In the neighboring city of Chicago they have a club which boasts the
name of “The Dofobs”. It is not a pretty name, but it means much to the
members. Every two or three years it produces a Year Book and it has
printed “The Love Letters of Nathaniel Hawthorne”, a copy of which now
and then appears at the auction block and is sold for a fabulous price.
Aside from such occasional diversions, these people indulge in pure
Dofobery, which is not really as bad as it sounds. It signifies a
peculiar relation towards books and bookish things; not a mania for
books, but a comfortable enjoyment of them; not a craving for them
solely because they happen to be old, or rare, or famous, but a delight
in them and in the associations which cluster about them, in talking
about them, in scribbling about them, in amusing oneself with them. It
does not require much sagacity to read between the letters of the name;
for most people know what “d.f.” stands for, and “d.o.f.” is only a
variation.
A Dofob does not trouble himself much about what others think of him or
of his favorite pursuits, because he has what may be fairly styled the
true Dofobian spirit and lives up to the immortal definition of an
honest man as enunciated by the philosopher Timothy Toodles. The honest
man, according to the _dictum_ of that profound observer, was one who
did not care a small Indian copper coin of trifling value—that is to
say, a dam; although I think the philosopher added some superfluous
words about not caring that for what sort of coat a man wore as long as
his heart was in the right place. This sartorial and physiological
supplement is immaterial, for the truth of the characterization lies in
the primary expression: perhaps the word “continental” prefixed to the
name of the coin would impart to the definition a distinctively American
flavor.
Mr. Growoll in his interesting account of American Book Clubs tells of a
number of these associations, whose laudable purposes are grave, serious
and edifying; wrapped in a mantle of dignity which is most becoming but
which arouses emotions of awe rather than of sympathy. The Dofob is not
as serious as the Grolierite or the Caxtonian. The fact that many of his
fellow-beings look upon him as an individual of imperfect intelligence
because of his inordinate interest in books, he considers to be
equivalent to a patent of nobility; for if he loves a particular book
with a passion transcending all others, he is thereby raised, in his own
estimation, far above the ordinary level of mankind and looks down from
empyrean heights on those who are not sufficiently endowed with
intellect or with intuition to comprehend that the veritable Dofob is
the only person who possesses the power of recognizing at sight the very
best and worthiest of all the books ever printed since the days of Fust
and Gutenberg. With a superb self-appreciation and yet with the greatest
affection and respect for my companions in Dofobishness, I own that in
the depths of my being I consider no individual Dofob to be quite as
praiseworthy, deserving and omniscient as I am. I regard myself as
preeminently a D.O.F. and all that those letters imply, happy in the
contentment which usually results from absolute self conceit. Our chief
pleasure is in being regarded as confirmed and irresponsible cranks,
defying the contumely of the world, hugging to our bosoms our pet
delusions and willing to let other Dofobs hug theirs as closely. I might
however be jealous if any one of them should hug too long and
affectionately my own sweetheart book, for lovely books are as
delightful but often as untrustworthy as lovely women. They are apt to
run off with some millionaire. I am sadly conscious of the fact that the
much prized Davenant folio or my Beaumont and Fletcher would be as happy
in the arms of another as they are in my own. I think that I may as well
abandon the metaphor here and now, for I may be unwittingly led into
something which is described in the catalogues as “curious” or
“facetious”. The man who was arrested for stealing a folio Shakespeare
which he was lugging home after the fashion of Charles Lamb and who
pleaded that it was a joke, was justly reminded by the wise magistrate
that he was carrying the joke too far. (Cf. Joseph Miller’s Reports,
_passim_). There is such a thing as carrying an analogy a little too
far.
Parenthetically, one is moved to inquire why it is that we Dofobs who
write about books are accustomed to adopt a style of labored
facetiousness, for books are serious things. It is like the fashion of
those who relate the history of old New York and who assume the tone of
“Knickerbocker”: or of the delineator of life in the far west who cannot
help imitating Bret Harte as the novelist of adventure in knighthood
days imitates Sir Walter Scott. Books ought to be worthy of pure
Johnsonese, the only dialect of dignity enough to deal with so solemn a
subject.
