desires, what restless torments seizeThe hapless man, who feels the book-disease,If niggard Fortune cramp his generous mind,And Prudence quench the spark by heaven assigned!With wistful glance his aching eyes beholdThe Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold,Where the tall Book-case, with partition thin,Displays, yet guards, the tempting charms within:So great Facardin viewed, as sages tell,Fair Crystalline immured in lucid cell.Not thus the few, by happier fortune graced,And blessed, like you, with talents, wealth, and taste,Who gather nobly, with judicious hand,The Muse's treasures from each lettered strand.For you the Monk illumed his pictured page,For you the press defies the spoils of age;Faustus for you infernal tortures bore,For you Erasmus starved on Adria's shore.The Folio-Aldus loads your happy shelves,And dapper Elzevirs, like fairy elves,Show their light forms amidst the well-gilt Twelves,In slender type the Giolitos shine,And bold Bodoni stamps his Roman line.For you the Louvre opes its regal doors,And either Didot lends his brilliant stores:With faultless types, and costly sculptures bright,Ibarra's Quixote charms your ravished sight:Laborde in splendid tablets shall explainThy beauties, glorious though unhappy Spain!O hallowed name, the theme of future years,Embalmed in Patriot-blood, and England's tears,Be thine fresh honours from the tuneful tongue,By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung!But devious oft from every classic Muse,The keen Collector meaner paths will choose:And first the margin's breadth his soul employs,Pure, snowy, broad, the type of nobler joys.In vain might Homer roll the tide of song,Or Horace smile, or Tully charm the throng;If crossed by Pallas' ire, the trenchant bladeOr too oblique, or near, the edge invade,The Bibliomane exclaims, with haggard eye,'No margin!' turns in haste, and scorns to buy.He turns where Pybus rears his Atlas-head,Or Madoc's mass conceals its veins of lead.The glossy lines in polished order stand,While the vast margin spreads on either hand,Like Russian wastes, that edge the frozen deep,Chill with pale glare, and lull to mortal sleep.Or English books, neglected and forgot,Excite his wish in many a dusty lot:Whatever trashMidwintergave to-day,OrHarper'srhyming sons, in paper gray,At every auction, bent on fresh supplies,He cons his Catalogue with anxious eyes:Where'er the slim italics mark the page,Curious and rarehis ardent mind engage.Unlike the swans, in Tuscan song displayed,He hovers eager o'er oblivion's shade.To snatch obscurest names from endless night,And give Cokain or Fletcher back to light.In red morocco dressed he loves to boastThe bloody murder, or the yelling ghost;Or dismal ballads, sung to crowds of old,Now cheaply bought for thrice their weight in gold.Yet to the unhonoured dead be Satire just;Some flowers 'smell sweet and blossom in their dust'.'Tis thus even Shirley boasts a golden line,And Lovelace strikes, by fits, a note divine.The unequal gleams like midnight-lightnings play,And deepened gloom succeeds, in place of day.
But human bliss still meets some envious storm;He droops to view his Paynter's mangled form:Presumptuous grief, while pensive Taste repinesO'er the frail relics of her Attic shrines!O for that power, for which magicians vie,To look through earth, and secret hoards descry!I'd spurn such gems as Marinel beheld,And all the wealth Aladdin's cavern held,Might I divine in what mysterious gloomThe rolls of sacred bards have found their tomb:Beneath what mouldering tower, or waste champaign,Is hid Menander, sweetest of the train:Where rests Antimachus' forgotten lyre,Where gentle Sappho's still seductive fire;Or he, whom chief the laughing Muses own,Yet skilled with softest accents to bemoanSweet Philomel in strains so like her own.The menial train has proved the scourge of wit,Even Omar burnt less Science than the spit.Earthquakes and wars remit their deadly rage,But every feast demands some fated page.Ye Towers of Julius, ye alone remainOf all the piles that saw our nation's stain,When Harry's sway oppressed the groaning realm,And Lust and Rapine seized the wavering helm.Then ruffian-hands defaced the sacred fanes,Their saintly statues and their storied panes;Then from the chest, with ancient art embossed,The penman's pious scrolls were rudely tossed;Then richest manuscripts, profusely spread,The brawny churls' devouring oven fed:And thence collectors date the heavenly ireThat wrapt Augusta's domes in sheets of fire.
Taste, though misled, may yet some purpose gain,But Fashion guides a book-compelling train.Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew,The travelled beau displayed his red-heeled shoe,Till Orford rose, and told of rhyming peers,Repeatingnoblewords to polished ears;Taught the gay crowd to prize a fluttering name,In trifling toiled, nor 'blushed to find it fame'.The lettered fop now takes a larger scope,With classic furniture, designed by Hope,(Hope whom upholsterers eye with mute despair,The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair;)Now warmed by Orford, and by Granger schooledIn Paper-books, superbly gilt and tooled,He pastes, from injured volumes snipped away,HisEnglish Heads, in chronicled array.Torn from their destined page (unworthy meedOf knightly counsel, and heroic deed)Not Faithorne's stroke, nor Field's own types can saveThe gallant Veres, and one-eyed Ogle brave.Indignant readers seek the image fled,And curse the busy fool, whowants a head.
