In the year 1190, Judah ibn Tibbon, a famous Provençal Jew, who had
migrated to Southern France from Granada, wrote in Hebrew as follows to his
son:
"Avoid bad society: make thy books thy companions. Let thy bookcases and
shelves be thy gardens and pleasure grounds. Pluck the fruit that grows
therein; gather the roses, the spices, and the myrrh. If thy soul be
satiate and weary, change from garden to garden, from furrow to furrow,
from scene to scene. Then shall thy desire renew itself, and thy soul be
rich with manifold delight."
In this beautiful comparison of a library to a garden, there is one point
missing. The perfection of enjoyment is reached when the library, or at
least a portable part of it, is actually carried into the garden. When
Lightfoot was residing at Ashley (Staffordshire), he followed this course,
as we know from a letter of his biographer. "There he built himself a small
house in the midst of a garden, containing two rooms below, viz. a study
and a withdrawing room, and a lodging chamber above; and there he studied
hard, and laid the foundations of his Rabbinic learning, and took great
delight, lodging there often, though [quaintly adds John Stype] he was then
a married man." Montaigne, whose great-grandfather, be it recalled, was a
Spanish Jew, did not possess a library built in the open air, but he had
the next best thing. He used the top story of a tower, whence, says he, "I
behold under me my garden."
In ancient Athens, philosophers thought out their grandest ideas walking up
and down their groves. Nature sobers us. "When I behold Thy heavens, the
work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained; what
is man that Thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that Thou visitest
him?" But if nature sobers, she also consoles. As the Psalmist continues:
"Thou hast made him but little lower than the angels, and crownest him with
glory and honor. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy
hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet." Face to face with nature,
man realizes that he is greater than she. "On earth there is nothing great
but man, in man there is nothing great but mind." So, no doubt, the
Athenian sages gained courage as well as modesty from the contact of mind
with nature. And not they only, for our own Jewish treasure, the Mishnah,
grew up, if not literally, at least metaphorically, in the open air, in the
vineyard of Jamnia. Standing in the sordid little village which to-day
occupies the site of ancient Jamnia, with the sea close at hand and the
plain of Sharon and the Judean lowlands at my feet, I could see Rabbi
Jochanan ben Zakkai and his comrades pacing to and fro, pondering those
great thoughts which live among us now, though the authors of them have
been in their graves for eighteen centuries.
It is curious how often this habit of movement goes with thinking.
Montaigne says: "Every place of retirement requires a Walk. My thoughts
sleep if I sit still; my Fancy does not go by itself, as it goes when my
Legs move it." What Montaigne seems to mean is that we love rhythm. Body
and mind must move together in harmony. So it is with the Mohammedan over
the Koran, and the Rabbi over the Talmud. Jews sway at prayer for the same
reason. Movement of the body is not a mere mannerism; it is part of the
emotion, like the instrumental accompaniment to a song. The child cons his
lesson moving; we foolishly call it "fidgeting." The child is never
receptive unless also active. But there is another of Montaigne's feelings,
with which I have no sympathy. He loved to think when on the move, but his
walk must be solitary. "'Tis here," he says of his library, "I am in my
kingdom, and I endeavor to make myself an absolute monarch. So I sequester
this one corner from all society--conjugal, filial, civil." This is a
detestable habit. It is the acme of selfishness, to shut yourself up with
your books. To write over your study door "Let no one enter here!" is to
proclaim your work divorced from life. Montaigne gloried in the
inaccessibility of his asylum. His house was perched upon an "overpeering
hillock," so that in any part of it--still more in the round room of the
tower--he could "the better seclude myself from company, and keep
encroachers from me." Yet some may work best when there are others beside
them. From the book the reader turns to the child that prattles near, and
realizes how much more the child can ask than the book can answer. The
presence of the young living soul corrects the vanity of the dead old
pedant. Books are most solacing when the limitations of bookish wisdom are
perceived. "Literature," said Matthew Arnold, "is a criticism of life."
This is true, despite the objections of Saintsbury, but I venture to add
that "life is a criticism of literature."
Now, I am not going to convert a paper on the Solace of Books into a paper
in dispraise of books. I shall not be so untrue to my theme. But I give
fair warning that I shall make no attempt to scale the height or sound the
depth of the intellectual phases of this great subject. I invite my reader
only to dally desultorily on the gentler slopes of sentiment.