A Dofob would not assert with offensive pride that the majority of
people in this prosperous country are devoid of a real affection for
books, but he is sorry for some of those who fondly imagine that they
are bookish, occasionally reveal their inmost thoughts about books, and
unconsciously disclose their sad incapacity to understand the essential
nature of book-loving. In the matter of bindings, for example, there is
commonly a lamentable ignorance. A few years ago I fortunately
discovered a book printed in the latter part of the eighteenth century,
produced in New York, and bound in the fine old calf of the period: a
little dilapidated by the ravages of time and the bookseller’s shelves,
but by no means in a state of ruin. That very binding made it cost me a
goodly sum, for the contents were of no general interest; the book
itself, the entity, binding and all, gave it value. I honored that book
and after petting it properly, gladly gave it to a dear old gentleman,
the only man in the city who knew anything about the subject dealt with
in the book. A few weeks later he proudly brought it back to me in order
that I might inscribe a few words on the fly leaf, and he said with
considerable satisfaction, “You see, sir, that I have it neatly
rebound!” And so he had, to my horror. The splendid old calf—I am
referring to the binding—in which a Dofob would have rejoiced greatly,
had been replaced by smug, cheap and modern cloth. Then it was that I
grieved because my vocabulary was limited to the few thousand words
which the devotee of statistics allows to the average man. All the
languages of Mezzofanti could not have done justice to the situation;
but the heroic self-restraint of a Dofob came into play and I suffered
in silence. The honest but misguided friend will never know the full
extent of the crime, and as the book is more to his liking in its
present garb than it was in what he was pleased to call its “shabby”
dress, it would have been needlessly cruel to undeceive him; and, after
all, the matter was beyond remedy.
The kind friend who understands the intricacies of the stock-market and
who tells me much that I care not for, about my garden, where I should
buy my clothes, and what I should have in my library; who enlightens me,
as many of our merciless fellow-beings love to do, about all questions
of religion or of politics; the dear creature who is fond of saying
“Now, what _you_ ought to do is”—whatever in the plentitude of his
self-contentment he ardently believes to be what every one else should
do, because _he_ does it; this one, I say, seldom knows anything about
bindings. “_I_ buy books to read”, he brags, as if one could not read
comfortably a well-bound book. If you mention Tout, or Rivière, or
Hayley, or Zaehnsdorf, to say nothing of Lortic, Prideaux, De Sauty or
Cobden-Sanderson, he stares at you with glassy eyes of indifference and
perhaps he calls your attention to a Barrie “edition de looks”, or to
some of the paralyzing productions which the simple-minded are deluded
into purchasing by the influence of alluring advertisements and
insinuating circulars designed to mislead the ambitious but unwary
buyers of books in the market-place.
I plead guilty to the charge of being a dreary old fool over books, but
chiefly over old books, for they have a settled and permanent character
which no one may impeach. We may be tolerably sure about them; they are
generally what they seem to be, with their broad margins, their solid,
substantial type, and their charming air of dignity. Most of the books
of our day are unworthy of absolute confidence, and their paper, their
binding, and their typography are a source of grief to the judicious.
The man whose literary pabulum is sufficiently supplied by his daily
newspaper may ask why an old book, with aged and decayed covers, is
better than a new one with that outward adornment of gilt which some
publishers delight to lavish upon us. The sagacious Dofob will not
undertake the task of breaking his way into the solid density of such a
mind or of explaining to him the reason, for the game is not worth the
candle. When I was a boy I rashly attempted to convince a likely colored
lad that slavery was right and should never be abolished, but to my
fervid eloquence he invariably responded “Well, I doan’ know ’bout
that”. It was an effective rejoinder and I now believe that he was
fairly entitled to his name of Solomon. The smart individual of these
times is beyond the reach of argument, and all one can do is to say to
him, “Go to your newspaper, buy subscription editions of ‘standard
authors’, fill your shelves with ‘the best sellers’, and be as happy as
you may”.
