over the teacups-第33章
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One of the encouraging signs of the times is the condensed and
abbreviated form in which knowledge is presented to the general
reader。 The short biographies of historic personages; of which
within the past few years many have been published; have been a great
relief to the large class of readers who want to know something; but
not too much; about them。
What refuge is there for the victim who is oppressed with the feeling
that there are a thousand new books he ought to read; while life is
only long enough for him to attempt to read a hundred? Many readers
remember what old Rogers; the poet;
said:
〃When I hear a new book talked about or have it pressed upon me; I
read an old one。〃
Happy the man who finds his rest in the pages of some favorite
classic! I know no reader more to be envied than that friend of mine
who for many years has given his days and nights to the loving study
of Horace。 After a certain period in life; it is always with an
effort that we admit a new author into the inner circle of our
intimates。 The Parisian omnibuses; as I remember them half a century
ago;they may still keep to the same habit; for aught that I know;
used to put up the sign 〃Complet〃 as soon as they were full。 Our
public conveyances are never full until the natural atmospheric
pressure of sixteen pounds to the square inch is doubled; in the
close packing of the human sardines that fill the all…accommodating
vehicles。 A new…comer; however well mannered and well dressed; is
not very welcome under these circumstances。 In the same way; our
tables are full of books half…read and books we feel that we must
read。 And here come in two thick volumes; with uncut leaves; in
small type; with many pages; and many lines to a page;a book that
must be read and ought to be read at once。 What a relief to hand it
over to the lovely keeper of your literary conscience; who will tell
you all that you will most care to know about it; and leave you free
to plunge into your beloved volume; in which you are ever finding new
beauties; and from which you rise refreshed; as if you had just come
from the cool waters of Hippocrene! The stream of modern literature
represented by the books and periodicals on the crowded counters is a
turbulent and clamorous torrent; dashing along among the rocks of
criticism; over the pebbles of the world's daily events; trying to
make itself seen and heard amidst the hoarse cries of the politicians
and the rumbling wheels of traffic。 The classic is a still lakelet;
a mountain tarn; fed by springs that never fail; its surface never
ruffled by storms;always the same; always smiling a welcome to its
visitor。 Such is Horace to my friend。 To his eye 〃Lydia; dic per
omnes〃 is as familiar as 〃Pater noster qui es in caelis〃 to that of a
pious Catholic。 〃Integer vitae;〃 which he has put into manly
English; his Horace opens to as Watt's hymn…book opens to 〃From all
that dwell below the skies。〃 The more he reads; the more he studies
his author; the richer are the treasures he finds。 And what Horace
is to him; Homer; or Virgil; or Dante is to many a quiet reader; sick
to death of the unending train of bookmakers。
I have some curious books in my library; a few of which I should like
to say something about to The Teacups; when they have no more
immediately pressing subjects before them。 A library of a few
thousand volumes ought always to have some books in it which the
owner almost never opens; yet with whose backs he is so well
acquainted that he feels as if he knew something of their contents。
They are like those persons whom we meet in our daily walks; with
whose faces and figures; whose summer and winter garments; whose
walking…sticks and umbrellas even; we feel acquainted; and yet whose
names; whose business; whose residences; we know nothing about。 Some
of these books are so formidable in their dimensions; so rusty and
crabbed in their aspect; that it takes a considerable amount of
courage to attack them。
I will ask Delilah to bring down from my library a very thick; stout
volume; bound in parchment; and standing on the lower shelf; next the
fireplace。 The pretty handmaid knows my books almost as if she were
my librarian; and I don't doubt she would have found it if I had
given only the name on the back。
Delilah returned presently; with the heavy quarto in her arms。 It
was a pleasing sight;the old book in the embrace of the fresh young
damsel。 I felt; on looking at them; as I did when I followed the
slip of a girl who conducted us in the Temple; that ancient building
in the heart of London。 The long…enduring monuments of the dead do
so mock the fleeting presence of the living!
Is n't this book enough to scare any of you? I said; as Delilah
dumped it down upon the table。 The teacups jumped from their saucers
as it thumped on the board。 Danielis Georgii Morhofii Polyhistor;
Literarius; Philosophicus et Poeticus。 Lubecae MDCCXXXIII。 Perhaps
I should not have ventured to ask you to look at this old volume; if
it had not been for the fact that Dr。 Johnson mentions Morohof as the
author to whom he was specially indebted。 more; I think; than to
any other。 It is a grand old encyclopaedic summary of all the author
knew about pretty nearly everything; full of curious interest; but so
strangely mediaeval; so utterly antiquated in most departments of
knowledge; that it is hard to believe the volume came from the press
at a time when persons whom I well remember were living。 Is it
possible that the books which have been for me what Morhof was for
Dr。 Johnson can look like that to the student of the year 1990?
Morhof was a believer in magic and the transmutation of metals。
There was always something fascinating to me in the old books of
alchemy。 I have felt that the poetry of science lost its wings when
the last powder of projection had been cast into the crucible; and
the fire of the last transmutation furnace went out。 Perhaps I am
wrong in implying that alchemy is an extinct folly。 It existed in
New England's early days; as we learn from the Winthrop papers; and I
see no reason why gold…making should not have its votaries as well as
other popular delusions。
Among the essays of Morhof is one on the 〃Paradoxes of the Senses。〃
That title brought to mind the recollection of another work I have
been meaning to say something about; at some time when you were in
the listening mood。 The book I refer to is 〃A Budget of Paradoxes;〃
by Augustus De Morgan。 De Morgan is well remembered as a very
distinguished mathematician; whose works have kept his name in high
honor to the present time。 The book I am speaking of was published
by his widow; and is largely made up of letters received by him and
his comments upon them。 Few persons ever read it through。 Few
intelligent readers ever took it up and laid it down without taking a
long draught of its singular and interesting contents。 The letters
are mostly from that class of persons whom we call 〃cranks;〃 in our
familiar language。
At this point Number Seven interrupted me by calling out; 〃Give us
some of those cranks' letters。 A crank is a man who does his own
thinking。 I had a relation who was called a crank。 I believe I have
been spoken of as one myself。 That is what you have to expect if you
invent anything that puts an old machine out of fashion; or solve a
problem that has puzzled all the world up to your time。 There never
was a religion founded but its Messiah was called a crank。 There
never was an idea started that woke up men out of their stupid
indifference but its originator was spoken of as a crank。 Do you
want to know why that name is given to the men who do most for the
world's progress? I will tell you。 It is because cranks make all
the wheels in all the machinery of the world go round。 What would a
steam…engine be without a crank? I suppose the first fool that
looked