THE BOOK-WORM DOES NOT CARE FOR NATURE.
I feel no need of nature’s flowers—
Of flowers of rhetoric I have store;
I do not miss the balmy showers—
When books are dry I o’er them pore.
Why should I sit upon a stile
And cause my aged bones to ache,
When I can all the hours beguile
With any style that I would take?
Why should I haunt a purling stream,
Or fish in miasmatic brook?
O’er Euclid’s angles I can dream,
And recreation find in Hook.
Why should I jolt upon a horse
And after wretched vermin roam,
When I can choose an easier course
With Fox and Hare and Hunt at home?
Why should I scratch my precious skin
By crawling through a hawthorne hedge,
When Hawthorne, raking up my sin,
Stands tempting on the nearest ledge?
No need that I should take the trouble
To go abroad to walk or ride,
For I can sit at home and double
Quite up with pain from Akenside.
The modern Book-Worm deals in sums of six figures; he keeps an agent “on the other side;” he cables his demands and his decisions; his name flutters the dovecotes in the auction-room; to him is proffered the first chance at a rarity worth a King’s ransom; too busy to potter in person with such a trifle as the purchase of a Mazarine Bible, he hires others to do the hunting and he merely receives the game; the tiger skin and the elephant’s tusk are laid at his feet to order, but he misses all the joy and ardor of the hunt. How different is all this from Sir Thomas Urquhart’s account of his own library, of which he says: “There were not three works therein which were not of mine own purchase, and all of them together, in the order wherein I had ranked them, compiled like to a complete nosegay of flowers, which in my travels I had gathered out of the gardens of sixteen several kingdoms.”
Another fault of the Book-Worm is the affectation of collecting books on subjects in which he takes no practical interest, simply because it is the fashion or the books are intrinsically beautiful. Many a man has a fine collection on Angling, for example, who hardly knows how to put a worm on a hook, much less attach a fly I fear I am one of these hypocritical creatures, for this is
HOW I GO A-FISHING.
Tis sweet to sit in shady nook,
Or wade in rapid crystal brook,
Impervious in rubber boots,
And wary of the slippery roots,
To snare the swift evasive trout
Or eke the sauntering horn-pout;
Or in the cold Canadian river
To see the glorious salmon quiver,
And them with tempting hook inveigle,
Fit viand for a table regal;
Or after an exciting bout
To snatch the pike with sharpened snout;
Or with some patient ass to row
To troll for bass with motion slow.
Oh! joy supreme when they appear
Splashing above the water clear,
And drawn reluctantly to land
Lie gasping on the yellow sand!
But sweeter far to read the books
That treat of flies and worms and hooks,
From Pickering’s monumental page,
(Late rivalled by the rare Dean Sage),
And Major’s elder issues neat,
To Burnand’s funny “Incompleat.”
I love their figures quaint and queer,
Which on the inviting page appear,
From those of good Dame Juliana,
Who lifts a fish and cries hosanna,
To those of Stothard, graceful Quaker,
Of fishy art supremest maker,
Whose fisherman, so dry and neat,
Would never soil a parlor seat.
I love them all, the books on angling,
And far from cares and business jangling,
Ensconced in cosy chimney-corner,
Like the traditional Jack Horner,
I read from Walton down to Lang,
And hum that song the Milkmaid sang.
I get not tired nor wet nor cross,
Nor suffer monetary loss—
If fish are shy and will not bite,
And shun the snare laid in their sight—
In order home at night to bring
A fraudulent, deceitful string,
And thus escape the merry jeers
Of heartless piscatory peers;
Nor have to listen to the lying
Of fishermen while fish are frying,
Who boast of draughts miraculous
Which prove too large a draught on us.
I spare the rod, and rods don’t break;
Nor fish in sight the hook forsake;
My lines ne’er snap like corset laces;
My lines are fallen in pleasant places.
And so in sage experience ripe,
My fishery is but a type.
POVERTY AS A MEANS OF ENJOYMENT IN COLLECTING.