But notwithstanding what I have just said, it is a favorite fallacy
quite prevalent among the uninitiated that a book must be old in order
to attract the bibliolater. True, as Emily Dickinson, with a magnificent
disregard of rhyme, sings:
“A precious mouldering pleasure ’tis
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore:
A privilege, I think.”
A Dofob, however, does not restrict himself to such dolorous delights as
“mouldering pleasures”, and sees no good reason why he should not be
fascinated by something fresh from a good press as well as by what
writers about books are addicted to calling “musty tomes”. A “tome”, I
believe has come to mean “a large book”, but a Dofob does not
necessarily prize it above a slender duodecimo, any more than he would
prefer a fat friend to a thin one; and while gray hairs may be held
dear, blond locks and jetty curls may be just as winning. A thoughtful
physician once told me that he never read a book that was less than ten
years old; he was not and could never be a Dofob. The rule may be well
enough when applied to fiction, and a rigid observance of it would save
some valuable time; but why should a man living in the earliest quarter
of the last century have delayed for a decade the reading of Shelley’s
“Prometheus Unbound”, or “Rob Roy”, or “The Heart of Midlothian,” or the
two precious volumes of “Charles Lamb’s works”, then given to the world?
A Dofob cannot be persuaded that any book should be neglected because it
is old or condemned merely because it is new. The passion for rare
relics of antiquity is one not difficult to comprehend, but it is not
exclusive of a passion for the best of modern books. Whether the date
upon the title be that of the reign of Elizabeth or of the time of
Victoria or Edward, “a book’s a book for a’ that”.
There is a good deal of sameness in the praises of books by book-lovers.
In his Anthology called “Book Song”, Mr. Gleeson White says: “friends
that never tire, that cannot be scorned or dallied with, is an idea that
recurs constantly”, and in regard to those eulogies of special volumes
with which most of us are familiar, he remarks justly, “at times the
pride of ownership becomes a little irritating and seems deliberately
worded to provoke jealousy”. It is a characteristic of Dofobishness that
the Dofob does not indulge in panegyrics upon his own property, although
he may do a little private bragging among intimates. He may dote upon
the book of another, and borrow it too, giving no credence to the common
delusion that a borrowed book is never returned. That is where he shows
his superiority over the ordinary man. Nor does he glorify his books as
“friends who never tire”. I would not care much for any friend who was
so devoid of human qualities as not to be tiresome now and then. A
companion who was always entertaining would be a cloying sort of person,
and even his perfections would grow wearisome in time. The book has an
advantage over a friend in this, that it may be thrown in a corner, or
thrust in a cabinet, or banished to the back-rows when its allurements
begin to pall, and if it experiences any sense of resentment or
mortification at such a summary dismissal, it gives no outward or
visible signs of dissatisfaction. Moreover books are immensely superior
to human friends for they never “call one up” on the telephone, that
imperious invader of peace and comfort, a modern affliction more
dreadful even than the motor-cycle, that Moloch of the highways, because
it has a wider field of operation. One may have some respect for the
automobile, king of our roads, but for the vulgar, snorting tyrant, the
degradation of a graceful, noiseless bicycle, naught but disgust and
horror. No self-respecting horse can meet it without justifiable
rebellion. I have found it the Juggernaut of New Jersey.
Few comprehend fully the bookishness of a book, its deserving dignity,
and its peculiar sensitiveness. This man will deliberately turn down the
corner of a leaf, and that man will cut the sheets with rude,
iconoclastic finger or ruthlessly bend open the tender volume until its
back is well-nigh broken. There ought to be a constitutional provision
against cruel and unusual punishments of books, for surely they are
fellow-citizens of worth and as much entitled to protection as the red
men of the West who have recently been added to the number of our
masters, or the voluble and dagger-loving emigrant from Italy who comes
to us with droves of his kind and cheerfully stabs his women or his
rivals in our public streets. I shudder when I remember how often I have
beheld the shocking spectacle of a Philistine actually pulling a book
from the shelf by the top, or wetting his fingers as he turned the pages
of a sacred first edition. But it is better not to dwell upon such
harrowing subjects.