One of the most comforting qualities of books has been well expressed by
Richard of Bury in his famous Philobiblon, written in 1344. This is an
exquisite little volume on the Love of Books, which Mr. Israel Gollancz has
now edited in an exquisite edition, attainable for the sum of one shilling.
"How safely," says Richard, "we lay bare the poverty of human ignorance to
books, without feeling any shame."
Then he goes on to describe books as those silent teachers who "instruct us
without rods or stripes; without taunts or anger; without gifts or money;
who are not asleep when we approach them, and do not deny us when we
question them; who do not chide us when we err, or laugh at us if we are
ignorant."
It is Richard of Bury's last phrase that I find so solacing. No one is ever
ashamed of turning to a book, but many hesitate to admit their ignorance to
an interlocutor. Your dictionary, your encyclopedia, and your other books,
are the recipients of many a silent confession of nescience which you would
never dream of making auricular. You go to these "golden pots in which
manna is stored," and extract food exactly to your passing taste, without
needing to admit, as Esau did to Jacob, that you are hungry unto death.
This comparison of books to food is of itself solacing, for there is always
something attractive in metaphors drawn from the delights of the table. The
metaphor is very old.
"Open thy mouth," said the Lord to Ezekiel, "and eat that which I give
thee. And when I looked, a hand was put forth unto me, and, lo, a scroll of
a book was therein.... Then I did eat it, and it was in my mouth as honey
for sweetness."
What a quaint use does Richard of Bury make of this very passage!
Addressing the clergy, he says "Eat the book with Ezekiel, that the belly
of your memory may be sweetened within, and thus, as with the panther
refreshed, to whose breath all beasts and cattle long to approach, the
sweet savor of the spices it has eaten may shed a perfume without."
Willing enough would I be to devote the whole of my paper to Richard of
Bury. I must, however, content myself with one other noble extract, which,
I hope, will whet my reader's appetite for more: "Moses, the gentlest of
men, teaches us to make bookcases most neatly, wherein they [books] may be
protected from any injury. Take, he says, this book of the Law and put it
in the side of the Ark of the Covenant of the Lord your God. O fitting
place and appropriate for a library, which was made of imperishable shittim
[i.e. acacia] wood, and was covered within and without with gold."
Still we must not push this idea of costly bookcases too far. Judah the
Pious wrote in the twelfth century, "Books were made for use, not to be
hidden away." This reminds me that Richard of Bury is not the only medieval
book-lover with whom we might spend a pleasant evening. Judah ben Samuel
Sir Leon, surnamed the Pious, whom I have just quoted, wrote the "Book of
the Pious" in Hebrew, in 1190, and it has many excellent paragraphs about
books. Judah's subject is, however, the care of books rather than the
solace derivable from them. Still, he comes into my theme, for few people
can have enjoyed books more than he. He had no selfish love for them: he
not only possessed books, he lent them. He was a very prince of
book-lenders, for he did not object if the borrowers of his books re-lent
them in their turn. So, on dying, he advised his sons to lend his books
even to an enemy (par. 876). "If a father dies," he says elsewhere (par.
919), "and leaves a dog and a book to his sons, one shall not say to the
other, You take the dog, and I'll take the book," as though the two were
comparable in value. Poor, primitive Judah the Pious! We wiser moderns
should never dream of making the comparison between a dog and a book, but
for the opposite reason. Judah shrank from equalling a book to a dog, but
we know better than to undervalue a dog so far as to compare it with a
book. The kennel costs more than the bookcase, and love of dogs is a higher
solace than love of books. To those who think thus, what more convincing
condemnation of books could be formulated than the phrase coined by Gilbert
de Porre in praise of his library, "It is a garden of immortal fruits,
without dog or dragon."
I meant to part with Richard of Bury, but I must ask permission to revert
to him. Some of the delight he felt in books arose from his preference of
reading to oral intercourse. "The truth in speech perishes with the sound:
it is patent to the ear only and eludes the sight: begins and perishes as
it were in a breath." Personally I share this view, and I believe firmly
that the written word brings more pleasure than the spoken word.