Proudly he shows, with many a smile elateThe scrambling subjects of theprivate plate;While Time their actions and their names bereaves,They grin for ever in the guarded leaves.Like poets, born, in vain collectors striveTo cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive.Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will,The Tyrant-passion drags them backward still:Even I, debarred of ease, and studious hours,Confess, 'mid anxious toil, its lurking powers.How pure the joy, when first my hands unfoldThe small, rare volume, black with tarnished gold!The eye skims restless, like the roving bee,O'er flowers of wit, or song, or repartee,While sweet as springs, new-bubbling from the stone,Glides through the breast some pleasing theme unknown.Now dipped in Rossi's terse and classic style,His harmless tales awake a transient smile.Now Bouchet's motley stores my thoughts arrest,With wondrous reading, and with learnèd jest.Bouchet whose tomes a grateful line demand,The valued gift of Stanley's liberal hand.Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray,And mix regrets with gentle Du Bellay;Or turn, with keen delight, the curious page,Where hardly Pasquin braves the Pontiff's rage.
But D——n's strains should tell the sad reverse,When Business calls, inveterate foe to verse!Tell how 'the Demon claps his iron hands','Waves his lank locks, and scours along the lands.'Through wintry blasts, or summer's fire I go,To scenes of danger, and to sights of woe.Even when to Margate every Cockney roves,And brainsick-poets long for sheltering groves,Whose lofty shades exclude the noontide glow,While Zephyrs breathe, and waters trill below,The rigid Fate averts, by tasks like these,From heavenly musings, and from lettered ease.Such wholesome checks the better genius sends,From dire rehearsals to protect our friends:Else when the social rites our joys renew,The stuffed portfolio would alarm your view,Whence volleying rhymes your patience would o'ercome,And, spite of kindness, drive you early home.So when the traveller's hasty footsteps glideNear smoking lava on Vesuvio's side,Hoarse-muttering thunders from the depths proceed,And spouting fires incite his eager speed.Appalled he flies, while rattling showers invade,Invoking every saint for instant aid:Breathless, amazed, he seeks the distant shore,And vows to tempt the dangerous gulf no more.
J. Ferriar.The Bibliomania.
I will begin, by designating the high and dignified passion in question by its true name—BIBLIOSOPHIA,—which I would define—an appetite forCOLLECTINGBooks—carefully distinguished from, wholly unconnected with, nay, absolutely repugnant to, all idea ofREADINGthem.
Observe, then, with merited admiration, the several points of superiority, which distinguish theCollector, when brought into fair and close comparison with theStudent. As
First; the saidCollectorproceeds straight forward to his object, and (with one only exception which will hereafter be shown) under the most rational hopes of accomplishing it. There is but a certain, and limited, number of books to which he and his inquisitive fraternity have agreed to consecrate the epithet 'curious'; and all of these—with the requisite allowance of cash, cunning, luck, patience, and time—he is within the 'potentiality' of drawing, sooner or later, within his clutches:—whereas theStudent, granting him the wealth of a brewer, the cunning of a horse-dealer, the luck of a fool, the patience of Jerry Sneak, and the longevity of the Wandering Jew, can never hope even totastean hundredth part of the volumes which he meditates to devour.
In the next place, the treasures of theCollector, when once he has submitted to the pleasing toil of procuring them, are his own;—his own, I mean, in the single sense in which he is desirous so to call them; for he leaves them in the safe custody of his shelves, until the arrival of that proudmoment, when he shall be dared by an envious rival, to prove that the title-page of some forgotten (and thence remembered) volume, is perfect—or properly imperfect; or that it enjoys the reputation of having been printed, long before the Art had approached towards any tolerable degree of improvement; or, that it possesses some one, or more, of those curious advantages, upon which a fitter occasion for expatiating will present itself by and by:—and now, how stands the point ofpossession, with theStudent?—unprosperously indeed!—for besides that, as already observed, he can never possibly possess, inhissense of that expression, more than a wretched modicum of his coveted treasures, he is doomed to a very precarious property even in those which he may have actually hoarded; inasmuch as they are entrusted to the care of that most treacherous of all librarians,Memory,—which, at all times, and of necessity, treats the Student's collections, as the professed Collector, occasionally, and by choice only, is tempted to treathis,—by casting out a great part of them for want of room.... 'Let us now be told no more,' of the superiority of theStudentover theCollector.—J. Beresford.Bibliosophia.