Gossip in a Library , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Edmund Gosse

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It is curious to reflect that the library, in our customary sense, is quite a modern institution. Three hundred years ago there were no public libraries in Europe. The Ambrosian, at Milan, dates from 1608; the Bodleian, at Oxford, from 1612. To these Angelo Rocca added his in Rome, in 1620. But private collections of books always existed, and these were the haunts of learning, the little glimmering hearths over which knowledge spread her cold fingers, in the darkest ages of the world. To-day, although national and private munificence has increased the number of public libraries so widely that almost every reader is within reach of books, the private library still flourishes. There are men all through the civilised world to whom a book is a jewel - an individual possession of great price. I have been asked to gossip about my books, for I also am a bibliophile. But when I think of the great collections of fine books, of the libraries of the magnificent, I do not know whether I dare admit any stranger to glance at mine

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9782819900634
Langue	English

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INTRODUCTORY
It is curious to reflect that the library, in ourcustomary sense, is quite a modern institution. Three hundred yearsago there were no public libraries in Europe. The Ambrosian, atMilan, dates from 1608; the Bodleian, at Oxford, from 1612. Tothese Angelo Rocca added his in Rome, in 1620. But privatecollections of books always existed, and these were the haunts oflearning, the little glimmering hearths over which knowledge spreadher cold fingers, in the darkest ages of the world. To-day,although national and private munificence has increased the numberof public libraries so widely that almost every reader is withinreach of books, the private library still flourishes. There are menall through the civilised world to whom a book is a jewel – anindividual possession of great price. I have been asked to gossipabout my books, for I also am a bibliophile. But when I think ofthe great collections of fine books, of the libraries of themagnificent, I do not know whether I dare admit any stranger toglance at mine. The Mayor of Queenborough feels as though he were avery important personage till Royalty drives through his boroughwithout noticing his scarf and his cocked hat; and then, for thefirst time, he observes how small the Queenborough town-hall is.But if one is to gossip about books, it is, perhaps, as well thatone should have some limits. I will leave the masters ofbibliography to sing of greater matters, and will launch upon nomore daring voyage than one autour de ma pauvrebibliothèque .
I have heard that the late Mr. Edward Solly, a verypious and worshipful lover of books, under several examples ofwhose book-plate I have lately reverently placed my own, was soanxious to fly all outward noise that he built himself a library inhis garden. I have been told that the books stood there in perfectorder, with the rose-spray flapping at the window, and greatJapanese vases exhaling such odours as most annoy aninsect-nostril. The very bees would come to the window, and sniff,and boom indignantly away again. The silence there was perfect. Itmust have been in such a secluded library that Christian Mentzeliuswas at work when he heard the male book-worm flap his wings, andcrow like a cock in calling to his mate. I feel sure that evenMentzelius, a very courageous writer, would hardly pretend that hecould hear such a "shadow of all sound" elsewhere. That is thelibrary I should like to have. In my sleep, "where dreams aremultitude," I sometimes fancy that one day I shall have a libraryin a garden. The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man– "a library in a garden!" It sounds like having a castle in Spain,or a sheep-walk in Arcadia, and I suppose that merely to wish forit is to be what indignant journalists call "a faddlinghedonist."
In the meanwhile, my books are scattered about incases in different parts of a double sitting-room, where the catscarouse on one side, and the hurdy-gurdy man girds up his loins onthe other. A friend of Boethius had a library lined with slabs ofivory and pale green marble. I like to think of that when I amjealous of Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, as the peasant thinks ofthe White Czar when his master's banqueting hall dazzles him. If Icannot have cabinets of ebony and cedar, I may just as well haveplain deal, with common glass doors to keep the dust out. I detestyour Persian apparatus.
It is a curious reflection, that the ordinaryprivate person who collects objects of a modest luxury, has nothingabout him so old as his books. If a wave of the rod made everythingaround him disappear that did not exist a century ago, he wouldsuddenly find himself with one or two sticks of furniture, perhaps,but otherwise alone with his books. Let the work of another centurypass, and certainly nothing but these little brown volumes would beleft, so many caskets full of passion and tenderness, disappointedambition, fruitless hope, self-torturing envy, conceit aware, inmaddening lucid moments, of its own folly. I think if Mentzeliushad been worth his salt, those ears of his, which heard thebook-worm crow, might have caught the echo of a sigh from beneathmany a pathetic vellum cover. There is something awful to me, ofnights, and when I am alone, in thinking of all the soulsimprisoned in the ancient books around me. Not one, I suppose, butwas ushered into the world with pride and glee, with a flushedcheek and heightened pulse; not one enjoyed a career that in allpoints justified those ample hopes and flattering promises.