Plato held the opposite view. He would have agreed with the advice given by
Chesterfield to his son, "Lay aside the best book when you can go into the
best company--depend upon it you change for the better." Plato did, indeed,
characterize books as "immortal sons deifying their sires." But, on the
opposite side, he has that memorable passage, part of which I now quote,
from the same source that has supplied several others of my quotations, Mr.
Alexander Ireland's "Book-Lover's Enchiridion." "Writing," says Plato, "has
this terrible disadvantage, which puts it on the same footing with
painting. The artist's productions stand before you, as if they were alive:
but if you ask them anything, they keep a solemn silence. Just so with
written discourse: you would fancy it full of the thoughts it speaks: but
if you ask it something that you want to know about what is said, it looks
at you always with the same one sign. And, once committed to writing,
discourse is tossed about everywhere indiscriminately, among those who
understand and those to whom it is naught, and who cannot select the fit
from the unfit." Plato further complains, adds Mr. Martineau, that "Theuth,
the inventor of letters, had ruined men's memories and living command of
their knowledge, by inducing a lazy trust in records ready to their hand:
and he limits the benefit of the _litera scripta_ to the compensation it
provides for the failing memory of old age, when reading naturally becomes
the great solace of life.... Plato's tone is invariably depreciatory of
everything committed to writing, with the exception of laws."
This was also the early Rabbinical view, for while the Law might, nay,
must, be written, the rest of the tradition was to be orally confided. The
oral book was the specialty of the Rabbinical schools. We moderns, who are
to the ancients, in Rabbinic phrase, as asses to angels in intellect,
cannot rely upon oral teaching--our memory is too weak to bear the strain.
Even when a student attends an oral lecture, he proves my point, because he
takes notes.
The ideal lies, as usual, in a compromise. Reading profits most when,
beside the book, you have some one with whom to talk about the book. If
that some one be the author of the book, good; if it be your teacher,
better; if it be a fellow-student, better still; if it be members of your
family circle, best of all. The teacher has only succeeded when he feels
that his students can do without him, can use their books by themselves and
for themselves. But personal intercourse in studies between equals is never
obsolete. "Provide thyself with a fellow-student," said the Rabbi.
Friendship made over a book is fast, enduring; this friendship is the great
solace. How much we Jews have lost in modern times in having given up the
old habit of reading good books together in the family circle! Religious
literature thus had a halo of home about it, and the halo never faded
throughout life. From the pages of the book in after years the father's
loving voice still spoke to his child. But when it comes to the author, I
have doubts whether it be at all good to have him near you when you read
his book. You may take an unfair advantage of him, and reject his book,
because you find the writer personally antipathetic. Or he may take an
unfair advantage of you, and control you by his personal fascination. You
remember the critic of Demosthenes, who remarked to him of a certain
oration, "When I first read your speech, I was convinced, just as the
Athenians were; but when I read it again, I saw through its fallacies."
"Yes," rejoined Demosthenes, "but the Athenians heard it only once." A book
you read more than once: for you possess only what you understand. I do not
doubt that the best readers are those who move least in literary circles,
who are unprejudiced one way or the other by their personal likes or
dislikes of literary men. How detestable are personal paragraphs about
authors--often, alas! autobiographical titbits. We expect a little more
reticence: we expect the author to say what he has to say in his book, and
not in his talks about his book and himself. We expect him to express
himself and suppress himself. "Respect the books," says Judah the Pious,
"or you show disrespect to the writer." No, not to the writer, but to the
soul whose progeny the book is, to the living intellect that bred it, in
Milton's noble phrase, to "an Immortality rather than a life." "Many a
man," he says, "lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the
precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on
purpose to a life beyond life."
It is a sober truth that, of the books we chiefly love, we know least about
the authors. Perpetrating probably the only joke in his great Bodleian
Catalogue, Dr. Steinschneider enters the Bible under the heading _Anonyma_.
