Whether there are many who take much interest in books about books is
a matter of doubt. Multitudes of people like to think that they are
fond of books merely as books, and derive great comfort from the
innocent delusion that they delight in the possession of them. A neat
and imposing library is an attractive ornament of the country house as
well as of the city mansion, and if the volumes are bound in a
becoming fashion, by Zaehnsdorf, Rivière, Lortic, or Cobden-Sanderson,
they look well on the shelves and impart to the establishment an air
of dignity and refinement. But it is a portentous question whether the
majority of book-owners ever find occasion or opportunity to inquire
within or to inform themselves about the contents of the tomes which
line the walls of the comfortable library. The toilers who are
absorbed in the drudgery of daily work have little leisure to expend
on the inside of their books, and the merry idlers who devote their
energies to sports, athletic or otherwise, amusements, and the varied
diversions which occupy the minds of the members of our modern
“society”, have still less. My dear friend, the average man, deserving
as he is of admiration and respect, cannot have much interest in books
which are purely bookish, and my dearer friend, the average woman, who
now and again plunges calmly but despairingly into the depths of
“literature”,—combining with others of her kind in so-called reading
clubs, so as to share her afflictions with her fellows—secretly longs
for the sweets of fiction while she pretends to be fond of such stupid
performances as essays and dissertations. In the recesses of her
personality she regards works of that description as bores to be
avoided; and very likely she is not far wrong.
Mind, I am not talking of inhabitants of Boston, Massachusetts. It may
be that my notions are derived wholly from my New York environment. A
New Yorker appears to think that it is an evidence of weakness to allow
any one to find out that books are dear to him, and seems to be as loath
to confess the passion as he would be to proclaim at the club or upon
the house-tops his fond attachment to the lady of his choice. In the
goodly number of years during which I have trodden the pavements and
availed of the facilities of transit afforded by the street-railways of
the city whereof we are justly proud, I do not remember hearing the
subject of books or of things pertaining to books discussed or even
referred to by any of my neighbors. But recently in Boston, while
walking on Boylston Street, I passed two lads who were still in their
later teens, and distinctly heard one of them say, “the Latin derivation
of that word is”—I lost the rest of it. In New York he would have been
uttering something in the vulgar argot used by the youth of our
times,—preserved and fostered by the newspaper—about “de cops” or “de
Giants”, or the superiority of some novel brand of cigarettes. They
would have blushed for shame to be discovered in the possession of any
knowledge of such discreditable matters as “Latin” or “derivations” of
any description. The gospel of “doing things” has been preached to them
so strenuously that they have long since forgotten, if they ever knew,
that there is any virtue in “knowing things”.
Sitting at the library table and letting my eyes wander with affection
to the adjacent shelves, I try to fancy who buys the multitudinous books
of memoirs and reminiscences, of literary, dramatic and political
gossip, which are poured forth so profusely from the English presses.
Now and then I encounter their titles in seductive catalogues and
purchase them at large reductions from the original prices—“published at
£3 10s and marked down to 7s 6d.” We have nothing quite like them in
these United States, or very little, because they do not “pay”, as the
phrase runs. I wonder whether these English books “pay” in England, but
I am inclined to think that they must, for publishers are not usually
actuated by motives of pure philanthropy; they do not print for pleasure
only or for personal gratification in bringing out the screeds of
ambitious authors. I like those English books; their type is large and
legible; the paper has a substantial mellowness; and the simple bindings
are well-fitted to be torn off and replaced by real bindings. They have
the merit of what may be called “skippability”, for the writers are
sadly given to deplorable diffuseness and degenerate frequently into
tediousness for which I love them, as a fellow-sinner. They convey
impressions of abundant leisure and unlimited vocabulary. Does an author
ever become conscious that he is growing tedious? If he does, how he
must revel in the thought that, despite his tediousness, some daring
explorer will toil through his pages, and that in some library at least,
be it that of the British Museum or of our own Congress, his book will
stand triumphantly upon the shelves in the company of Lord Avebury’s One
Hundred.
I do not believe that an ordinary American, at least in these days,
would dream of publishing such a book as “Gossip From Paris”, the
correspondence (1864–1869) of Anthony B. North Peat, which the Kegan
Paul house brought out a few years ago. Some one may say that an
American could not, and I will not deny the charge if it is made. North
Peat, whose name sounds like that of a station on the Grand Trunk
Railway, was not by any means a famous person, but he was a clever and
an observant journalist and there is much of interest in the volume
mingled with much that is of no present interest whatever. One passage
has given me comfort, because it contains something rarely encountered—a
good word for the collector of autographs. Usually when an author is
feeling a little rancor about life generally, he will go far out of his
way to kick an autograph collector. I purr slightly when I quote what
North Peat wrote in September, 1866.
“I know one man in Paris who has an extensive library composed
exclusively of works in one volume and of the same folio; but,
perhaps, among the manifold phases of the collecting mania none is
more excusable than that of gathering autographs.*** To read over the
names and the tariff at which signatures or letters are quoted gives a
most curious insight into the place held in public opinion by the
generals, diplomatists, poets, literary men, composers, and even
criminals whose handwritings are eagerly sought for by amateurs. Last
month the prices ran thus: George Sand, 6f.; Seward, 10f.; Jefferson
Davis, 15f.; Duke of Morny, 4f. 50c.; Michelet, 1f. 75c.; McClellan,
20f.; Verdi, 3f. 50c.; Prévost Paradol, 2f. 50c.; Champfleury, 2f.
Gerard de Nerval is quoted 20f., thanks to a note attached to the
letter, ‘correspondance amoreuse très passionée.’ A copybook of the
King of Rome is quoted 20f. Rénan, the sceptic author of _La Vie de
Jèsus_, keeps up in the market, and goes for 10f. A letter of Henri
Latouche is to be sold for 2f. 50c.; it contains the following curious
passage: ‘The only souvenirs of my literary life to which I look back
with pride are, having edited _André Chénier_ and having deterred
George Sand from devoting her talents to water-colour drawing.’ A
letter of Louis XVI is quoted at 2f. 50c., by which the King grants a
sum of 2400f. (£100) to ‘La Dame Rousseau, cradle-rocker to the
children of France’.”
I have quoted thus at length not only because of my pride in the
compliment to autograph collectors but because the prices mentioned must
bring a pang to the hearts of those who buy now-a-days and pay more than
ten times as much for George Sands, Verdis, and Louis XVIs. I can
imagine the sensations of a dealer of to-day if some innocent should
offer fifty cents for that Louis XVI document—I am confident that it was
not a letter. Mr. North Peat has overlooked the fact, as is common with
those who do not belong to the inner brotherhood, that contents are of
much consequence in establishing the market value of autograph letters,
but his figures are not without significance. Some of us are glad to
observe that even in 1866 McClellan’s autograph “fetched” twice as much
as Seward’s and six times as much as Verdi’s.
Very unlike the reasonable remarks of North Peat is the autographic
deliverance of that once celebrated “educator”, Mr. Horace Mann. This
gem of wisdom, given to me by a Boston friend in a malicious spirit of
kindly generosity, is lying on the library table. It reads thus:—
“I would rather perform one useful act for my fellow men than to be
the possessor of all the autographs in the world.