The Love Affairs Of A Bibliomaniac [49]
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 two--sometimes by a whole kennel--of 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 ``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 think--books 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 friends urged him to tell them about it. After some hesitation, he said: ``Well, I will tell you. I was standing some time ago at the entrance of Rydal Mount. A man accosted me with the question: `Pray, sir, have you seen my wife pass by?' Whereupon I retorted, `Why, my good friend, I didn't know till this moment that you had a wife.' ''
Illustrative of Wordsworth's vanity, it is told that when it was reported that the next Waverley novel was to be ``Rob Roy,'' the poet took down his ``Ballads'' and read to the company ``Rob Roy's Grave.'' Then he said gravely: ``I do not know what more Mr. Scott can have to say on the subject.''
Wordsworth and Dickens disliked each other cordially. Having been asked his opinion of the young novelist, Wordsworth answered: ``Why, I'm not much given to turn critic on people I meet; but, as you ask me, I will cordially avow that I thought him a very talkative young person--but I dare say he may be very clever. Mind, I don't want to say a word against him, for I have never read a line he has written.''
The same inquirer subsequently asked Dickens how he liked Wordsworth.
``Like him!'' roared Dickens, ``not at all; he is a dreadful Old Ass!''
XIX
OUR DEBT TO MONKISH MEN
Where one has the time and the money to devote to the collection of missals and illuminated books, the avocation must be a very delightful one. I never look upon a missal or upon a bit of antique illumination that I do not invest that object with a certain poetic romance, and I picture to myself long lines of monkish men bending over their tasks, and applying themselves with pious enthusiasm thereto. We should not flatter ourselves
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 ``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 think--books 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 friends urged him to tell them about it. After some hesitation, he said: ``Well, I will tell you. I was standing some time ago at the entrance of Rydal Mount. A man accosted me with the question: `Pray, sir, have you seen my wife pass by?' Whereupon I retorted, `Why, my good friend, I didn't know till this moment that you had a wife.' ''
Illustrative of Wordsworth's vanity, it is told that when it was reported that the next Waverley novel was to be ``Rob Roy,'' the poet took down his ``Ballads'' and read to the company ``Rob Roy's Grave.'' Then he said gravely: ``I do not know what more Mr. Scott can have to say on the subject.''
Wordsworth and Dickens disliked each other cordially. Having been asked his opinion of the young novelist, Wordsworth answered: ``Why, I'm not much given to turn critic on people I meet; but, as you ask me, I will cordially avow that I thought him a very talkative young person--but I dare say he may be very clever. Mind, I don't want to say a word against him, for I have never read a line he has written.''
The same inquirer subsequently asked Dickens how he liked Wordsworth.
``Like him!'' roared Dickens, ``not at all; he is a dreadful Old Ass!''
XIX
OUR DEBT TO MONKISH MEN
Where one has the time and the money to devote to the collection of missals and illuminated books, the avocation must be a very delightful one. I never look upon a missal or upon a bit of antique illumination that I do not invest that object with a certain poetic romance, and I picture to myself long lines of monkish men bending over their tasks, and applying themselves with pious enthusiasm thereto. We should not flatter ourselves