We are nowadays so concerned to know whether Moses or another wrote the
Pentateuch, that we neglect the Pentateuch as though _no one_ had ever
written it. What do we know about the personality of Shakespeare? Perhaps
we are happy in our ignorance. "Sometimes," said Jonathan Swift, "I read a
book with pleasure and detest the author." Most of us would say the same of
Jonathan Swift himself, and all of us, I think, share R.L. Stevenson's
resentment against a book with the portrait of a living author, and in a
heightened degree against an English translation of an ancient Hebrew
classic with the translator's portrait. Sometimes such a translator _is_
the author; his rendering, at all events, is not the classic. A certain
Fidentinus once stole the work of the Roman poet Martial, and read it out
to the assembly as his own; whereupon Martial wrote this epigram,
The book you read is, Fidentinus, mine,
Tho' read so badly, it well may pass for thine.
But even apart from such bad taste as the aforementioned translator's, I do
not like to see portraits of living authors in their books. The author of a
good book becomes your intimate, but it is the author as you know him from
his book, not as you see him in the flesh or on a silver print. I quote
Stevenson again: "When you have read, you carry away with you a memory of
the man himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked into
brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another bond on you
thenceforward, binding you to life and to the love of virtue."
This line of thought leads me to the further remark, that some part of
the solace derived from books has changed its character since the art of
printing was invented. In former times the personality, if not of the
author, at all events of the scribe, pressed itself perforce upon the
reader. The reader had before him, not necessarily an autograph, but at
all events a manuscript. Printing has suppressed this individuality, and
the change is not all for the better. The evil consists in this, that
whereas of old a book, being handwritten, was clearly recognized as the
work of some one's hand, it now assumes, being printed, an impersonal
importance, which may be beyond its deserts. Especially is this the case
with what we may term religious authorities; we are now apt to forget
that behind the authority there stands simply--the author. It is
instructive to contrast the customary method of citing two great
codifiers of Jewish law--Maimonides and Joseph Caro. Caro lived in the
age of printing, and the _Shulchan Aruch_ was the first great Jewish
book composed after the printing-press was in operation. The result has
been, that the _Shulchan Aruch_ has become an impersonal authority,
rarely cited by the author's name, while the _Mishneh Torah_ is mostly
referred to as the Rambam, _i.e._ Maimonides.
For all that, printing has been a gain, even from the point of view at
which I have just arrived. Not only has it demolished the barrier which the
scribe's personality interposed between author and reader, but, by
increasing the number of readers, it has added to the solace of each. For
the solace of books is never selfish--the book-miser is never the
book-lover, nor does the mere collector of rarities and preciosities
deserve that name, for the one hoards, but does not own; the other serves
Mammon, not God. The modern cheapening of books--the immediate result of
printing--not only extends culture, it intensifies culture. Your joy in a
book is truest when the book is cheapest, when you know that it is, or
might be, in the hands of thousands of others, who go with you in the
throng towards the same divine joy.
These sentiments are clearly those of a Philistine. The fate of that last
word, by the way, is curious. The Philistines, Mr. Macalistcr discovered
when excavating Gezer, were the only artistic people in Palestine! Using
the term, however, in the sense to which Matthew Arnold gave vogue, I am a
Philistine in taste, I suppose, for I never can bring myself nowadays to
buy a second-hand book. For dusty old tomes, I go to the public library;
but my own private books must be sweet and clean. There are many who prefer
old copies, who revel in the inscribed names of former owners, and prize
their marginal annotations. If there be some special sentimental
associations connected with these factors, if the books be heirlooms, and
the annotations come from a vanished, but beloved, hand, then the old book
becomes an old love. But in most cases these things seem to me the defects
of youth, not the virtues of age; for they are usually too recent to be
venerable, though they are just old enough to disfigure. Let my books be
young, fresh, and fragrant in their virgin purity, unspotted from the
world. If my copy is to be soiled, I want to do all the soiling myself. It
is very different with a manuscript, which cannot be too old or too dowdy.
These are its graces. Dr. Neubauer once said to me, "I take no interest in
a girl who has seen more than seventeen years, nor in a manuscript that has
seen less than seven hundred." Alonzo of Aragon was wont to say in
commendation of age, that "age appeared to be best in four things: old wood
to burn; old wine to drink; old friends to trust; and old authors to read."
This, however, is not my present point, for I have too much consideration
for my readers to attempt to embroil them in the old "battle of the books"
that raged round the silly question whether the ancients or the moderns
wrote better. I am discussing the age, not of the author, but of the copy.
