the love affairs of a bibliomaniac(藏书癖者的爱情)-第18章
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not Scotch genius performed in every department of literature； and
would not our literature be poor indeed to…day but for the contributions
which have been made to it by the very people whom we affect to deride？
John Wilson was one of the most interesting figures of a time when
learning was at a premium； he was a big man amongst big men； and even
in this irreverential time genius uncovers at the mention of his name。 His
versatility was astounding； with equal facility and felicity he could
conduct a literary symposium and a cock…fight； a theological discussion
and an angling expedition； a historical or a political inquiry and a
fisticuffs。
Nature had provided him with a mighty brain in a powerful body； he
had a physique equal to the performance of what suggestion soever his
splendid intellectuals made。 To him the incredible feat of walking
seventy miles within the compass of a day was mere child's play； then；
when the printer became clamorous； he would immure himself in his
wonderful den and reel off copy until that printer cried ‘‘Hold； enough！''
It was no unusual thing for him to write for thirteen hours at a stretch；
when he worked he worked； and when he played he played that is
perhaps the reason why he was never a dull boy。
Wilson seems to have been a procrastinator。 He would put off his
task to the very last moment； this is a practice that is common with literary
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menin fact； it was encouraged by those who were regarded as authorities
in such matters anciently。 Ringelbergius gave this advice to an author
under his tuition：
‘‘Tell the printers；'' said he； ‘‘to make preparations for a work you
intend writing； and never alarm yourself about it because it is not even
begun； for； after having announced it you may without difficulty trace out
in your own head the whole plan of your work and its divisions； after
which compose the arguments of the chapters； and I can assure you that in
this manner you may furnish the printers daily with more copy than they
want。 But； remember； when you have once begun there must be no
flagging till the work is finished。''
The loyalty of human admiration was never better illustrated than in
Shelton Mackenzie's devotion to Wilson's genius。 To Mackenzie we are
indebted for a compilation of the ‘‘Noctes Ambrosianae；'' edited with such
discrimination； such ability； such learning； and such enthusiasm that； it
seems to me； the work must endure as a monument not only to Wilson's
but also to Mackenzie's genius。
I have noticed one peculiarity that distinguishes many admirers of the
Noctes： they seldom care to read anything else； in the Noctes they find a
response to the demand of every mood。 It is much the same way with
lovers of Father Prout。 Dr。 O'Rell divides his adoration between old Kit
North and the sage of Watergrass Hill。 To be bitten of either mania is bad
enough； when one is possessed at the same time of a passion both for the
Noctes and for the Reliques hopeless indeed is his malady！ Dr。 O'Rell is
so deep under the spell of crusty Christopher and the Corkonian pere that
he not only buys every copy of the Noctes and of the Reliques he comes
across； but insists upon giving copies of these books to everybody in his
acquaintance。 I have even known him to prescribe one or the other of
these works to patients of his。
I recall that upon one occasion； having lost an Elzevir at a book
auction； I was afflicted with melancholia to such a degree that I had to take
to my bed。 Upon my physician's arrival he made； as is his custom； a
careful inquiry into my condition and into the causes inducing it。 Finally；
‘‘You are afflicted；'' said Dr。 O'Rell； ‘‘with the megrims； which；
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fortunately； is at present confined to the region of the Pacchionian
depressions of the sinister parietal。 I shall administer Father Prout's
‘Rogueries of Tom Moore' （pronounced More） and Kit North's debate with
the Ettrick Shepherd upon the subject of sawmon。 No other remedy will
prove effective。''
The treatment did； in fact； avail me； for within forty…eight hours I was
out of bed； and out of the house； and； what is better yet； I picked up at a
bookstall； for a mere song； a first edition of ‘‘Special Providences in New
England''！
Never； however； have I wholly ceased to regret the loss of the Elzevir；
