Confessions of a book-lover

by E. Walter Walters

But what of our fishing? This is, I take it, a fitting place to record how on such and such a day I had the good fortune to ‘hook’ a copy of this or that desirable work for a few humble pence—a ‘mere song’! Well, so it has been, ‘day in and day out.’ But those books, I would remind you, are now my companions, my friends, and I can no more associate money with their value than I can judge a friend in the flesh by the contents of his purse. To me they are priceless.

VIII
‘THE CULT OF THE BOOKPLATE’

YOU have often heard the cry, and know full well its meaning, ‘My books are priceless.’ What wonder, then, if you and I—lovers of books—take lively interest in what an ingenuous man of business has called ‘The Cult of the Bookplate.’ ‘The mission of the bookplate,’ he advises us, ‘has always been, and must always be, primarily to indicate ownership of the books in which they are placed. They may be ornate or simple, as the taste or means of the owner may indicate; they may incorporate crests, arms, motto, or other family attribute; or, again, they may reflect the personal interests or occupations of the owner; but the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same—a reminder to those who borrow.’

Pretty ground this for contemplation—for doubts, counsels, hopes, fears, regrets; aye, and for rejoicing! How my mind leaps, first this way, then that, when I meditate upon that rich circle of friendship in which I may borrow from a fellow book-lover’s treasured volumes, and, of course, lend of my own! Yet by what unspeakable regrets am I possessed when I think of certain treasured volumes lent in wildly generous moments to good but ‘short-minded’ friends! I have in mind a little volume of essays—a first and only edition—by an unknown but charming writer, which is now in the possession of that restless fellow K——. May he see these words and repent! And what of that treasured edition—once mine, but, alas! mine no more—of certain writings of Dr. Johnson? Oh, that I could send the good doctor in quest of the volume! What blushes of shame he would bring to the cheeks of the heartless borrower! ‘Sir!’ he would cry. And what words would follow! Very speedily should I be in a position to fill the gap in my shelves.

And there is that dainty little calf-bound volume of Lamb’s essays, borrowed some months back by J——. Where are you and my little volume now, good friend? For reasons known to ourselves alone I address you tenderly. But I would that I could send the gentle Elia to recover my lost gem. Very gently would he deal with you, with quaint phrases, puns, and happy jests. Aye, and with little speeches uttered with that fascinating lisp of his. Indeed, I fear, now that I come to give the matter careful thought, that he would leave you empty handed. It would be so like his charming ways to console, comfort, and amuse you, and leave with you, after all, my volume of his incomparable essays.

The truth is, this work of restoring borrowed volumes to one’s shelves calls for a stout heart. I confess that I am wanting in the necessary qualifications. I have not the courage to speak harshly to a fellow book-lover. So firm is his hold on my affections that I am as wax in his hands. Yet book-lovers to a man agree that the borrower who never repays stands in dire need of correction. I must call another to the task—one of stronger metal.

Listen! ‘Even the fieldmouse,’ cries my champion, ‘has a russet gown to match the mould, but the book-lover who has let loose a borrower in his library is as forlorn as the goat tied up for tiger’s bait. True, that to spare your Homer you may plead you are re-acquainting yourself with the Iliad, but that is to save Homer and lose Virgil. You cannot profess that you study all the classics simultaneously; and who knows that better than the borrower? Snatch your Browning from his grip, and his talons sink into Goethe instead. What does it matter to him? He is out for books, and he will not be placated until he has left gaping rents in your shelves, like the hull of a bombarded battleship. These chasms shall burden your soul with the weight of many unkindly maledictions, but the borrower will return no evil thought, for the simple and satisfactory reason that he will now think no more either of you or of your books. Stabled securely upon his shelves, they will remain on one of those perpetual leases that amount to a freehold. It is useless to invade his lair with the hope of bringing back the spoil. Are you not instructed that he has not yet had time to read them, but that they are yours again whenever you will? Outgeneralled and outflanked, you retreat empty-handed.

‘Books are gentle, lovable company. Why should the lust of them corrupt human nature, turning an amiable citizen into that hopeless irreclaimable, the inveterate book-borrower? Is it that law of contrasts which associates with the noble steed the ignoble horse-coper, and with the gentle dove the cropped head and unshaven jowl of the pigeon-flyer? But truce to theories! It is the hour of action. Will not a benignly reforming Government insist that lent books shall be registered like bills of sale, and a list drawn up of notorious borrowers, with compulsory inspection of their dens, to protect our defenceless libraries from the ravages of the book-pirate? If it is hopeless to look for his cure, shall we not at least petition for his prevention?’

You will allow that all this bears directly upon the subject in mind. Does not the ingenuous gentleman whom I have quoted at the head of this chapter aver that the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same—‘a reminder to those who borrow.’ Here, then, is one thread of hope, but only a very thin thread, I fear. Not for one moment dare I venture to think that it will bear the weight of our grievances. It is too fine, too delicate, to save us from the hands of the ruthless borrower. Indeed, I suspect that if it in any wise alters our position, it is only to draw us into fresh danger. For you know how many and how varied are the charms of bookplates, both old and new. Indeed, I have known book-lovers borrow a volume for the sole purpose of tracing the design upon the fly-leaf. It is a fault of which the present writer is guilty. With shame he confesses it.

But wait! Why should I speak with blushes of my admiration for the brave armorial designs which adorn the calf-bound volumes of my friend H——? Well may he be proud of his family attributes, and well may I admire the manner in which some skilful designer, long departed, has incorporated arms and family motto with the familiar words Ex Libris. I know not, by the way, how any book-lover can bring himself to ignore information so absolutely clear. The announcement ‘FROM MY LIBRARY’ seems in the case of the particular bookplate in mind to come, nay, does come, from a trumpet of amazing dimensions. But it is to be feared that the imaginative designer has been allowed too free a hand. So rich is his fancy, so skilful his line work, that the force of his call to duty is dulled by admiration. Perhaps that is why my friend’s volume still rests on my shelves. And perchance herein may rest an explanation of the heartless manner in which my friend has held fast to my treasured volume of Cowper’s poems.