the love affairs of a bibliomaniac(藏书癖者的爱情)-第9章
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possess yourselves of the empire which the genius of Boccaccio
bequeathed to humanity。 There is but one master； and to him we render
grateful homage。 He leads us down through the cloisters of time； and at
his touch the dead become reanimate； and all the sweetness and the valor
of antiquity recur； heroism； love； sacrifice； tears； laughter； wisdom； wit；
philosophy； charity； and understanding are his auxiliaries； humanity is his
inspiration； humanity his theme； humanity his audience； humanity his
debtor。
Now it is of Tancred's daughter he tells； and now of Rossiglione's wife；
anon of the cozening gardener he speaks and anon of Alibech； of what
befell Gillette de Narbonne； of Iphigenia and Cymon； of Saladin； of
Calandrino； of Dianora and Ansaldo we hear； and what subject soever he
touches he quickens it into life； and he so subtly invests it with that
indefinable quality of his genius as to attract thereunto not only our
sympathies but also our enthusiasm。
Yes； truly； he should be read with understanding； what author should
not？ I would no more think of putting my Boccaccio into the hands of a
dullard than I would think of leaving a bright and beautiful woman at the
mercy of a blind mute。
I have hinted at the horror of the fate which befell Yseult Hardynge in
the seclusion of Mr。 Henry Boggs's Lincolnshire estate。 Mr。 Henry
Boggs knew nothing of romance； and he cared less； he was wholly
incapable of appreciating a woman with dark； glorious eyes and an
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expanding soul； I'll warrant me that he would at any time gladly have
traded a ‘‘Decameron'' for a copy of ‘‘The Gentleman Poulterer；'' or for a
year's subscription to that grewsome monument to human imbecility；
London ‘‘Punch。''
Ah； Yseult！ hadst thou but been a book！
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VII
THE DELIGHTS OF FENDER…FISHING
I should like to have met Izaak Walton。 He is one of the few authors
whom I know I should like to have met。 For he was a wise man； and he
had understanding。 I should like to have gone angling with him； for I
doubt not that like myself he was more of an angler theoretically than
practically。 My bookseller is a famous fisherman； as； indeed； booksellers
generally are； since the methods employed by fishermen to deceive and to
catch their finny prey are very similar to those employed by booksellers to
attract and to entrap buyers。
As for myself； I regard angling as one of the best of avocations； and
although I have pursued it but little； I concede that doubtless had I
practised it oftener I should have been a better man。 How truly has
Dame Juliana Berners said that ‘‘at the least the angler hath his
wholesome walk and merry at his ease； and a sweet air of the sweet savour
of the mead flowers that maketh him hungry； he heareth the melodious
harmony of fowls； he seeth the young swans； herons； ducks； cotes； and
many other fowls with their broods； which meseemeth better than all the
noise of hounds； the blasts of horns； and the cry of fowls that hunters；
falconers； and fowlers can make。 And IF the angler take fishsurely then
is there no man merrier than he is in his spirit！''
My bookseller cannot understand how it is that； being so enthusiastic a
fisherman theoretically； I should at the same time indulge so seldom in the
practice of fishing； as if； forsooth； a man should be expected to engage
continually and actively in every art and practice of which he may happen
to approve。 My young friend Edward Ayer has a noble collection of
books relating to the history of American aboriginals and to the wars
waged between those Indians and the settlers in this country； my other
young friend Luther Mills has gathered together a multitude of books
treating of the Napoleonic wars； yet neither Ayer nor Mills hath ever slain
a man or fought a battle； albeit both find delectation in recitals of warlike
prowess and personal valor。 I love the night and all the poetic influences
of that quiet time； but I do not sit up all night in order to hear the
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nightingale or to contemplate the astounding glories of the heavens。
For similar reasons； much as I appreciate and marvel at the beauties of
early morning； I do not make a practice of early rising； and sensible as I
am to the charms of the babbling brook and of the crystal lake； I am not
addicted to the practice of wading about in either to the danger either to
