the love affairs of a bibliomaniac-第11章
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he knows the friendships which only he can knowthe friendships of the immortals whose spirits hover where human love and sympathy attract them。
How well I love ye； O my precious books my Prout； my Wilson； my Phillips； my Berners； my Doubleday； my Roxby； my Chatto； my Thompson； my Crawhall！ For ye are full of joyousness and cheer； and your songs uplift me and make me young and strong again。
And thou； homely little brown thing with worn leaves； yet more precious to me than all jewels of the earthcome； let me take thee from thy shelf and hold thee lovingly in my hands and press thee tenderly to this aged and slow…pulsing heart of mine！ Dost thou remember how I found thee half a century ago all tumbled in a lot of paltry trash？ Did I not joyously possess thee for a sixpence； and have I not cherished thee full sweetly all these years？ My Walton； soon must we part forever； when I am gone say unto him who next shall have thee to his own that with his latest breath an old man blessed thee！
VIII
BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS
One of the most interesting spots in all London to me is Bunhill Fields cemetery； for herein are the graves of many whose memory I revere。 I had heard that Joseph Ritson was buried here； and while my sister； Miss Susan； lingered at the grave of her favorite poet； I took occasion to spy around among the tombstones in the hope of discovering the last resting…place of the curious old antiquary whose labors in the field of balladry have placed me under so great a debt of gratitude to him。
But after I had searched in vain for somewhat more than an hour one of the keepers of the place told me that in compliance with Ritson's earnest desire while living； that antiquary's grave was immediately after the interment of the body levelled down and left to the care of nature； with no stone to designate its location。 So at the present time no one knows just where old
Ritson's grave is； only that within that vast enclosure where so many thousand souls sleep their last sleep the dust of the famous ballad…lover lies fast asleep in the bosom of mother earth。
I have never been able to awaken in Miss Susan any enthusiasm for balladry。 My worthy sister is of a serious turn of mind； and I have heard her say a thousand times that convivial songs （which is her name for balladry） are inspirations； if not actually compositions； of the devil。 In her younger days Miss Susan performed upon the melodeon with much discretion； and at one time I indulged the delusive hope that eventually she would not disdain to join me in the vocal performance of the best ditties of D'Urfey and his ilk。
If I do say it myself； I had a very pretty voice thirty or forty years ago； and even at the present time I can deliver the ballad of King Cophetua and the beggar maid with amazing spirit when I have my friend Judge Methuen at my side and a bowl of steaming punch between us。 But my education of Miss Susan ended without being finished。 We two learned to perform the ballad of Sir Patrick Spens very acceptably； but Miss Susan abandoned the copartnership when I insisted that we proceed to the sprightly ditty beginning；
Life's short hours too fast are hasting Sweet amours cannot be lasting。
My physician； Dr。 O'Rell； has often told me that he who has a well…assorted ballad library should never be lonely； for the limitations of balladly are so broad that within them are to be found performances adapted to every mood to which humanity is liable。 And； indeed； my experience confirms the truth of my physician's theory。 It were hard for me to tell what delight I have had upon a hot and gusty day in a perusal of the history of Robin Hood； for there is such actuality in those simple rhymes as to dispel the troublesome environments of the present and transport me to better times and pleasanter scenes。
Aha！ how many times have I walked with brave Robin in Sherwood forest！ How many times have Little John and I couched under the greenwood tree and shared with Friar Tuck the haunch of juicy venison and the pottle of brown October brew！ And Will Scarlet and I have been famous friends these many a year； and if Allen…a…Dale were here he would tell you that I have trolled full many a ballad with him in praise of Maid Marian's peerless beauty。
Who says that Sherwood is no more and that Robin and his merry men are gone forever！ Why； only yesternight I walked with them in that gracious forest and laughed defiance at the doughty sheriff and his craven menials。 The moonlight twinkled and sifted through the boscage； and the wind was fresh and cool。 Right merrily we sang； and I doubt not we should have sung the whole night through had not my sister； Miss Susan； come tapping at my door； saying that I had waked her parrot and would do well to cease my uproar and go to sleep。
Judge Methuen has a copy of Bishop Percy's ‘‘Reliques of Ancient English Poetry'' that he prizes highly。 It is the first edition of this noble work； and was originally presented by Percy to Dr。 Birch of the British Museum。 The Judge found these three volumes exposed for sale in a London book stall； and he comprehended them without delaya great bargain； you will admit； when I tell you that they cost the Judge but three shillings！ How came these precious volumes into that book stall I shall not presume to say。
Strange indeed are the vicissitudes which befall books； stranger even than the happenings in human life。 All men are not as considerate of books as I am； I wish they were。 Many times I have felt the deepest compassion for noble volumes in the possession of persons wholly incapable of appreciating them。 The helpless books seemed to appeal to me to rescue them； and too many times I have been tempted to snatch them from their inhospitable shelves； and march them away to a pleasant refuge beneath my own comfortable roof tree。
Too few people seem to realize that books have feelings。 But if I know one thing better than another I know this； that my books know me and love me。 When of a morning I awaken I cast my eyes about my room to see how fare my beloved treasures； and as I cry cheerily to them； ‘‘Good…day to you； sweet friends！'' how lovingly they beam upon me； and how glad they are that my repose has been unbroken。 When I take them from their places； how tenderly do they respond to the caresses of my hands； and with what exultation do they respond unto my call for sympathy！
Laughter for my gayer moods； distraction for my cares； solace for my griefs； gossip for my idler moments； tears for my sorrows； counsel for my doubts； and assurance against my fearsthese things my books give me with a promptness and a certainty and a cheerfulness which are more than human； so that I were less than human did I not love these comforters and bear eternal gratitude to them。
Judge Methuen read me once a little poem which I fancy mightily； it is entitled ‘‘Winfreda；'' and you will find it in your Percy； if you have one。 The last stanza； as I recall it； runs in this wise：
And when by envy time transported Shall seek to rob us of our joys； You'll in our girls again be courted And I'll go wooing in our boys。
‘‘Now who was the author of those lines？'' asked the Judge。
‘‘Undoubtedly Oliver Wendell Holmes；'' said I。 ‘‘They have the flavor peculiar to our Autocrat； none but he could have done up so much sweetness in such a quaint little bundle。''
‘‘You are wrong；'' said the Judge； ‘‘but the mistake is a natural one。 The whole poem is such a one as Holmes might have written； but it saw the light long before our dear doctor's day： what a pity that its authorship is not known！''
‘‘Yet why a pity？'' quoth I。 ‘‘Is it not true that words are the only things that live forever？ Are we not mortal； and are not books immortal？ Homer's harp is broken and Horace's lyre is unstrung； and the voices of the great singers are hushed； but their songs their songs are imperishable。 O friend！ what moots it to them or to us who gave this epic or that lyric to immortality？ The singer belongs to a year； his song to all time。 I know it is the custom now to credit the author with his work； for this is a utilitarian age； and all things are by the pound
