Other excellent examples—I am speaking only of much-praised books—are found in the Furness Variorum editions of Shakespeare. When one of these volumes appears it is usually greeted by a chorus of "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" as when a particularly gorgeous skyrocket goes up on Fourth of July night. Such scholarship! Such a boon to earnest Shakespeareans! Such labor! Such erudition! Well, a great deal of that praise is deserved—each volume is certainly a tour de force. But I wish to read you from a review of the latest of them—a review written for the Boston Herald, by Mr. John Macy, the author of that vigorous and sensible book, "The spirit of American literature." It deals with "The tragedie of Julius Caesar" edited by Horace Howard Furness, Jr. "This," writes Mr. Macy, "is the latest volume in 'A New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare,' and is the first under the sole editorship of the late Dr. Furness' son. From an enormous mass of commentary, criticism, word-worrying, text-marring and learned guesswork, Mr. Furness has chosen what seem to him the best notes. The sanity of his introduction and the good sense of some of his own notes lead one to suppose that he has selected with discrimination from the notes of others. His work is a model of patience, industry and judgment. He plays well in this game of scholarship. But what is the game worth? What is the result?
"Here is a volume of nearly 500 large pages. The text is a literal reprint of the folio. The clear stream of poetry runs along the tops of the pages. Under that is a deposit of textual emendations full of clam-shells and lost anchors and tin cans. Under that is a mud bottom two centuries deep. It consists of (a) what scholars said Shakespeare said; (b) what scholars said Shakespeare meant; (c) what scholars said about what other scholars said; (d) what scholars said about the morality and character of the personages, as (1) they are in Shakespeare's play, and as (2) they are in other historical and fictitious writings; (e) what scholars said about how other people used the words that Shakespeare used; (f) what scholars said could be done to Shakespeare's text to make him a better poet. I have not read all those notes and I never shall read them. Life is too short and too interesting. All the time that I was trying to read the notes, so that I could know enough about them to write this article, my mind kept swimming up out of the mud into that clear river of text. It is a perfectly clear river. Some of the obscurities that scholars say are there are simply not obscure, except as poetry ought to have a kind of obscurity in some turbulent passages. Some of the obscurities the scholars put there in their innocence and stupidity, and those obscurities you can eliminate by blandly ignoring them."
These learned and over-annotated editions—they are not intended, you say, for the casual reader. Yet they get into his hand—they are, sometimes recommended to him. And, as Mr. Macy asks, are they worth the labor they have cost—are they worth it to anybody? Looking at them reminds me of the ideal ascetic of the Middle Ages, St. Simeon Stylites. St. Simeon was considered the most religious man of his time because for twenty years he lived upon a pillar that "numbered forty cubits from the soil," and because he would
"'Tween the spring and downfall of the light,
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints."
In spite of that, St. Simeon is not the ideal religious man today. Will these fact-collectors be the ideal scholars a century hence?
Are we sometimes acclaiming as great scholars men who are really doing nothing but a tremendous amount of grubbing? Are some of the so-called scholarly editions really scholarly, or are they simply gigantic "stunts?" Whatever may be their value for reference, and that is vastly over-rated, they discourage reading.
It is also possible to drive people away from books, or make it difficult for them to get near books, by printing confusing things about them. It is possible to catalog a book—according to the best rules—in such a fashion as to make it an exceedingly unattractive, not to say repellant object. This is bad enough when it is done in the formal catalog, but when it is done in little leaflets, and book-lists—things which ought to be informal and inviting—the case is very sad. The other day I saw an entry in a book-list which read like this: "Dickens. Whipple, E. P. Charles Dickens." The expert is in no doubt; the uninitiated may well be confused to know which is the author and which the subject. When someone defends such practices by saying: "But the rules!" someone else, whose voice is a voice of authority ought to say: "Fudge! And also Fiddle-de-dee!"
The general subject today is "the World of Books." It is a delightful world—one so different from that into which we emerge every morning that it seems hard, sometimes, to realize that the one exists inside the other. It is a place of entertainment within the reach of any of us. There are a few obstructions around the entrance—some of which I have tried to describe. People have built up walls of impossible "classics"; publishers have tried to string a barbed-wire fence of Complete Works around it. Pedants stand outside, calling upon you to swallow a couple of gallons of facts before you go into the great tent. You can walk by them all. Inside, everything is pleasant. Over in one corner are the folk who like to play with first editions, unique copies, unopened copies, and all the rest of those expensive toys. Some of these gentlemen have about as much to do with the world of books as have the collectors of four-post beds and old blue china, but many of them are very good fellows. Most of them do not belong in here at all, but, like boys who have crawled in under the tent, now they are inside they think they have as much right as anybody. Some of them, indeed, are quite uppish and superior, and inclined to look down on the rest of us who have a vulgar notion that books are made to read.
Here is all you require—a comfortable chair, and a pipe. And the company! Well, look around:
Dear Lamb and excellent Montaigne,
Sterne and the credible Defoe,
Borrow, DeQuincey, the great Dean,
The sturdy leisurist Thoreau;