Poor collectors are not only not at a disadvantage in enjoyment, but they have a positive advantage over affluent rivals. If I were rich, probably I should not throw my money away just to experience this superiority, but it nevertheless exists. I do not envy, but I commiserate my brother collector who has plenty of money. He who only has to draw his check to obtain his desire fails to reach the keenest bliss of the pursuit. If diamonds were as common as cobble stones there would be no delight in picking them up
To constitute a bibliomaniac in the true sense, the love of books must combine with a certain limitation of means for the gratification of the appetite The consciousness of some extravagance must be always present in his mind; there must be a sense of sacrifice in the attainment; in a rich man the disease cannot exist; he cannot enter the kingdom of the Bibliomaniac’s heaven. There is the same difference of sensation between the acquirement of books by a wealthy man and by him of slender purse, that there is between the taking of fish in a net and the successful result of a long angling pursuit after one especially fat and evasive trout. When a prince kills his preserved game, with keepers to raise it for him and to hand him guns ready loaded, so that all he has to do is to squint and pull the trigger, this is not hunting; it is mere vulgar butchery What knows he of the joys of the tramper in the forest, who stalks the deer, or scares up smaller game, singly, and has to work hard for his bag? We read in Dibdin’s sumptuous pages of the celebrated contest between the Duke of Devonshire and the Marquis of Blandford for the possession of the Valdarfar Decameron; we read with admiration, but we also read of the immortal battle of Elia with the little squab-keeper of the old book-stall in Ninety-four alley, over the ownership of a ragged duodecimo for a sixpence; we read with affection So we read Leigh Hunt’s confession that when he “cut open a new catalogue of old books, and put crosses against dozens of volumes in the list, out of the pure imagination of buying them, the possibility being out of the question.” Poverty hath her victories no less renowned than wealth. To haunt the book-stores, there to see a long-desired work in luxurious and tempting style, reluctantly to abandon it for the present on account of the price; to go home and dream about it, to wonder, for a year, and perchance longer, whether it will ever again greet your eyes; to conjecture what act of desperation you might in heat of passion commit toward some more affluent man in whose possession you should thereafter find it; to see it turn up again in another book-shop, its charms slightly faded, but yet mellowed by age, like those of your first love, met in later life—with this difference, however, that whereas you crave those of the book more than ever, you are generally quite satisfied with yourself for not having, through the greenness of youth, yielded untimely to those of the lady; to ask with assumed indifference the price, and learn with ill-dissembled joy that it is now within your means; to say you’ll take it; to place it beneath your arm, and pay for it (or more generally order it “charged”); to go forth from that room with feelings akin to those of Ulysses when he brought away the Palladium from Troy; to keep a watchful eye on the parcel in the railway coach on your way home, or to gloat over the treasures of its pages, and wonder if the other passengers have any suspicion of your good fortune; and finally to place the volume on your shelf, and thenceforth to call it your own—this is indeed a pleasure denied to the affluent, so keen as to be akin to pain, and only marred by the palling which always follows possession and the presentation of your book-seller’s account three months afterwards.
THE ARRANGEMENT OF BOOKS.
There was a time when I loved to see my books arranged with a view to uniformity of height and harmony of color without respect to subjects. That time I regard as my vealy period That was the time when we admired “Somnambula,” and when the housewife used to have all the pictures hung on the same level, and to buy vases in pairs exactly alike and put them on either side of the parlor clock, which was generally surmounted by a prancing Saracen or a weaving Penelope. Granting that a collection is not extensive enough to demand a strict arrangement by subjects, I like to see a little artistic confusion—high and low together here and there, like a democratic community; now and then some giants laid down on their sides to rest; the shelves not uniformly filled out as if the owner never expected to buy any more, and alongside a dainty Angler a book in red or blue cloth with a white label—just as childred in velvet and furs sit next a newsboy, or a little girl in calico with a pigtail at Sunday School, or as beggars and princes kneel side by side on the cathedral pavement. It is good to have these “swell” books rub up against the commoners, which though not so elegant are frequently a great deal brighter. At a country funeral I once heard the undertaker say to the bearers, “size yourselves off.” There is no necessity or artistic gain in such a ceremony in a library, and a departure from stiff uniformity is quite agreeable Then I do not care to have the book cases all of the same height, nor even of the same kind of wood, nor to have them all “dwarfs,” with bric-a-brac on the top. I would rather have more books on top In short, it is pleasant to have the collection remind one in a way of Topsy—not that it was “born,” but “growed” and is expected to grow more There is a modern notion of considering a library as a room rather than as a collection of books, and of making the front drawing-room the library, which is heretical in the eyes of a true Book-Worm. This is probably an invention of the women of the house to prevent any additions to the books without their knowledge, and to discourage book-buying. We have surrendered too much to our wives in this; they demand book cases as furniture and to serve as shelves, without any regard to the interior contents or whether there are any, except for the color of the bindings and the regularity of the rows. All of us have thus seen “libraries” without books worthy the name, and book-cases sometimes with exquisite silk curtains, carefully and closely drawn, arousing the suspicion that there were no books behind them My ideal library is a room given up to books, all by itself, at the top or in the rear of the house, where “company” cannot break through and say to me, “I know you are a great man to buy books—have you seen that beautiful limited holiday edition of Ben Hur, with illustrations?”
