I am sure that if Madame de Sablé lived now, books would be seen in her
salon as part of its natural indispensable furniture; not brought out,
and strewed here and there when 'company was coming', but as habitual
presences in her room, wanting which, she would want a sense of warmth
and comfort and companionship. Putting out books as a sort of
preparation for an evening, as a means for making it pass agreeably, is
running a great risk. In the first place, books are by such people, and
on such occasions, chosen more for their outside than their inside. And
in the next, they are the 'mere material with which wisdom (or wit)
builds'; and if persons don't know how to use the material, they will
suggest nothing. I imagine Madame de Sablé would have the volumes she
herself was reading, or those which, being new, contained any matter of
present interest, left about, as they would naturally be. I could also
fancy that her guests would not feel bound to talk continually, whether
they had anything to say or not, but that there might be pauses of not
unpleasant silence--a quiet darkness out of which they might be certain
that the little stars would glimmer soon. I can believe that in such
pauses of repose, some one might open a book, and catch on a suggestive
sentence, might dash off again into a full flow of conversation. But I
cannot fancy any grand preparations for what was to be said among
people, each of whom brought the best dish in bringing himself; and
whose own store of living, individual thought and feeling, and
mother-wit, would be infinitely better than any cut-and-dry
determination to devote the evening to mutual improvement. If people are
really good and wise, their goodness and their wisdom flow out
unconsciously, and benefit like sunlight. So, books for reference, books
for impromptu suggestion, but never books to serve for texts to a
lecture.--ELIZABETH C. GASKELL. _Company Manners._
Far more seemly were it for thee to have thy study full of books, than
thy purse full of money.--J. LYLY. _Euphues._