Confessions of a book-lover

HOW ruthlessly Webster strips the word ‘confession’ of the tender associations woven around it by the hand of the gentle essayist! A confession, he informs us, is the acknowledgement of a crime or fault, open declaration of guilt, &c. True, a brighter note is struck in further definitions; but I cannot find in any book at my command a definition of the word as used, for example, by Thomas De Quincey. The fact that De Quincey took opium was, I believe, known long before he wrote his Confessions. He personally avers that his object was to emblazon the power of opium, not over bodily disease and pain, but over the grander and more shadowy world of dreams. He desired

And I take that to mean that he desired to admit us into the innermost recesses of his heart, to speak to us as one speaks to a bosom friend.

I plead, therefore, for a wider definition of the word ‘confession’—a definition that embraces those ‘gentle whisperings’ which pass between bosom friends, the confidence that springs from the very roots of the human heart.

An eminent essayist of our own day has been pleading for more autobiographies of unknown persons. If I read him aright, he wishes that more persons, however humble, however obscure, would set forth their thoughts and experiences. He believes that such writings would make better reading than much that finds its way into print. There is an idea in some quarters that unless a person enjoys peculiar gifts of expression, or has achieved distinction in some walk of life, his thoughts and experiences are of no public interest. But there are, I am certain, many who would rather have the unadorned expression of a man’s innermost feelings than the thoughts that flit so lightly from the mind of the accomplished litterateur. How many are they—men whose names are emblazoned upon the roll of honour—who have confessed to a love for conversing with the ordinary man, ‘the man in the street’! As for your ‘men of letters,’ you are well aware of their love for conversing with unknown and frequently humble persons, ‘casual acquaintances.’ And who shall say to what extent we are indebted to those persons for the thoughts which, having been selected and refined, sparkle like jewels fresh from the cutter’s hands?

How numerous are the men who have read widely and thought deeply, and yet hesitate before expressing an opinion upon the most trivial matters! Fortunate is the person who can induce such men to talk freely, to express their views, their secret thoughts, on this, that, and the other subject—their beloved books, their likes, their dislikes, their aspirations, their fears, their hopes. Such confessions should make good reading. By dint of a little gentle persuasion I have managed to glean ‘copy’ of this description, which I shall hope to set down in these pages, carefully avoiding meanwhile any mention of names. The mere thought of publicity would bring a blush to the cheeks of the good gentlemen I have in mind. I must adopt the plan of those ‘Knights of the Pen’ of whom mention has been made. But here the process will be reversed. Here the rich thought of others will come forth in homely attire.

I would, however, first inquire in what respect the lover of books differs from the rank-and-file? What are his distinctive characteristics? Langford has declared that no matter what his rank or position may be, the lover of books is the richest and happiest of men. But is that entirely true? I confess that I do not find it so. The lover of books is, I fancy, grievously prone to hanker after the moon, or, to put it another way, to build wondrous fairy palaces, which he would fain inhabit and cannot. I fancy he is apt to suffer from a ‘glorious discontent.’ He is too imaginative, too sensitive, to enjoy the distinction of being the happiest of men.

Indeed, is it not a fact that we book-lovers stand in danger of falling out of sympathy with this rough-and-tumble old world? Certainly many of us resent anything that threatens to come between us and our idols. (I have friends, book-lovers, who as strongly resent an intrusion into the sacred nook that holds themselves and a book as they would resent the invasion of a foreign power.) Thus grows upon the book-lover an ever-deepening desire for solitude, for the quiet life. Others may, if they choose, jostle for the gilded things of life. He is for other prizes, treasures of the mind and spirit. He, for his part, prefers to saunter through quiet by-ways, knowing full well that prizes will rest in his path, and that these, which he need but stoop to gather, will prove abiding treasures.

Yes, certainly the lover of books is rich. Every true lover must in the nature of the case be that. Listen to Gibbon: ‘My early and invincible love of reading I would not change for the treasures of India.’ How many have spoken in like manner! ‘You, O Books,’ cried Aungervyle, ‘are the golden vessels of the temple, the arms of the clerical militia with which missiles of the most wicked are destroyed; fruitful olives, vines of Engedi, fig-trees knowing no sterility; burning lamps to be ever held in hand.’

I have a friend, a book-lover, who confesses that he acquired this love of his after having passed through the most painful experiences. Often he stumbled, often he fell, seemingly never to rise again. But, happily, he has reached safe ground at last. He is now the contented owner of a rich storehouse of books. But he confesses that he is not boisterously happy. He doubts not that others laugh more heartily than he; that many have lighter hearts. But he, be it remembered, has passed through deep sorrow, has lost friends, home, wealth—all that men hold most dear. Without his books and all they have taught him his lot would be that of a wanderer in a wilderness. ‘My books,’ he says, ‘are my inseparable comforters—my friends, companions, teachers, consolers, creators, amusers.’ But he makes no claim to being a student, or an authority on books. He does not burn the proverbial midnight oil. There is nothing of the book-worm about him. He is simply a book-lover, and being such, enjoys the very best that books can give.

I confess that I envy the pleasure derived by this friend of mine from the little ‘crackling’ sound caused by the opening of a new book. It is the sweetest music in his ears—an overture composed of the most pleasing notes. And with what relish he enters into the entertainment that follows! With what zest he reads aloud the choice passages! The four walls of his library must, I fancy, have peculiar knowledge of ‘the dainties that are bred in books.’ They are his only audience. When friends are with him, it is they who must do the reading, whilst he plays the better part.

How many a tale such as this might be told! How full of eccentricities is the lover of books, aye, and how full, too, of whims and fads and fancies! Each one is for a particular type of binding. In no two cases can you find tastes exactly alike. One is for plain cloth, plainly lettered, another is for calf or russia, another for parchment. And each one has his own views as regards size. Some cry out for books that can be handled with ease; others maintain that the size of a book should suit the nature of its contents. And thus the battle wages, quite a long and wordy affair, before any question arises as regards the actual contents of a book. But are not these views concerning the make-up of a book healthy and desirable? I seem to remember having read of men held in high repute who had marked preferences as regards the get-up of a book. Did not Charles Lamb maintain that to be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume? ‘Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be afforded, is not lavished upon all kinds of books indiscriminately. I would not dress a set of magazines, for instance, in full suit. The deshabille or half-binding (with russia backs) is our costume. A Shakespeare or a Milton (unless the first editions) it were mere foppery to trick out in gay apparel.’

And what of the ‘inside’ of books? What of their contents? For my own part, I confess that, when pressed for a list of my favourite authors, I am at a loss for an answer, or, at least, for a satisfactory answer. The question is so pointed, the answer resting quietly in my mind so wide, so shadowy, so needful of explanation. So much depends upon one’s mood and environment. I require the opportunity to say why certain books appeal to me in certain moods and leave me untouched at other times. I desire to show that certain books, in order to be enjoyed to the full, must be read in certain seasons and under certain conditions. I wish to hold forth upon, say, ‘Books and Gardens,’ ‘Unknown Books,’ and so forth, and on the peculiarities of certain authors, giving reasons why I like or dislike their works. I wish to confess, to bare my heart. And that is too lengthy a process to cram in a direct answer to a direct question. Only this much can I confess ‘off-hand’: The books that please me most are the books that speak to the heart. Such volumes are my most highly treasured possessions.