ENEMIES OF BOOKS.
Mr. Blades regards as “Enemies of Books” fire, water, gas, heat, dust and neglect, ignorance and bigotry, the worm, beetles, bugs and rats, book-binders, collectors, servants and children He does not include women, borrowers, or thieves. Perhaps he considers them rather as enemies of the book-owners The worm is not always to be considered an enemy to authors, although he may be to books. James Payn, in speaking of the recent discovery, in the British Museum, of a copy on papyrus of the humorous poems of the obscure Greek poet, Herodles, says: “The humorous poems of Herodles possess, however, the immense advantage of being ‘seriously mutilated by worms’; wherever therefore an hiatus occurs, the charitable and cultured mind will be enabled to conclude that (as in the case of a second descent upon a ball supper) the ‘best things’ have been already devoured.” It was doubtless to guard against thieves that the ancient books were chained up in the monasteries, but the practice was effectual also against borrowers. De Bury, in his “Philobiblon” has a chapter entitled “A Provident Arrangement by which his Books may be lent to Strangers,” in which the utmost leniency is to lend duplicate books upon ample security. Not to adopt the harsh judgment of an ancient author, who says, “to lend a book is to lose it, and borrowing but a hypocritical pretense for stealing,” we may conclude, in a word, that to lend a book is like the Presidency of the United States, to be neither desired nor refused. Collectors are not so much exposed to the ravages of thieves as book-sellers are, and a book-thief ought to be regarded with leniency for his good taste and his reliance on the existence of culture in others. After all, it is one’s own fault if he lends a book One should as soon think of lending one of his children, unless he has duplicate or triplicate daughters. It would be difficult to foretell what would happen to a man who should propose to borrow a rare book. Perhaps death by freezing would be the safest prediction. Although Grolier stamped “et amicorum” on his books, that did not mean that he would lend them, but only that his friends were free of them at his house. It is amusing to note, in Mr. Castle’s monograph on Book-Plates, how many of them indicate a stern purpose not to lend books. Mr. Gosse regards book-plates as a precaution not only against thieves, but against borrowers. He observes of the man who does not adopt a book-plate: “Such a man is liable to great temptations. He is brought face to face with that enemy of his species, the borrower, and does not speak with him in the gate. If he had a book-plate he would say, ‘Oh! certainly I will lend you this volume, if it has not my book-plate in it; of course one makes it a rule never to lend a book that has.’ He would say this and feign to look inside the volume, knowing right well that this safeguard against the borrower is there already.” One may make a gift of a book to a friend, but there is as much difference between giving a book and lending one as there is between indorsing a note and giving the money. I have considerable respect for and sympathy with a good honest book-thief. He holds out no false hopes and makes no false pretences. But the borrower who does not return adds hypocrisy and false pretences to other crime. He ought to be committed to the State prison for life, and put at keeping the books of the institution. In a buried temple in Cnidos, in 1857, Mr. Newton found rolls of lead hung up, on which were inscribed spells devoting enemies to the infernal gods for sundry specified offenses, among which was the failure to return a borrowed garment On which Agnes Repplier says: “Would that it were given to me now to inscribe, and by inscribing doom, all those who have borrowed and failed to return our books; would that by scribbling some strong language on a piece of lead we could avenge the lamentable gaps on our shelves, and send the ghosts of the wrong-doers howling dismally into the eternal shades of Tartarus.”
