Whether there are many who take much interest in books about books is a matter of doubt. Multitudes of people like to think that they are fond of books merely as books, and derive great comfort from the innocent delusion that they delight in the possession of them. A neat and imposing library is an attractive ornament of the country house as well as of the city mansion, and if the volumes are bound in a becoming fashion, by Zaehnsdorf, Rivière, Lortic, or Cobden-Sanderson, they look well on the shelves and impart to the establishment an air of dignity and refinement. But it is a portentous question whether the majority of book-owners ever find occasion or opportunity to inquire within or to inform themselves about the contents of the tomes which line the walls of the comfortable library. The toilers who are absorbed in the drudgery of daily work have little leisure to expend on the inside of their books, and the merry idlers who devote their energies to sports, athletic or otherwise, amusements, and the varied diversions which occupy the minds of the members of our modern “society”, have still less. My dear friend, the average man, deserving as he is of admiration and respect, cannot have much interest in books which are purely bookish, and my dearer friend, the average woman, who now and again plunges calmly but despairingly into the depths of “literature”,—combining with others of her kind in so-called reading clubs, so as to share her afflictions with her fellows—secretly longs for the sweets of fiction while she pretends to be fond of such stupid performances as essays and dissertations. In the recesses of her personality she regards works of that description as bores to be avoided; and very likely she is not far wrong.
Mind, I am not talking of inhabitants of Boston, Massachusetts. It may be that my notions are derived wholly from my New York environment. A New Yorker appears to think that it is an evidence of weakness to allow any one to find out that books are dear to him, and seems to be as loath to confess the passion as he would be to proclaim at the club or upon the house-tops his fond attachment to the lady of his choice. In the goodly number of years during which I have trodden the pavements and availed of the facilities of transit afforded by the street-railways of the city whereof we are justly proud, I do not remember hearing the subject of books or of things pertaining to books discussed or even referred to by any of my neighbors. But recently in Boston, while walking on Boylston Street, I passed two lads who were still in their later teens, and distinctly heard one of them say, “the Latin derivation of that word is”—I lost the rest of it. In New York he would have been uttering something in the vulgar argot used by the youth of our times,—preserved and fostered by the newspaper—about “de cops” or “de Giants”, or the superiority of some novel brand of cigarettes. They would have blushed for shame to be discovered in the possession of any knowledge of such discreditable matters as “Latin” or “derivations” of any description. The gospel of “doing things” has been preached to them so strenuously that they have long since forgotten, if they ever knew, that there is any virtue in “knowing things”.
Sitting at the library table and letting my eyes wander with affection to the adjacent shelves, I try to fancy who buys the multitudinous books of memoirs and reminiscences, of literary, dramatic and political gossip, which are poured forth so profusely from the English presses. Now and then I encounter their titles in seductive catalogues and purchase them at large reductions from the original prices—“published at £3 10s and marked down to 7s 6d.” We have nothing quite like them in these United States, or very little, because they do not “pay”, as the phrase runs. I wonder whether these English books “pay” in England, but I am inclined to think that they must, for publishers are not usually actuated by motives of pure philanthropy; they do not print for pleasure only or for personal gratification in bringing out the screeds of ambitious authors. I like those English books; their type is large and legible; the paper has a substantial mellowness; and the simple bindings are well-fitted to be torn off and replaced by real bindings. They have the merit of what may be called “skippability”, for the writers are sadly given to deplorable diffuseness and degenerate frequently into tediousness for which I love them, as a fellow-sinner. They convey impressions of abundant leisure and unlimited vocabulary. Does an author ever become conscious that he is growing tedious? If he does, how he must revel in the thought that, despite his tediousness, some daring explorer will toil through his pages, and that in some library at least, be it that of the British Museum or of our own Congress, his book will stand triumphantly upon the shelves in the company of Lord Avebury’s One Hundred.
I do not believe that an ordinary American, at least in these days, would dream of publishing such a book as “Gossip From Paris”, the correspondence (1864–1869) of Anthony B. North Peat, which the Kegan Paul house brought out a few years ago. Some one may say that an American could not, and I will not deny the charge if it is made. North Peat, whose name sounds like that of a station on the Grand Trunk Railway, was not by any means a famous person, but he was a clever and an observant journalist and there is much of interest in the volume mingled with much that is of no present interest whatever. One passage has given me comfort, because it contains something rarely encountered—a good word for the collector of autographs. Usually when an author is feeling a little rancor about life generally, he will go far out of his way to kick an autograph collector. I purr slightly when I quote what North Peat wrote in September, 1866.
“I know one man in Paris who has an extensive library composed exclusively of works in one volume and of the same folio; but, perhaps, among the manifold phases of the collecting mania none is more excusable than that of gathering autographs.*** To read over the names and the tariff at which signatures or letters are quoted gives a most curious insight into the place held in public opinion by the generals, diplomatists, poets, literary men, composers, and even criminals whose handwritings are eagerly sought for by amateurs. Last month the prices ran thus: George Sand, 6f.; Seward, 10f.; Jefferson Davis, 15f.; Duke of Morny, 4f. 50c.; Michelet, 1f. 75c.; McClellan, 20f.; Verdi, 3f. 50c.; Prévost Paradol, 2f. 50c.; Champfleury, 2f. Gerard de Nerval is quoted 20f., thanks to a note attached to the letter, ‘correspondance amoreuse très passionée.’ A copybook of the King of Rome is quoted 20f. Rénan, the sceptic author of La Vie de Jèsus, keeps up in the market, and goes for 10f. A letter of Henri Latouche is to be sold for 2f. 50c.; it contains the following curious passage: ‘The only souvenirs of my literary life to which I look back with pride are, having edited André Chénier and having deterred George Sand from devoting her talents to water-colour drawing.’ A letter of Louis XVI is quoted at 2f. 50c., by which the King grants a sum of 2400f. (£100) to ‘La Dame Rousseau, cradle-rocker to the children of France’.”
I have quoted thus at length not only because of my pride in the compliment to autograph collectors but because the prices mentioned must bring a pang to the hearts of those who buy now-a-days and pay more than ten times as much for George Sands, Verdis, and Louis XVIs. I can imagine the sensations of a dealer of to-day if some innocent should offer fifty cents for that Louis XVI document—I am confident that it was not a letter. Mr. North Peat has overlooked the fact, as is common with those who do not belong to the inner brotherhood, that contents are of much consequence in establishing the market value of autograph letters, but his figures are not without significance. Some of us are glad to observe that even in 1866 McClellan’s autograph “fetched” twice as much as Seward’s and six times as much as Verdi’s.
Very unlike the reasonable remarks of North Peat is the autographic deliverance of that once celebrated “educator”, Mr. Horace Mann. This gem of wisdom, given to me by a Boston friend in a malicious spirit of kindly generosity, is lying on the library table. It reads thus:—
“I would rather perform one useful act for my fellow men than to be the possessor of all the autographs in the world.
Horace Mann.
“West Newton, April 23, ’50.”