Marcus Varro went up and down
The places where old books were sold;
He ransacked all the shops in town
For pictures new and pictures old.
He gave the folk of earth no peace;
Snooping around by day and night,
He plied the trade in Rome and Greece
Of an insatiate Grangerite.
"Pictures!" was evermore his cry--
"Pictures of old or recent date,"
And pictures only would he buy
Wherewith to "extra-illustrate."
Full many a tome of ancient type
And many a manuscript he took,
For nary purpose but to swipe
Their pictures for some other book.
While Marcus Varro plied his fad
There was not in the shops of Greece
A book or pamphlet to be had
That was not minus frontispiece.
Nor did he hesitate to ply
His baleful practices at home;
It was not possible to buy
A perfect book in all of Rome!
What must the other folk have done--
Who, glancing o'er the books they bought,
Came soon and suddenly upon
The vandalism Varro wrought!
How must their cheeks have flamed with red--
How did their hearts with choler beat!
We can imagine what they said--
We can imagine, not repeat!
Where are the books that Varro made--
The pride of dilettante Rome--
With divers portraitures inlaid
Swiped from so many another tome?
The worms devoured them long ago--
O wretched worms! ye should have fed
Not on the books "extended" so,
But on old Varro's flesh instead!
Alas, that Marcus Varro lives
And is a potent factor yet!
Alas, that still his practice gives
Good men occasion for regret!
To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go,
And by the "missing" prints and plates
And frontispieces you shall know
He lives, and "extra-illustrates"!
In justice to the Judge and to myself I should say that neither of us
wholly approves the sentiment which the poem I have quoted implies. We
regard Grangerism as one of the unfortunate stages in bibliomania; it
is a period which seldom covers more than five years, although Dr.
O'Rell has met with one case in his practice that has lasted ten years
and still gives no symptom of abating in virulence.
Humanity invariably condones the pranks of youth on the broad and
charitable grounds that "boys will be boys"; so we bibliomaniacs are
prone to wink at the follies of the Grangerite, for we know that he
will know better by and by and will heartily repent of the mischief he
has done. We know the power of books so well that we know that no man
can have to do with books that presently he does not love them. He may
at first endure them; then he may come only to pity them; anon, as
surely as the morrow's sun riseth, he shall embrace and love those
precious things.
So we say that we would put no curb upon any man, it being better that
many books should be destroyed, if ultimately by that destruction a
penitent and loyal soul be added to the roster of bibliomaniacs.
There is more joy over one Grangerite that repenteth than over ninety
and nine just men that need no repentance.
And we have a similar feeling toward such of our number as for the
nonce become imbued with a passion for any of the other little fads
which bibliomaniac flesh is heir to. All the soldiers in an army
cannot be foot, or horse, or captains, or majors, or generals, or
artillery, or ensigns, or drummers, or buglers. Each one has his place
to fill and his part to do, and the consequence is a concinnate whole.
Bibliomania is beautiful as an entirety, as a symmetrical blending of a
multitude of component parts, and he is indeed disloyal to the cause
who, through envy or shortsightedness or ignorance, argues to the
discredit of angling, or Napoleonana, or balladry, or Indians, or
Burns, or Americana, or any other branch or phase of bibliomania; for
each of these things accomplishes a noble purpose in that each
contributes to the glory of the great common cause of bibliomania,
which is indeed the summum bonum of human life.
I have heard many decried who indulged their fancy for bookplates, as
if, forsooth, if a man loved his books, he should not lavish upon them
testimonials of his affection! Who that loves his wife should hesitate
to buy adornments for her person? I favor everything that tends to
prove that the human heart is swayed by the tenderer emotions.
Gratitude is surely one of the noblest emotions of which humanity is
capable, and he is indeed unworthy of our respect who would forbid
humanity's expressing in every dignified and reverential manner its
gratitude for the benefits conferred by the companionship of books.
As for myself, I urge upon all lovers of books to provide themselves
with bookplates. Whenever I see a book that bears its owner's plate I
feel myself obligated to treat that book with special consideration.
It carries with it a certificate of its master's love; the bookplate
gives the volume a certain status it would not otherwise have. Time
and again I have fished musty books out of bins in front of bookstalls,
bought them and borne them home with me simply because they had upon
their covers the bookplates of their former owners. I have a case
filled with these aristocratic estrays, and I insist that they shall be
as carefully dusted and kept as my other books, and I have provided in
my will for their perpetual maintenance after my decease.
If I were a rich man I should found a hospital for homeless
aristocratic books, an institution similar in all essential particulars
to the institution which is now operated at our national capital under
the bequest of the late Mr. Cochrane. I should name it the Home for
Genteel Volumes in Decayed Circumstances.
I was a young man when I adopted the bookplate which I am still using,
and which will be found in all my books. I drew the design myself and
had it executed by a son of Anderson, the first of American engravers.
It is by no means elaborate: a book rests upon a heart, and underneath
appear the lines:
My Book and Heart
Must never part.
Ah, little Puritan maid, with thy dear eyes of honest blue and thy fair
hair in proper plaits adown thy back, little thought we that
springtime long ago back among the New England hills that the tiny book
we read together should follow me through all my life! What a part has
that Primer played! And now all these other beloved companions bear
witness to the love I bear that Primer and its teachings, for each
wears the emblem I plucked from its homely pages.
That was in the springtime, Captivity Waite; anon came summer, with all
its exuberant glory, and presently the cheery autumn stole upon me.
And now it is the winter-time, and under the snows lies buried many a
sweet, fair thing I cherished once. I am aweary and will rest a little
while; lie thou there, my pen, for a dream--a pleasant dream--calleth
me away. I shall see those distant hills again, and the homestead
under the elms; the old associations and the old influences shall be
round about me, and a child shall lead me and we shall go together
through green pastures and by still waters. And, O my pen, it will be
the springtime again!