the love affairs of a bibliomaniac(藏书癖者的爱情)-第32章
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Bibliomania；'' thought I； ‘‘and how graciously they are distributed in this
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joyous circle； wherein it is permitted to see not only the maturer members；
but； alas； the youth and even the babes and sucklings drinking freely and
gratefully at the fountain…head of thy delights！''
Dr。 O'Rell's library is one of the most charming apartments I know of。
It looks out upon every variety of scenery； for Dr。 O'Rell has had
constructed at considerable expense a light iron framework from which are
suspended at different times cunningly painted canvases representing
landscapes and marines corresponding to the most whimsical fancy。
In the dead of winter； the doctor often has a desire to look out upon a
cheery landscape； thereupon； by a simple manipulation of a keyboard；
there is unrolled a panorama of velvety hillsides and flowery meads； of
grazing sheep； and of piping rustics； so natural is the spectacle that one
can almost hear the music of the reeds； and fancy himself in Arcadia。 If
in midsummer the heat is oppressive and life seems burthensome；
forthwith another canvas is outspread； and the glories of the Alps appear；
or a stretch of blue sea； or a corner of a primeval forest。
So there is an outlook for every mood； and I doubt not that this
ingenious provision contributes potently towards promoting bibliomaniac
harmony and prosperity in my friend's household。 It is true that I myself
am not susceptible to external influences when once I am surrounded by
books； I do not care a fig whether my library overlooks a garden or a
desert； give me my dear companions in their dress of leather； cloth； or
boards； and it matters not to me whether God sends storm or sunshine；
flowers or hail； light or darkness； noise or calm。 Yet I know and admit
that environment means much to most people； and I do most heartily
applaud Dr。 O'Rell's versatile device。
I have always thought that De Quincey's workshop would have given
me great delight。 The particular thing that excited De Quincey's choler
was interference with his books and manuscripts； which he piled atop of
one another upon the floor and over his desk； until at last there would be
but a narrow little pathway from the desk to the fireplace and from the
fireplace to the door； and his writing…tablegracious！ what a Pelion upon
Ossa of confusion it must have been！
Yet De Quincey insisted that he knew ‘‘just where everything was；''
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and he merely exacted that the servants attempt no such vandalism as
‘‘cleaning up'' in his workshop。 Of course there would presently come a
time when there was no more room on the table and when the little
pathway to the fireplace and the door would be no longer visible； then；
with a sigh； De Quincey would lock the door of that room and betake
himself to other quarters； which in turn would eventually become quite as
littered up； cluttered up； and impassable as the first rooms。
From all that can be gathered upon the subject it would appear that De
Quincey was careless in his treatment of books； I have read somewhere
（but I forget where） that he used his forefinger as a paper…cutter and that
he did not hesitate to mutilate old folios which he borrowed。 But he was
extraordinarily tender with his manuscripts； and he was wont to carry in
his pockets a soft brush with which he used to dust off his manuscripts
most carefully before handing them to the publisher。
Sir Walter Scott was similarly careful with his books； and he used； for
purposes of dusting them； the end of a fox's tail set in a handle of silver。
Scott； was； however； particular and systematic in the arrangement of his
books； and his work…room； with its choice bric…a…brac and its interesting
collection of pictures and framed letters； was a veritable paradise to the
visiting book…lover and curio… lover。 He was as fond of early rising as
Francis Jeffrey was averse to it； and both these eminent men were strongly
attached to animal pets。 Jeffrey particularly affected an aged and
garrulous parrot and an equally disreputable little dog。 Scott was so
stanch a friend of dogs that wherever he went he was accompanied by one
or twosometimes by a whole kennelof these faithful brutes。
In Mrs。 Gordon's noble ‘‘Memoirs'' we have a vivid picture of
Professor Wilson's workroom。 All was confusion there： ‘‘his room was a
strange mixture of what may be called order and untidiness； for there was
not a scrap of paper or a book that his hand could not light upon in a
moment； while to the casual eye； in search of discovery； it would appear
chaos。'' Wilson had no love for fine furniture； and he seems to have
crowded his books together without regard to any system of classification。
He had a habit of mixing his books around with fishing…tackle； and his
charming biographer tells us it was no uncommon thing to find the
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‘‘Wealth of Nations；'' ‘‘Boxiana；'' the ‘‘Faerie Queen；'' Jeremy Taylor；
and Ben Jonson occupying close quarters with fishing…rods； boxing…gloves；
and tins of barley…sugar。
Charles Lamb's favorite workshop was in an attic； upon the walls of
this room he and his sister pasted old prints and gay pictures； and this
resulted in giving the place a cheery aspect。 Lamb loved old books； old
friends； old times； ‘‘he evades the present； he works at the future； and his
affections revert to and settle on the past；''so says Hazlitt。 His favorite
books seem to have been Bunyan's ‘‘Holy War；'' Browne's ‘‘Urn…Burial；''
Burton's ‘‘Anatomy of Melancholy；'' Fuller's ‘‘Worthies；'' and Taylor's
‘‘Holy Living and Dying。'' Thomas Westwood tells us that there were
few modern volumes in his library； it being his custom to give away and
throw away （as the same writer asserts） presentation copies of
contemporaneous literature。 Says Barry Cornwall： ‘‘Lamb's pleasures
lay amongst the books of the old English writers；'' and Lamb himself
uttered these memorable words： ‘‘I cannot sit and thinkbooks think for
me。''
Wordsworth； on the other hand； cared little for books； his library was a
small one； embracing hardly more than five hundred volumes。 He drew
his inspiration not from books； but from Nature。 From all that I have
heard of him I judge him to have been a very dull man。 Allibone relates
of him that he once remarked that he did not consider himself a witty poet。
‘‘Indeed；'' quoth he； ‘‘I don't think I ever was witty but once in my life。''
His frie