However boastful, arrogant and censorious these deliberations may
appear, I protest that I am not quite as conceited as I pretend to be.
The bravado is assumed. I am really humble, conscious of my limitations,
and profoundly deferential towards the experts who are masters of
book-history and are able to “collate”, while I am, by natural
incapacity, utterly unable to share in the collation. I admire these
mighty men afar off, and am devoured by envy of their learning. Let me
however disclose the miserable truth that I find old Dibdin stupid, that
I am dreadfully bored by the tedious catalogues given to us from time to
time by some of our non-Dofobian book clubs, and that in fact I abhor
all catalogues of things which I can never hope to call my own. It may
be a mark of genuine Dofobery to scorn scientific book-description; it
always makes me uneasy and discontented. It affects me much in the same
way as the formal phrases of what the companion of my childhood,
(bookishly speaking) Captain Mayne Reid, used to call “the closet
naturalists”—now known as “nature fakirs”—must affect men who pursue the
tremendous teddy-bear and the bodacious bob-cat in their native wilds. I
am so much in love with my own few books that I would no more dream of
regarding them from the cataloguer’s point of view than I would of
measuring my Dulcinea’s features in order to ascertain whether or not
she comes up to the standard of beauty prescribed by the dull and
pedantic persons who reduce everything to formulas.
Candidly, anything hereinbefore contained to the contrary
notwithstanding, I believe that in our beloved country there are more
enthusiastic lovers of books than may be found in any other land. Yet,
if I am not sadly mistaken, England is the paradise of Dofobs. She ought
to be; she is so much older than we are; she was bookish when we were
busy in building an empire and boasted more bears than books. It makes
my heart palpitate when I glance over the fascinating lists of Sotheby,
Wilkinson and Hodge, and see what the libraries of the well-to-do
Britons disgorge without ostentation,—treasures which make the
book-lover’s soul thrill with the indescribable tremor which only a
long-desired book can bring. I find myself wondering whether it will go
on forever, if the resources of the innumerable “gentleman’s libraries”
in England will be exhausted in our own time at least. I trust not,
although I fear that the insatiable demands of American buyers may
ultimately absorb the supply. I am not by any means an Anglomaniac, for
our English cousins are fast becoming too socialistic for my taste, but
surely their auction-sales are more attractive than ours, and what is
more delectable than one of their best “book shops”? Why cannot we have
such palaces of joy as those which may be found on the Strand, or in
Piccadilly, or in the regions adjacent to the British Museum, or indeed
in other places than London, where a Dofob may discover almost
everything necessary to sate his appetite. I am affectionately
reminiscent of Maggs’s. I am not trying to advertise Maggs’s; the name
is not beautiful, euphonious, or seductive; it reminds one of the
nomenclature of Dickens. But the shop is a dream, the managers are
tactful and considerate, and there one may browse undisturbed and
uninterrupted, with no sorrow but that which comes from the fact that
while the prices are low when compared with ours, the purse of a
plutocrat could never suffice to give us all the jewels preserved in the
coffers of those polite and kindly vendors of dainties. I do not know
what may be in Chicago, but in New York we have scarcely anything as
alluring or as charming. Why are we denied such luxuries? When I am
daring enough to enter the precincts of a New York “book-store”—it is
never a “shop”—I approach the majestic salesman with fear and trembling,
having already left my pocket-book with the gentle cabman. Does the
nobleman lead me smilingly to a quiet recess, place a chair and a table
at my disposal, and with tender solicitude submit to me the latest
acquisition, the first edition, the extra-illustrated treasure, the
autograph letter or manuscript which has just “come in” and has not yet
been advertised or catalogued? By no means; he regards me with the same
contemptuous hauteur which is displayed by the clerk of a popular hotel
when I register my name and plead for “a room with bath”. I depart from
the chilly halls feeling that I ought to be ashamed for having disturbed
the lofty serenity of the supercilious magnate. They do these things