my own health or to the health of the finny denizens in those places。
The best anglers in the world are those who do not catch fish； the mere
slaughter of fish is simply brutal； and it was with a view to keeping her
excellent treatise out of the hands of the idle and the inappreciative that
Dame Berners incorporated that treatise in a compendious book whose
cost was so large that only ‘‘gentyll and noble men'' could possess it。
What mind has he who loveth fishing merely for the killing it involves
what mind has such a one to the beauty of the ever…changing panorama
which nature unfolds to the appreciative eye； or what communion has he
with those sweet and uplifting influences in which the meadows； the
hillsides； the glades； the dells； the forests； and the marshes abound？
Out upon these vandals； I sayout upon the barbarians who would rob
angling of its poesy； and reduce it to the level of the butcher's trade！ It
becomes a base and vicious avocation； does angling； when it ceases to be
what Sir Henry Wotton loved to call it ‘‘an employment for his idle time；
which was then not idly spent； a rest to his mind； a cheerer of his spirits； a
diverter of sadness； a calmer of unquiet thoughts； a moderator of passions；
a procurer of contentedness； and a begetter of habits of peace and patience
in those that professed and practised it！''
There was another man I should like to have metSir Henry Wotton；
for he was an ideal angler。 Christopher North； too （‘‘an excellent angler
and now with God''！） how I should love to have explored the Yarrow
with him； for he was a man of vast soul； vast learning； and vast wit。
‘‘Would you believe it； my dear Shepherd；'' said he； ‘‘that my
piscatory passions are almost dead within me； and I like now to saunter
along the banks and braes； eying the younkers angling； or to lay me down
on some sunny spot； and with my face up to heaven； watch the slow…
changing clouds！''
THERE was the angling genius with whom I would fain go angling！
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‘‘Angling；'' says our revered St。 Izaak； ‘‘angling is somewhat like
poetrymen are to be born so。''
Doubtless there are poets who are not anglers； but doubtless there
never was an angler who was not also a poet。 Christopher North was a
famous fisherman； he began his career as such when he was a child of
three years。 With his thread line and bent…pin hook the wee tot set out to
make his first cast in ‘‘a wee burnie'' he had discovered near his home。
He caught his fish； too； and for the rest of the day he carried the miserable
little specimen about on a plate； exhibiting it triumphantly。 With that
first experience began a life which I am fain to regard as one glorious song
in praise of the beauty and the beneficence of nature。
My bookseller once took me angling with him in a Wisconsin lake
which was the property of a club of anglers to which my friend belonged。
As we were to be absent several days I carried along a box of books； for I
esteem appropriate reading to be a most important adjunct to an angling
expedition。 My bookseller had with him enough machinery to stock a
whaling expedition； and I could not help wondering what my old Walton
would think； could he drop down into our company with his modest
equipment of hooks； flies； and gentles。
The lake whither we went was a large and beautiful expanse； girt by a
landscape which to my fancy was the embodiment of poetic delicacy and
suggestion。 I began to inquire about the chub； dace； and trouts； but my
bookseller lost no time in telling me that the lake had been rid of all cheap
fry； and had been stocked with game fish； such as bass and pike。
I did not at all relish this covert sneer at traditions which I have always
reverenced； and the better acquainted I became with my bookseller's
modern art of angling the less I liked it。 I have little love for that kind of
angling which does not admit of a simultaneous enjoyment of the
surrounding beauties of nature。 My bookseller enjoined silence upon me；
but I did not heed the injunction； for I must； indeed； have been a mere
wooden effigy to hold my peace amid that picturesque environment of hill；
valley； wood； meadow； and arching sky of clear blue。
It was fortunate for me that I had my ‘‘Noctes Ambrosianae'' along；
for when I had exhausted my praise of the surrounding glories of nature；
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my bookseller would not converse with me； so I opened my book and read
to him that famous passage between Kit North and the Ettr