I have spoken of a certain amount of sympathy as due from a magnanimous book-owner toward a pilferer of such wares. This is always on the condition that he steals to add to his own hoard and not for mere pecuniary gain. The following is suggested as a Christian mode of dealing with
THE BOOK-THIEF.
Ah, gentle thief!
I marked the absent-minded air
With which you tucked away my rare
Book in your pocket.
’Twas past belief—
I saw you near the open case,
But yours was such an honest face
I did not lock it.
I knew you lacked
That one to make your set complete,
And when that book you chanced to meet
You recognized it.
And when attacked
By rage of bibliophilic greed,
You prigged that small Quantin Ovide,
Although I prized it.
I will not sue,
Nor bring your family to shame
By giving up your honored name
To heartless prattle.
I’ll visit you,
And under your unwary eyes
Secrete and carry off the prize,
My ravished chattel.
It greatly rejoices me to observe that Mr. Blades does not include tobacco among the enemies of books. In one sense tobacco may be ranked as a book-enemy, for self-denial in this regard may furnish a man with a good library in a few years. I have known a very pretty collection made out of the ordinary smoke-offerings of twenty years. Undoubtedly there are libraries so fine that smoking in them would be discountenanced, but mine is not impervious to the pipe or cigar, and I entertain the pleasing fancy that tobacco-smoke is good for books, disinfects them, and keeps them free from the destroying worm. As I do not myself smoke, I like to see my friends taking their ease in my book-room, with the “smoke of their torment ascending” above my modest volumes. I know how they feel, without incurring the expense, and so to them I indite and dedicate
THE SMOKE TRAVELLER.
When I puff my cigarette,
Straight I see a Spanish girl,
Mantilla, fan, coquettish curl,
Languid airs and dimpled face,
Calculating fatal grace;
Hear a twittering serenade
Under lofty balcony played;
Queen at bull-fight, naught she cares
What her agile lover dares;
She can love and quick forget.
Let me but my meerschaum light,
I behold a bearded man,
Built upon capacious plan,
Sabre-slashed in war or duel,
Gruff of aspect but not cruel,
Metaphysically muddled,
With strong beer a little fuddled,
Slow in love and deep in books,
More sentimental than he looks,
Swears new friendships every night.
Let me my chibouk enkindle,—
In a tent I’m quick set down
With a Bedouin lean and brown,
Plotting gain of merchandise,
Or perchance of robber prize;
Clumsy camel load upheaving,
Woman deftly carpet weaving;
Meal of dates and bread and salt,
While in azure heavenly vault
Throbbing stars begin to dwindle.
Glowing coal in clay dudheen
Carries me to sweet Killarney,
Full of hypocritic blarney;
Huts with babies, pigs and hens
Mixed together; bogs and fens;
Shillalahs, praties, usquebaugh,
Tenants defying hated law,
Fair blue eyes with lashes black,
Eyes black and blue from cudgel-thwack,—
So fair, so foul, is Erin green.
My nargileh once inflamed,
Quick appears a Turk with turban,
Girt with guards in palace urban,
Or in house by summer sea
Slave-girls dancing languidly;
Bow-string, sack and bastinado,
Black boats darting in the shadow;
Let things happen as they please,
Whether well or ill at ease,
Fate alone is blessed or blamed.
With my ancient calumet
I can raise a wigwam’s smoke,
And the copper tribe invoke,—
Scalps and wampum, bows and knives,
Slender maidens, greasy wives,
Papoose hanging on a tree,
Chieftains squatting silently,
Feathers, beads and hideous paint,
Medicine-man and wooden saint,—
Forest-framed the vision set.
My cigar breeds many forms—
Planter of the rich Havana,
Mopping brow with sheer bandanna;
Russian prince in fur arrayed;
Paris fop on dress parade;
London swell just after dinner;
Wall Street broker—gambling sinner;
Delver in Nevada mine;
Scotch laird bawling “Auld Lang Syne;”
Thus Raleigh’s weed my fancy warms.
