Nothing marks the increasing wealth of our times, and the growth of the
public mind toward refinement, more than the demand for books. Within
ten years the sale of common books has increased probably two hundred
per cent., and it is daily increasing. But the sale of expensive works,
and of library editions of standard authors in costly bindings, is yet
more noticeable. Ten years ago such a display of magnificent works as is
to be found at the Appletons' would have been a precursor of bankruptcy.
There was no demand for them. A few dozen, in one little show-case, was
the prudent whole. Now, one whole side of an immense store is not only
filled with admirably bound library books, but from some inexhaustible
source the void continually made in the shelves is at once refilled. A
reserve of heroic books supply the places of those that fall. Alas!
where is human nature so weak as in a book-store! Speak of the appetite
for drink; or of a _bon vivant's_ relish for a dinner! What are these
mere animal throes and ragings compared with those fantasies of taste,
those yearnings of the imagination, those insatiable appetites of
intellect, which bewilder a student in a great bookseller's
temptation-hall?
How easily one may distinguish a genuine lover of books from a worldly
man! With what subdued and yet glowing enthusiasm does he gaze upon the
costly front of a thousand embattled volumes! How gently he draws them
down, as if they were little children; how tenderly he handles them! He
peers at the title-page, at the text, or the notes, with the nicety of a
bird examining a flower. He studies the binding: the leather,--russia,
English calf, morocco; the lettering, the gilding, the edging, the hinge
of the cover! He opens it and shuts it, he holds it off and brings it
nigh. It suffuses his whole body with book magnetism. He walks up and
down in a maze at the mysterious allotments of Providence, that gives so
much money to men who spend it upon their appetites, and so little to
men who would spend it in benevolence or upon their refined tastes! It
is astonishing, too, how one's necessities multiply in the presence of
the supply. One never knows how many things it is impossible to do
without till he goes to Windle's or Smith's house-furnishing stores.
One is surprised to perceive, at some bazaar or fancy and variety store,
how many _conveniences_ he needs. He is satisfied that his life must
have been utterly inconvenient aforetime. And thus too one is inwardly
convicted, at Appletons', of having lived for years without books which
he is now satisfied that one cannot live without!
Then, too, the subtle process by which the man convinces himself that he
can afford to buy. No subtle manager or broker ever saw through a maze
of financial embarrassments half so quick as a poor book-buyer sees his
way clear to pay for what he _must_ have. He promises himself marvels of
retrenchment; he will eat less, or less costly viands, that he may buy
more food for the mind. He will take an extra patch, and go on with his
raiment another year, and buy books instead of coats. Yea, he will write
books, that he may buy books! The appetite is insatiable. Feeding does
not satisfy it. It rages by the fuel which is put upon it. As a hungry
man eats first and pays afterward, so the book-buyer purchases and then
works at the debt afterward. This paying is rather medicinal. It cures
for a time. But a relapse takes place. The same longing, the same
promises of self-denial. He promises himself to put spurs on both heels
of his industry; and then, besides all this, he will _somehow_ get along
when the time for payment comes! Ah! this SOMEHOW! That word is as big
as a whole world, and is stuffed with all the vagaries and fantasies
that Fancy ever bred upon Hope. And yet, is there not some comfort in
buying books, _to be_ paid for? We have heard of a sot who wished his
neck as long as the worm of a still, that he might so much the longer
enjoy the flavor of the draught! Thus, it is a prolonged excitement of
purchase, if you feel for six months in a slight doubt whether the book
is honestly your own or not. Had you paid down, that would have been the
end of it. There would have been no affectionate and beseeching look of
your books at you, every time you saw them, saying, as plain as a book's
eyes can say, "Do not let me be taken from you."
Moreover, buying books before you can pay for them promotes caution. You
do not feel quite at liberty to take them home. You are married. Your
wife keeps an account-book. She knows to a penny what you can and what
you cannot afford. She has no "speculation" in _her_ eyes. Plain figures
make desperate work with airy "_somehows_." It is a matter of no small
skill and experience to get your books home, and into their proper
places, undiscovered. Perhaps the blundering express brings them to the
door just at evening. "What is it, my dear?" she says to you. "Oh!
nothing--a few books that I cannot do without." That smile! A true
housewife that loves her husband can smile a whole arithmetic at him at
one look! Of course she insists, in the kindest way, in sympathizing
with you in your literary acquisition. She cuts the strings of the
bundle (and of your heart), and out comes the whole story. You have
bought a complete set of costly English books, full bound in calf, extra
gilt! You are caught, and feel very much as if bound in calf yourself,
and admirably lettered.
Now, this must not happen frequently. The books must be smuggled home.
Let them be sent to some near place. Then, when your wife has a
headache, or is out making a call, or has lain down, run the books
across the frontier and threshold, hastily undo them, stop only for one
loving glance as you put them away in the closet, or behind other books
on the shelf, or on the topmost shelf. Clear away the twine and
wrapping-paper, and every suspicious circumstance. Be very careful not
to be too kind. That often brings on detection. Only the other day we
heard it said, somewhere, "Why, how good you have been lately. I am
really afraid that you have been carrying on mischief secretly." Our
heart smote us. It was a fact. That very day we had bought a few books
which "we could not do without." After a while you can bring out one
volume, accidentally, and leave it on the table. "Why, my dear, _what_ a
beautiful book! Where _did_ you borrow it?" You glance over the
newspaper, with the quietest tone you can command: "_That_! oh! that is
_mine_. Have you not seen it before? It has been in the house these two
months." and you rush on with anecdote and incident, and point out the
binding, and that peculiar trick of gilding, and everything else you can
think of; but it all will not do; you cannot rub out that roguish,
arithmetical smile. People may talk about the equality of the sexes!
They are not equal. The silent smile of a sensible, loving woman will
vanquish ten men. Of course you repent, and in time form a habit of
repenting.
Another method which will be found peculiarly effective is to make a
_present_ of some fine work to your wife. Of course, whether she or you
have the name of buying it, it will go into your collection, and be
yours to all intents and purposes. But it stops remark in the
presentation. A wife could not reprove you for so kindly thinking of
her. No matter what she suspects, she will say nothing. And then if
there are three or four more works which have come home with the
gift-book--they will pass through the favor of the other.
These are pleasures denied to wealth and old bachelors. Indeed, one
cannot imagine the peculiar pleasure of buying books if one is rich and
stupid. There must be some pleasure, or so many would not do it. But the
full flavor, the whole relish of delight only comes to those who are so
poor that they must engineer for every book. They sit down before them,
and besiege them. They are captured. Each book has a secret history of
ways and means. It reminds you of subtle devices by which you insured
and made it yours, in spite of poverty!
Copyrighted by Fords, Howard and Hulbert, New York.