The outward and visible mark of the citizenship ofthe book-lover is his book-plate. There are many good bibliophileswho abide in the trenches, and never proclaim their loyalty by abook-plate. They are with us, but not of us; they lack the courageof their opinions; they collect with timidity or carelessness; theyhave no need for the morrow. Such a man is liable to greattemptations. He is brought face to face with that enemy of hisspecies, the borrower, and dares not speak with him in the gate. Ifhe had a book-plate he would say, "Oh! certainly I will lend youthis volume, if it has not my book-plate in it; of course, onemakes a rule never to lend a book that has." He would say this, andfeign to look inside the volume, knowing right well that thissafeguard against the borrower is there already. To have abook-plate gives a collector great serenity and self-confidence. Wehave laboured in a far more conscientious spirit since we had oursthan we did before. A learned poet, Lord De Tabley, wrote afascinating volume on book-plates, some years ago, with copiousillustrations. There is not, however, one specimen in his bookwhich I would exchange for mine, the work and the gift of one ofthe most imaginative of American artists, the late Edwin A. Abbey.It represents a very fine gentleman of about 1610, walking in broadsunlight in a garden, reading a little book of verses. The name iscoiled around him, with the motto, Gravis cantantibus umbra .I will not presume to translate this tag of an eclogue, and I onlyventure to mention such an uninteresting matter, that my indulgentreaders may have a more vivid notion of what I call my library. Mr.Abbey's fine art is there, always before me, to keep my idealhigh.
To possess few books, and those not too rich andrare for daily use, has this advantage, that the possessor can makehimself master of them all, can recollect their peculiarities, andoften remind himself of their contents. The man that has two orthree thousand books can be familiar with them all; he that hasthirty thousand can hardly have a speaking acquaintance with morethan a few. The more conscientious he is, the more he becomes likeLucian's amateur, who was so much occupied in rubbing the bindingsof his books with sandal-wood and saffron, that he had no time leftto study the contents. After all, with every due respect paid to"states" and editions and bindings and tall copies, the inside ofthe volume is really the essential part of it.
The excuses for collecting, however, are more thansatire is ready to admit. The first edition represents the author'sfirst thought; in it we read his words as he sent them out to theworld in his first heat, with the type he chose, and with suchpeculiarities of form as he selected to do most justice to hiscreation. We often discover little individual points in a firstedition, which never occur again. And if it be conceded that thereis an advantage in reading a book in the form which the authororiginally designed for it, then all the other refinements of thecollector become so many acts of respect paid to this first virginapparition, touching and suitable homage of cleanness and fitadornment. It is only when this homage becomes mere eye-service,when a book radically unworthy of such dignity is too delicatelycultivated, too richly bound, that a poor dilettantism comes inbetween the reader and what he reads. Indeed, the best of volumesmay, in my estimation, be destroyed as a possession by a binding sosumptuous that no fingers dare to open it for perusal. To thefeudal splendours of Mr. Cobden-Sanderson, a tenpenny book in aten-pound binding, I say fie. Perhaps the ideal library, after all,is a small one, where the books are carefully selected andthoughtfully arranged in accordance with one central code of taste,and intended to be respectfully consulted at any moment by themaster of their destinies. If fortune made me possessor of one bookof excessive value, I should hasten to part with it. In a littleworking library, to hold a first quarto of Hamlet , would belike entertaining a reigning monarch in a small farmhouse atharvesting.
Much has of late been written, however, andpleasantly written, about the collecting and preserving of books.It is not my intention here to add to this department of modernliterature. But I shall select from among my volumes some whichseem less known in detail to modern readers than they should be,and I shall give brief "retrospective reviews" of these as thoughthey were new discoveries. In other cases, where the personalhistory of a well-known book seems worth detaching from ourcritical estimate of it, that shall be the subject of mylucubration. Perhaps it may not be an unwelcome novelty to apply toold books the test we so familiarly apply to new ones. They willbear it well, for in their case there is no temptation to introduceany element of prejudice. Mr. Bludyer himself does not fly into apassion over a squat volume published two centuries ago, even when,as in the case of the first edition of Harrington's Oceana ,there is such a monstrous list of errata that the writer has totell us, by way of excuse, that a spaniel has been "questing" amonghis papers.
These scarce and neglected books are full ofinteresting things. Voltaire never made a more unfortunateobservation than when he said that rare books were worth nothing,since, if they were worth anything, they would not be rare. We knowbetter nowadays; we know how much there is in th