As a critic, as an admirer of old printing, as an archeologist, I feel
regard for the _editio princeps_, but as a lover I prefer the cheap
reprint. Old manuscripts certainly have their charm, but they must have
been written at least before the invention of printing. Otherwise a
manuscript is an anachronism--it recalls too readily the editorial
"declined with thanks." At best, the autograph original of a modern work is
a literary curiosity, it reveals the author's mechanism, not his mind. But
old manuscripts are in a different case; their age has increased their
charm, mellowed and confirmed their graces, whether they be canonical
books, which "defile the hand" in the Rabbinical sense, or Genizah-grimed
fragments, which soil the fingers more literally. And when the dust of ages
is removed, these old-world relics renew their youth, and stand forth as
witnesses to Israel's unshakable devotion to his heritage.
I have confessed to one Philistine habit; let me plead guilty to another. I
prefer to read a book rather than hear a lecture, because in the case of
the book I can turn to the last page first. I do like to know before I
start whether _he_ marries _her_ in the end or not. You cannot do this with
a spoken discourse, for you have to wait the lecturer's pleasure, and may
discover to your chagrin, not only that the end is very long in coming, but
that when it does come, it is of such a nature that, had you foreseen it,
you would certainly not have been present at the beginning. The real
interest of a love story is its process: though you may read the
consummation first, you are still anxious as to the course of the
courtship. But, in sober earnest, those people err who censure readers for
trying to peep at the last page first. For this much-abused habit has a
deep significance when applied to life. You will remember the ritual rule,
"It is the custom of all Israel for the reader of the Scroll of Esther to
read and spread out the Scroll like a letter, to make the miracle visible."
I remember hearing a sermon just before Purim, in Vienna, and the Jewish
preacher gave an admirable homiletic explanation of this rule. He pointed
out that in the story of Esther the fate of the Jews has very dark moments,
destruction faces them, and hope is remote. But in the end? In the end all
goes well. Now, by spreading out the Megillah in folds, displaying the end
with the beginning, "the miracle is made visible." Once Lord Salisbury,
when some timid Englishmen regarded the approach of the Russians to India
as a menace, told his countrymen to use large-scale maps, for these would
convince them that the Russians were not so near India after all. We Jews
suffer from the same nervousness. We need to use large-scale charts of
human history. We need to read history in centuries, not in years. Then we
should see things in their true perspective, with God changeless, as men
move down the ringing grooves of change. We should then be fuller of
content and confidence. We might gain a glimpse of the Divine plan, and
might perhaps get out of our habit of crying "All is lost" at every passing
persecution. As if never before had there been weeping for a night! As if
there had not always been abounding joy the morning after! Then let us,
like God Himself, try to see the end in the beginning, let us spread out
the Scroll, so that the glory of the finish may transfigure and illumine
the gloom and sadness of the intermediate course, and thus "the miracle" of
God's providential love will be "made visible" to all who have eyes to see
it.
What strikes a real lover of books when he casts his eye over the fine
things that have been said about reading, is this: there is too much said
about profit, about advantage. "Reading," said Bacon, "maketh a full man,"
and reading has been justified a thousand times on this famous plea. But,
some one else, I forget who, says, "You may as well expect to become strong
by always eating, as wise by always reading." Herbert Spencer was once
blamed by a friend for reading so little. Spencer replied, "If I read as
much as you do, I should know as little as you do." Too many of the
eulogies of books are utilitarian. A book has been termed "the home
traveller's ship or horse," and libraries, "the wardrobes of literature."
Another favorite phrase is Montaigne's, "'Tis the best viaticum for this
human journey," a phrase paralleled by the Rabbinic use of the Biblical
"provender for the way." "The aliment of youth, the comfort of old age," so
Cicero terms books. "The sick man is not to be pitied when he has his cure
in his sleeve"--that is where they used to carry their books. But I cannot
go through the long list of the beautiful, yet inadequate, similes that
abound in the works of great men, many of which can be read in the
"Book-Lover's Enchiridion," to which I have already alluded.