for an Elzevir is to me one of the most gladdening sights human eye can
rest upon。 In his life of the elder Aldus； Renouard says： ‘‘How few are
there of those who esteem and pay so dearly for these pretty editions who
know that the type that so much please them are the work of Francis
Garamond； who cast them one hundred years before at Paris。''
In his bibliographical notes （a volume seldom met with now） the
learned William Davis records that Louis Elzevir was the first who
observed the distinction between the v consonant and the u vowel； which
distinction； however； had been recommended long before by Ramus and
other writers； but had never been regarded。 There were five of these
Elzevirs； viz。： Louis； Bonaventure； Abraham； Louis； Jr。； and Daniel。
A hundred years ago a famous bibliophile remarked： ‘‘The
diminutiveness of a large portion； and the beauty of the whole； of the
classics printed by the Elzevirs at Leyden and Amsterdam have long
rendered them justly celebrated； and the prices they bear in public sales
sufficiently demonstrate the estimation in which they are at present held。''
The regard for these precious books still obtains； and we meet with it
in curiously out…of…the…way places； as well as in those libraries where one
would naturally expect to find it。 My young friend Irving Way （himself a
collector of rare enthusiasm） tells me that recently during a pilgrimage
through the state of Texas he came upon a gentleman who showed him in
his modest home the most superb collection of Elzevirs he had ever set
eyes upon！
How far…reaching is thy grace； O bibliomania！ How good and sweet
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it is that no distance； no environment； no poverty； no distress can appall or
stay thee。 Like that grim spectre we call death； thou knockest impartially
at the palace portal and at the cottage door。 And it seemeth thy especial
delight to bring unto the lonely in desert places the companionship that
exalteth humanity！
It makes me groan to think of the number of Elzevirs that are lost in
the libraries of rich parvenus who know nothing of and care no thing for
the treasures about them further than a certain vulgar vanity which is
involved。 When Catherine of Russia wearied of Koritz she took to her
affection one Kimsky Kossakof； a sergeant in the guards。 Kimsky was
elated by this sudden acquisition of favor and riches。 One of his first
orders was to his bookseller。 Said he to that worthy： ‘‘Fit me up a
handsome library； little books above and great ones below。''
It is narrated of a certain British warrior that upon his retirement from
service he bought a library en bloc； and； not knowing any more about
books than a peccary knows of the harmonies of the heavenly choir； he
gave orders for the arrangement of the volumes in this wise： ‘‘Range
me；'' he quoth； ‘‘the grenadiers （folios） at the bottom； the battalion
（octavos） in the middle； and the light…bobs （duodecimos） at the top！''
Samuel Johnson； dancing attendance upon Lord Chesterfield； could
hardly have felt his humiliation more keenly than did the historian Gibbon
when his grace the Duke of Cumberland met him bringing the third
volume of his ‘‘Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire'' to the ducal
mansion。 This history was originally printed in quarto； Gibbon was
carrying the volume and anticipating the joy of the duke upon its arrival。
What did the duke say？ ‘‘What？'' he cried。 ‘‘Ah； another big
square book； eh？''
It is the fashion nowadays to harp upon the degeneracy of humanity； to
insist that taste is corrupted； and that the faculty of appreciation is dead。
We seem incapable of realizing that this is the golden age of authors； if not
the golden age of authorship。
In the good old days authors were in fact a despised and neglected
class。 The Greeks put them to death； as the humor seized them。 For a
hundred years after his death Shakespeare was practically unknown to his
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countrymen； except Suckling and his coterie： during his life he was
roundly assailed by his contemporaries； one of the latter going to the
extreme of denouncing him as a daw that strutted in borrowed plumage。
Milton was accused of plagiarism； and one of his critics devoted many
years to compiling from every quarter passages in ancient works which
bore a similarity to the blind poet's verses。 Even Samuel Johnson's satire
of ‘‘London'' was pronounced a plagiarism。
The good old days were the days； seemingly； when the critics had their