better in France and in England: better in almost every other country as
those who have had experience well know. They are content, these
foreigners, with moderate profits. It is true that an American
bookseller is obliged to pay higher rent and is subjected to heavier
expenses because of the extravagant exactions of almost every one in
this free land of ours—except, of course, the modest and diffident
lawyers. Patriotism does not require one to acquiesce uncomplainingly in
the exorbitant prices of our own book dealers. Let me however be fair
and qualify my sweeping assertions: I know a few very decent
book-vendors in New York and in Boston who want to be reasonable and are
“not so bad”. I am grateful to them for many favors. In the words of
Heron-Allen’s “Ballade of Olde Books”,
“I’ve haunted Brentano and John Delay,
And toyed with their stories of France so free,
At Putnam’s and Scribner’s from day to day
I’ve flirted with Saltus and Roe (E. P.):
But weary of all, I have turned with glee
To Bouton’s murk shelves with their wealth untold,
Yearning for Quaritch in Piccadilly
Where the second-hand books are bought and sold.”
This would be more accurate if some of the names were changed. I plead
not guilty to Saltus and Roe, and I may perhaps be forgiven for not
remembering at the moment who John Delay was or is.
Why do we allow such sordid considerations as prices to influence us in
any way? Most of us Dofobs are devoid of a surplus of funds, but we
value our possessions all the more because we may have had to make some
sacrifices to secure them. If we were indifferent about cost, we would
lose much of the pleasure of ownership. I well remember the time when I
abstained from luncheon in order to buy a second-hand, shabby volume at
Leggatt’s. I do not have to deny now my appetite for midday food, but
whenever I come upon one of those old books in my peregrinations about
the library, I have the pleasant little throb of the heart which brings
back to me the ardor of youth, and those cheap treasures take to
themselves a halo which transcends the brilliancy of even an illuminated
missal or a noble Caxton. Those long cherished companions speak to me in
eloquence scarcely to be comprehended by one who is not a Dofob to the
core.
We are grateful to the kindly dealers who send to us catalogues full of
temptations for those who are so ready to be tempted. With James Freeman
Clarke already quoted, we repeat that “it is a pleasure even to read the
description and the title”, and often like Eugene Field of blessed
memory we mark the items which are too bewitching to resist as if we
were going to acquire them and then either forget about them or resolve
that our purse cannot afford the luxury, afterwards confident that we
bought them and searching for them in vain in the entrancing regions of
the book-cases.
Then what an insane joy there is in arranging the volumes, sometimes
lamenting because the shelves are not exactly adapted to the association
of fellow-books so that we fear that they will not be as friendly one to
another as we would like to have them. If any one needs occupation for a
rainy day, what more agreeable work may he find than that of assorting
the books, so that not only will their sky-line be less jagged than that
of lower New York, but that their contents may be of a nature to make
them as sociable as they ought to be: while it must be borne in mind
that the colors of their bindings should not be too glaringly
inharmonious. And after all have been arranged, it is the joy of the
genuine Dofob to arrange them all over again. There are times when the
shelves overflow, and then comes the question of a new book-case and a
still graver question as to where it shall be placed, leading to a
further question about the enlargement of the house, which should be
constructed on the Globe-Wernicke principle, for the main use of a house
is to store books in it.
But there comes to every Dofob the thought that it will not be long
before he must leave them. What is to become of them? No one will ever
worship them as he has done all his life. They are interwoven with his
existence and it is pitiful to think that he must be parted from them. I
fear that in the world of the hereafter there may be no books, but it is
not easy for me to imagine a heaven where books are not. I do not mean
to be irreverent and I do not know whether I may attain even a bookless
heaven, but I am unorthodox enough to own that I might prefer a bookish
Hades.