Life’s review in smoke goes past.
Fickle fortune, stubborn fate,
Right discovered all too late,
Beings loved and gone before,
Beings loved but friends no more,
Self-reproach and futile sighs,
Vanity in birth that dies,
Longing, heart-break, adoration,—
Nothing sure in expectation
Save ash-receiver at the last.
In the early history of New England, when the town of Deerfield was burned by the Indians, Captain Dunstan, who was the father of a large family, deeming discretion the better part of valor, made up his mind to run for it and to take one child (as a sample, probably), that being all he could safely carry on his horse But on looking about him, he could not determine which child to take, and so observing to his wife, “All or none,” he set her and the baby on the horse, and brought up the rear on foot with his gun, and fended off the redskins and brought the whole family into safety. Such is the tale, and in the old primer there was a picture of the scene—although I do not understand that it was taken from the life, and the story reflects small credit on the character of the aborigines for enterprise.
I have often conjectured which of my books I would save in case of fire in my library, and whether I should care to rescue any if I could not bring off all. Perhaps the problem would work itself out as follows:
THE FIRE IN THE LIBRARY.
Twas just before midnight a smart conflagration
Broke out in my dwelling and threatened my books;
Confounded and dazed with a great consternation
I gazed at my treasures with pitiful looks.
“Oh! which shall I rescue?” I cried in deep feeling;
I wished I were armed like Briareus of yore,
While sharper and sharper the flames kept revealing
The sight of my bibliographical store.
“My Lamb may remain to be thoroughly roasted,
My Crabbe to be broiled and my Bacon to fry,
My Browning accustomed to being well toasted,
And Waterman Taylor rejoicing to dry.”
At hazard I grasped at the rest of my treasure,
And crammed all pockets with dainty eighteens;
I packed up a pillow case, heaping good measure,
And turned me away from the saddest of scenes.
But slowly departing, my face growing sadder,
At leaving old favorites behind me so far,
A feminine voice from the foot of the ladder
Cried, “Bring down my Cook-Book and Harper’s Bazar!”
It has been hereinbefore intimated that women may be classed among the enemies of books. There is at least one time of the year when every Book-Worm thinks so, and that is the dread period of house-cleaning—sometimes in the spring, sometimes in the autumn, and sometimes, in the case of excessively finical housewives, in both That is the time looked forward to by him with apprehension and looked back upon with horror, because the poor fellow knows what comes of
CLEANING THE LIBRARY.
With traitorous kiss remarked my spouse,
“Remain down town to lunch to-day,
For we are busy cleaning house,
And you would be in Minnie’s way.”
When I came home that fateful night,
I found within my sacred room
The wretched maid had wreaked her spite
With mop and pail and witch’s broom.
The books were there, but oh how changed!
They startled me with rare surprises,
For they had all been rearranged,
And less by subjects than by sizes.
Some volumes numbered right to left,
And some were standing on their heads,
And some were of their mates bereft,
And some behind for refuge fled.
The women brave attempts had made
At placing cognate books together;—
They looked like strangers close arrayed
Under a porch in stormy weather.
She watched my face—that spouse of mine—
Some approbation there to glean,
But seeing I did not incline
To praise, remarked, “I’ve got it clean.”
And so she had—and also wrong;
She little knew—she was but thirty—
I entertained a preference strong
To have it right, though ne’er so dirty.
That wife of mine has much good sense,
To chide her would have been inhuman,
And it would be a great expense
To graft the book-sense on a woman.
Such are my reflections when I consider a fire in my own little library. But when I regard the great and growing mass of books with which the earth groans, and reflect how few of them are necessary or original, and how little the greater part of them would be missed, I sometimes am led to believe that a general conflagration of them might in the long run be a blessing to mankind, by the stimulation of thought and the deliverance of authors from the influence of tradition and the habit of imitation. When I am in this mood I incline to think that much is
ODE TO OMAR.
Omar, who burned (or did not burn)
The Alexandrian tomes,
I would erect to thee an urn
Beneath Sophia’s domes.
So many books I can’t endure—
The dull and commonplace,
The dirty, trifling and obscure,
The realistic race.