One constant comparison is of books to friends. This is perhaps best worked
out in one of the Epistles of Erasmus, which the "Enchiridion" omits: "You
want to know what I am doing. I devote myself to my friends, with whom I
enjoy the most delightful intercourse. With them I shut myself in some
corner, where I avoid the gaping crowd, and either speak to them in sweet
whispers, or listen to their gentle voices, talking with them as with
myself. Can anything be more convenient than this? They never hide their
own secrets, while they keep sacred whatever is entrusted to them. They
speak when bidden, and when not bidden they hold their tongue. They talk of
what you wish, and as long as you wish; do not flatter, feign nothing, keep
back nothing, freely tell you of your faults, and take no man's character
away. What they say is either amusing or wholesome. In prosperity they
moderate, in affliction they console; they do not vary with fortune, they
follow you in all dangers, and last out to the very grave. Nothing can be
more candid than their relations with one another. I visit them from time
to time, now choosing one companion and now another, with perfect
impartiality. With these humble friends, I bury myself in seclusion. What
wealth or what sceptres would I take in exchange for this tranquil life?"
Tranquillity is a not unworthy characteristic of the scholar, but, taking
Erasmus at his word, would he not have been even a greater man than he was,
had he been less tranquil and more strenuous? His great rôle in the history
of European culture would have been greater still, had he been readier to
bear the rubs which come from rough contact with the world. I will not,
however, allow myself to be led off into this alluring digression, whether
books or experience make a man wiser. Books may simply turn a man into a
"learned fool," and, on the other hand, experience may equally fail to
teach any of the lessons of wisdom. As Moore says:
My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they taught me.
The so-called men of the world often know little enough of the world of
men. It is a delusion to think that the business man is necessarily
business-like. Your business man is often the most un-business-like
creature imaginable. For practical ability, give me the man of letters.
Life among books often leads to insight into the book of life. At Cambridge
we speak of the reading men and the sporting men. Sir Richard Jebb, when he
went to Cambridge, was asked, "Do you mean to be a sporting man or a
reading man?" He replied, "Neither! I want to be a man who reads." Marcus
Aurelius, the scholar and philosopher, was not the least efficient of the
Emperors of Rome. James Martineau was right when he said that the student
not only becomes a better man, but he also becomes a better student, when
he concerns himself with the practical affairs of life as well as with his
books. And the idea cuts both ways. We should be better men of business if
we were also men of books. It is not necessary to recall that the ancient
Rabbis were not professional bookmen. They were smiths and ploughmen,
traders and merchants, and their businesses and their trades were idealized
and ennobled--and, may we not add, their handiwork improved?--by the
expenditure of their leisure in the schools and libraries of Jerusalem.
And so all the foregoing comparisons between books and other objects of
utility or delight, charming though some of these comparisons are, fail to
satisfy one. One feels that the old Jewish conception is the only
completely true one: that conception which came to its climax in the
appointment of a benediction to be uttered before beginning to read a book
of the Law.
The real solace of books comes from the sense of service, to be rendered or
received; and one must enter that holy of holies, the library, with a
grateful benediction on one's lip, and humility and reverence and joy in
one's soul. Of all the writers about books, Charles Lamb, in his playful
way, comes nearest to this old-world, yet imperishable, ideal of the Jewish
sages. He says: "I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twenty other
occasions in the course of the day besides my dinner. I want a form for
setting out on a pleasant walk, for a midnight ramble, for a friendly
meeting, for a solved problem. Why have we none for books, those spiritual
repasts--a grace before Milton,--a grace before Shakespeare,--a devotional
exercise proper to be said before reading the Fairy Queen?" The Jewish
ritual could have supplied Lamb with several of these graces.
It will, I hope, now be seen why in speaking on the solace of books I have
said so little about consolation. It pains me to hear books praised as a
relief from worldly cares, to hear the library likened to an asylum for
broken spirits. I have never been an admirer of Boëthius. His "Consolations
of Philosophy" have always been influential and popular, but I like better
the first famous English translator than the original Latin author.
Boëthius wrote in the sixth century as a fallen man, as one to whom
philosophy came in lieu of the mundane glory which he had once possessed,
and had now lost. But Alfred the Great turned the "Consolations" into
English at the moment of his greatest power. He translated it in the year
886, when king on a secure throne; in his brightest days, when the Danish
clouds had cleared. Sorrow has often produced great books, great psalms, to
which the sorrowful heart turns for solace. But in the truest sense the
Shechinah rests on man only in his joy, when he has so attuned his life
that misfortune is but another name for good fortune. He must have learned
to endure before he seeks the solace of communion with the souls of the
great, with the soul of God. Very saddening it is to note how often men
have turned to books because life has no other good. The real book-lover
goes to his books when life is fullest of other joys, when his life is
richest in its manifold happiness. Then he adds the crown of joy to his
other joys, and finds the highest happiness.
