Confessions of a book-lover

by E. Walter Walters

And thus one may journey from house to house, from street to street, from county to county, and from country to country, to wellnigh any spot between the two Poles, there to find some old friend or other whom one has met in Bookland. And how varied is the company, how representative, how cosmopolitan, how sure one may be of finding just the very persons one wishes to meet! The child, still in the ‘Age of Innocence,’ looking for a playmate, may find one in Bookland. The youth whose blood runs hot and strong, and who desires a companion who can speak of mighty enterprises, may make his choice. The young woman who desires lessons in deportment and manners will find many good souls waiting to instruct her. And what company, what models of virtue and loveliness, await the young man whose ‘fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love’!

Yes, in Bookland there are persons to suit all ages, and all types, and all moods. Can we who have read with delight from our childhood days onward ever forget our dear old friends? Can we forget the characters, some simple, sweet, and charming, others strange, wild, grotesque, with whom we became acquainted in our nursery days? Can we forget Alice and her adventures in Wonderland, or the army of whimsical beings found in books of the same alluring order? Do they not still influence us and guide our morals?

And what of the book-born acquaintances of our youth? Is it not true that ‘the books that charmed us in youth recall the delight ever afterwards’? What a time for reading is that period when the blood runs warm and strong, and the mind is vigorous—one’s whole nature keen and impressionable! Ah! youth is the time to meet a maiden in a book, to feel—just as the author, no doubt, felt himself—that she is wonderfully fair to look upon, charming alike in manners, voice, and looks. One may venture to suspect that many a young man has lost his heart to the maidens who flit so gracefully through the pages of books.

The young women of Bookland are not, however, all of fairy-like type. Who can forget the many whose goodness of heart surpass their bewitching looks—heroic women, true as steel, and faithful unto death? Ideals must surely have been formed by readers from such as these, and their like sought no doubt in real life. And one may go further and venture to hope that they have been found and have given their hearts to noble seekers, and lived with them, as the story-books say, ‘happily ever after.’

Then what of the more staid, and, it may be, more serious, period in life? We are, let us say, now beginning to settle down, to feel a sense of responsibility. Father Time with his scythe has not greatly concerned us up to now; but we fancy that we see his figure, faint and shadowy, and, it may be, only just discernible, coming towards us from over the horizon.... We are ready for serious books now.

But, bless you! that is just a stage—a period in our pilgrimage through life. The old loves return. The volumes that charmed us in childhood and in youth again claim our affections. And with what zest we re-read those precious volumes! How heartily we greet our dear old friends! How grateful we are to the authors who have introduced us to this or that genial fellow, to this sedate and scholarly gentleman, to this winsome maid, to that noble man, to this gracious lady! And how many more await us!

Yes, the persons one meets in Bookland form an ever-increasing army—so vast, so numerous, that when meditating upon them and their characteristics, their virtues, their weaknesses, their foibles, their whimsicalities, their sins, and their noble deeds, one is led to divide them into classes and place them under the names of their creators—to set apart the delicately but firmly pictured characters of Jane Austen in a line running parallel with, say, the creations of Mrs. Gaskell and other lady novelists, taking care to keep them some little distance apart from the creations of Fielding and Sterne. For in Bookland, as in real life, it is unreasonable to expect persons of widely different temperaments to live on amicable terms.

That was a good plan, surely, of the book-lover who not only classified the characters of his favourite authors under the name of their creators, but also, after carefully considering their various characteristics, grouped them in little compartments. It is good, however, to feel that the characters of many of our famous novelists may be left to mix freely. One cannot, for example, doubt that the great majority of the creations of Charles Dickens were meant to ‘rub shoulders.’ So wide were the sympathies of that great delineator of human life that few indeed are the children of his imagination who are lacking in some point or other of common interest. Tapley, Pinch, Micawber, Toots, and the lovable Pickwick, and a host besides, may be left safely in one compartment.

But all this may lead you to suppose that the persons who played a part in real life as well as in Bookland are being forgotten. That can never be. For who can forget the chief characters in the historical works of our great novelists? These, in a sense, are more real to us than children of the imagination. For we may first study the conditions in which this or that great figure played a part in life, and then look upon them in the searching light of the skilful novelist.

How natural, however, if the lover of books should at times overlook the greatest of figures in a company so vast! He will do well if he but keeps a warm corner or two in his heart for old friends and an open place for new ones. And if meanwhile he can manage to keep his mind fresh and active, ready to receive new ideas and eager for fresh knowledge, he may surely rest content. Happily for the makers of books we have not all the same taste. Some are for this class of book; others for that. Some seek knowledge; others seek entertainment.