Would that thy exemplary torch
Could bravely blaze again,
And many manufactories scorch
Of book-inditing men.
The poets who write “dialect,”
Maudlin and coarse by turns,
Most ardently do I expect
Thou’lt wither up with Burns.
All the erratic, yawping class
Condemn with judgment stern,
Walt Whitman’s awful “Leaves of Grass”
With elegant Swinburne.
Of commentators make a point,
The carping, blind, and dry;
Rend the “Baconians” joint by joint,
And throw them on to fry.
Especially I’d have thee choke
Law libraries in sheep
With fire derived from ancient Coke,
And sink in ashes deep.
Destroy the sheep—don’t save my own—
I weary of the cram,
The misplaced diligence I’ve shown—
But kindly spare my Lamb.
Fear not to sprinkle on the pyre
The woes of “Esther Waters”;
They’ll only make the flame soar higher,
And warn Eve’s other daughters.
But ’ware of Howells and of James,
Of Trollope and his rout;
They’d dampen down the fiercest flames
And put your fire out.
LIBRARY COMPANIONS.
As a rule I do not care for any constant human companion in my library, but I do not object to a cat or a small dog That picture of Montaigne, drawn by himself, amusing his cat with a garter, or that other one of Doctor Johnson feeding oysters to his cat Hodge, is a very pleasing one. In my library hangs Durer’s picture of St. Jerome in his cell, busy with his writing, and a dog and a lion quietly dozing together in the foreground. As I am no saint I have never been able to keep a lion in my library for any great length of time, but I have maintained a dog there Lamb even contended that his books were the better for being dog’s-eared, but I do not go so far as that. Nor do I pretend that his presence will prevent the books from becoming foxed. Here is a portrait of
MY DOG.
He is a trifling, homely beast,
Of no use, or the very least;
To shake imaginary rat
Or bark for hours at china cat;
To lie at head of stairs and start,
Like animated, woolly dart,
Upon a non-existent foe;
Or on hind legs like monkey go,
To beg for sugar or for bone;
Never content to be alone;
To bask for hours in the sun.
Rolled up till head and tail are one;
Usurping all the softest places
And keeping them with doggish graces;
To sneak between the housemaid’s feet
And scour unnoticed on the street;
Wag indefatigable tail;
Cajole with piteous human wail;
To dance with dainty dandy air
When nicely parted is his hair,
And look most ancient and dejected
When it has been too long neglected;
To sleep upon my book-den rug
And dream of battle with a pug;
To growl with counterfeited rabies;
To be more trouble than twin babies;—
These are the qualities and tricks
That in my heart his image fix;
And so in cursory, doggerel rhyme
I celebrate him in his time,
Nor wait his virtues to rehearse
In cold obituary verse.
There is one other speaking companion that I would tolerate in my library, and that is a clock. I have a number of clocks in mine, and if it were not for their unanimous and warning voice I might forget to go to bed. Perhaps my reader would like to hear an account of
MY CLOCKS.
Five clocks adorn my domicile
And give me occupation,
For moments else inane I fill
With their due regulation.
Four of these clocks, on each Lord’s Day,
As regular as preaching,
I wind and set, so that they may
The flight of time be teaching.
My grandfather’s old clock is chief,
With foolish moon-faced dial;
Procrastination is a thief
It always brings to trial.
Its height is as the tallest men,
Its pendulum beats slow,
And when its awful bell booms ten,
Young men get up and go.
Another clock is bronze and gilt,
Penelope sits on it,
And in her fingers holds a quilt—
How strange ’tis not a bonnet!
Memorial of those weary years
When she the web unravelled,
While Ithacus choked down his fears
And slow from Ilium travelled.
Ceres upon the third, with spray
Of grain, in classic gown,
Seems sadly to recall the day
Proserpine sank down,
With scarcely time to say good-bye,
Unto the world of Dis;
And keeps account, with many a sigh,
Of harvest time in this.
Another clock is rococo,
Of Louis Sept or Seize,
With many a dreadful furbelow
An artist’s hair to raise,
Suggestions of a giddy court,
With fan and boufflant bustle,
When silken trains made gallant sport
And o’er the floor did rustle.