I do not like to think of the circumstances under which Sir Thomas
Bodley went to Oxford to found his famous library. Not till his
diplomatic career was a failure, not till Elizabeth's smiles had
darkened into frowns, did he set up his staff at the library door. But
Bodley rather mistook himself. As a lad the library had been his joy,
and when he was abroad, at the summit of his public fame, he turned his
diplomatic missions to account by collecting books and laying the
foundation of his future munificence. I even think that no lover of
books ever loved them so well in his adversity as in his prosperity.
Another view was held by Don Isaac Abarbanel, the famous Jewish
statesman and litterateur. Under Alfonso V, of Portugal, and other
rulers, he attained high place, but was brought low by the Inquisition,
and shared in the expulsion of his brethren. He writes in one of his
letters: "The whole time I lived in the courts and palaces of kings,
occupied in their service, I had no leisure to read or write books. My
days were spent in vain ambitions, seeking after wealth and honor. Now
that my wealth is gone, and honor has become exiled from Israel; now
that I am a vagabond and a wanderer on the earth, and I have no money:
now, I have returned to seek the book of God, as it is said, [Hebrew:
cheth-samech-vav-resh-yod mem-cheth-samech-resh-aleph vav-hey-chaf-yod
qof-tav-nun-yod], 'He is in sore need, therefore he studies.'"
This is witty, but it is not wise. Fortunately, it is not quite true;
Abarbanel does little justice to himself in this passage, for elsewhere (in
the preface to his Commentary on Kings) he draws a very different picture
of his life in his brilliant court days. "My house," he says, "was an
assembly place for the wise ... in my abode and within my walls were wealth
and fame for the Torah and for those made great in its lore." Naturally,
the active statesman had less leisure for his books than the exiled, fallen
minister.
So, too, with an earlier Jewish writer, Saadia. No sadder title was ever
chosen for a work than his _Sefer ha-Galui_--"Book of the Exiled." It is
beyond our province to enter into his career, full of stress and storm.
Between 933 and 937, driven from power, he retired to his library at
Bagdad, just as Cincinnatus withdrew to his farm when Rome no longer needed
him. During his retirement Saadia's best books were written. Why? Graetz
tells us that "Saadia was still under the ban of excommunication. He had,
therefore, no other sphere of action than that of an author." This is
pitiful; but, again, it is not altogether true. Saadia's whole career was
that of active authorship, when in power and out of power, as a boy, in
middle life, in age: his constant thought was the service of truth, in so
far as literature can serve it, and one may well think that he felt that
the Crown of the Law was better worth wearing in prosperity, when he chose
it out of other crowns, than in adversity, when it was the only crown
within his reach. It was thus that King Solomon chose.
So, in speaking of the solace of books, I have ventured to employ "solace"
in an old, unusual sense. "Solace" has many meanings. It means "comfort in
sorrow," and in Scotch law it denotes a compensation for wounded feelings,
_solatium_, moral and intellectual damages in short. But in Chaucer and
Spenser, "solace" is sometimes used as a synonym for joy and sweet
exhilaration. This is an obsolete use, but let me hope that the thing is
not obsolete. For one must go to his books for solace, not in mourning
garb, but in gayest attire--to a wedding, not to a funeral. When John Clare
wrote,
I read in books for happiness,
But books mistake the way to joy,
he read for what he ought to have brought, and thus he failed to find his
goal. The library has been beautifully termed the "bridal chamber of the
mind." So, too, the Apocrypha puts it in the Wisdom of Solomon:
Wisdom is radiant....
Her I loved and sought out from my youth,
And I sought to take her for my bride,
And I became enamored of her beauty.
* * * * *
When I am come into my house, I shall find rest with her,
For converse with her hath no bitterness,
And to live with her hath no pain.
* * * * *
O God of the fathers, ...
Give me wisdom, that sitteth by Thee on Thy throne.