The fourth was brought, in foolish trust
From Alpland far away,
A baby clock, and so it must
Be tended every day.
Importunate and trivial thing!
Thou katydid of clocks!
Defying all my skill to bring
Right time from out thy box.
With works of wood and face of brass
On which queer cherubs play,
The tedious hours thou well dost pass,
And none thy chirp gainsay.
Among the silent companions in my study are the effigies of the four greatest geniuses of modern times in the realms of literature, art, music and war—a print of Shakespeare; one of Michael Angelo’s corrugated face with its broken nose; a bust of Beethoven, resembling a pouting lion; and a print of Napoleon at St. Helena, representing him dressed in a white duck suit, with a broad-brimmed straw hat, and sitting looking seaward, with those unfathomable eyes, a newspaper lying in his lap Unhappy faces all except the first—his cheerful, probably because he has effected an arrangement with an otherwise idle person, named Bacon, to do all his work for him. But there is another portrait, at which I look oftener, the original of which probably takes more interest in me, but is unknown to every visitor to my study. I myself have not seen her in half a century I call it simply
A PORTRAIT.
A gentle face is ever in my room,
With features fine and melancholy eyes,
Though young, a little past life’s freshest bloom,
And always with air of sad surmise.
A great white cap almost conceals her hair,
A collar broad falls o’er her shoulders slender;
The fashion of a bygone age an air
Of quaintness to her simple garb doth render.
Those hazel eyes pursue me as I move
And seem to watch my busy toiling pen;
They hold me with an anxious yearning love,
As if she dwelt upon the earth again.
My mother’s portrait! fifty years ago,
When I was but a heedless happy boy,
The influence of her being ceased to flow,
And she laid down life’s burden and its joy.
And now as I sit pondering o’er my books,
So vainly seeking a receding rest,
I read the wonder in her steadfast looks:
“Is this my son who lay upon my breast?”
And when for me there is an end of time,
And this unsatisfying work is done,
If I shall meet thee in thy peaceful clime,
Young mother, wilt thou know thy gray-haired son?
There is one other work of art which adorns my library—a medallion by a dear friend of mine, an eminent sculptor, the story of which I will put into his mouth. He calls the face
MY SCHOOLMATE.
The snows have settled on my head
But not upon my heart,
And incidents of years long fled
From out my memory start.
My hand is cunning to contrive
The shapes my brain invents,
And keep in marble forms alive
That which my soul contents;
And I have wife, and children tall,
Grandchildren cluster near,
And sweet the applause of men doth fall
On my undeafened ear.
But still my mind will backward turn
For half a century,
And without reasoning will yearn
For sight or news of thee,
Thou playmate of my boyhood days,
When life was all aglow,
When the sweetest thing was thy girlish praise,
As I drew thee o’er the snow
To the old red school-house by the road,
Where we learned to spell and read,
When thou wert all my fairy load
And I was thy prancing steed.
Oh! thou wert simple then and fair.
Artless and unconstrained,
With quaintly knotted auburn hair
From which the wind refrained,
And from thine earnest steady eyes
Shone out a nature pure,
Formed by kind Heaven, a man’s best prize,
To love and to endure.
Oh! art thou still in life and time,
Or hast thou gone before?
And hath thy lot been like to mine,
Or pinched and bare and sore?
And didst thou marry, or art thou
Still of the spinster tribe?
Perchance thou art a widow now,
Steeled against second bribe?
Do grandsons round thy hearthstone play,
Or dost thou end thy race?
And could that auburn hair grow gray,
And wrinkles line thy face?
I cannot make thee old and plain—
I would not if I could—
And I recall thee without stain,
Simply and sweetly good;
And I have carved thy pretty head
And hung it on my wall,
And to all men let it be said,
I like it best of all;
For on a far-off snowy road,
Before I had learned to read,
Thou wert all my fairy load
And I was thy prancing steed!
I have reserved my queerest library companion till the last. It is not a book, although it is good for nothing but to read. It is not an autograph, although it is simply the name of an individual It is my office sign which I have cherished, as a memento of busier days. Some singular reflections are roused when I gaze at