Chapter I: HAVE confessed that I am of the company of book-lovers who delight

in dipping into the ‘lucky-tubs’ to be found outside booksellers’ windows. I know of no pleasanter way of spending a spare half-hour. Give me a few ‘loose’ coppers, place my feet upon a likely road, and I am content. I am now, let me say, of the happy company of _book-fishermen_. And this, mark you, is fishing in real earnest, this effort to ‘hook’ good food for the mind, to place in one’s basket a ‘book that delighteth and giveth perennial satisfaction.’

Ah! it is a good road I am on--one of London’s happiest thoroughfares--a road rich in book-shops. Here for a humble penny one may dip into tub or barrel and perchance pick out a volume worth its weight in gold! We hear so frequently of marvellous ‘catches.’ You know how this, that, or the other fine sportsman boasts of landing fish of amazing weight--well, it is so with your _book-fisherman_. Has he not told you of first editions procured for a single copper? And who shall say what fine day may not find us among Fortune’s favoured ones?

And so now to our fishing! Here is a copy of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, ‘hooked’ in the deep waters of a ‘penny tub.’ It is calf-bound, mark you, and in fairish condition, though much stained with the passing of years. My heart leaps; it is very old--a first edition possibly! But no; it is anything but that, and alas! like the egg that has grown into a proverb, it is only good in parts. Many of the pages are entirely missing, and others partially so. Judged by the books that surround me, it is dear at a penny ... _Paradise Lost_!

Yes, I confess that this fishing has its distressing side. One is frequently disappointed. And how heart-rending it is to find great works in a soiled and tattered condition, to discover, on drawing one’s hand from some ‘lucky-tub,’ that one holds the remains, a few pages, it may be, or the cover only, of a book that has played a part in the making of this world’s history! And how touching to find a winsome companion like the gentle Elia soiled, torn, bereft of covering, showing yellow gum and coarse stitching! I confess that such a sight almost moves me to tears. Fair wear and tear would never have reduced the gentle Elia to so pitiable a state. I suspect hands as callous as those of the butcher in the slaughterhouse across the way. Alas! that there should be men to whom books are merely so much paper and cloth. ‘A book,’ you tell them, ‘is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured upon purpose, to a life beyond.’ And their answer is a smile. But this is no time for repining. The great army of book-lovers swells with each passing year. From all sides come recruits, often from the most unexpected quarters, from mill and factory, mean street and slum. Yes; ’tis a great day for books, and soon _Everyman_ will have his library, in fact as well as in name. And who dare say, who can guess, what treasures his library will hold?

Now back to our fishing. Here is a tub that promises well; the price per volume, as aforetime, is only one penny. See! Here is a dainty volume, slim and shapely of form, and clothed in a delicate green. A minor poet, you guess. Yes; the work of a minor poet, published, no doubt, at the author’s own expense. But do not turn aside. Do not say that such books are of no value. I confess that I am for lingering over this slender booklet. Its cover is very pleasing; the type is large and clear; the paper is of good texture. And what anxiety, what patient care, probably went to the making of its contents! Brave minor poet! You have withstood many rebuffs. The road you travel holds, I doubt not, many pure delights: you walk, it may be, beneath a star-strewn sky. But star-gazing has proved in your case a dangerous occupation. ‘He who raises his eyes to the heavens forgets the stones and puddles at his feet.’ Alas! you have had many falls. And when perchance you have come to the ground, it has often been to the accompaniment of heartless laughter. ‘Here,’ cry the critics, ‘is another minor poet on all fours.’ And with ill-timed jests they proceed to point out your weaknesses; how that you have not the feet to walk aright, much less run; and as for wings, there is not, ’tis frequently said, so much as a sign of their sprouting. But for all that you have scrambled to your feet, and marching bravely forward, continued to give generously of your gentle fancy. Long may you live! In you we have (and here is my strongest point in your favour) many a great and worthy poet in the bud.

And so I confess gladly, and, indeed, with a proud heart, that in my bookshelves you hold a warm, well-sheltered corner. I love to handle your slender volumes, to pore over your early fancies, ill-expressed at times, it may be, but with a sincerity that is refreshing, and a simplicity that is delightful. And if your work is poor from cover to cover--which is rarely, if ever the case--well, you have given us a book.

Yes, I am of the company of book-lovers who revere anything in the form of a book. Lovers are made that way; and it is futile to inquire how I can bring myself to love books of ‘all sorts and conditions.’ As well might you ask the nature-lover why he speaks so tenderly of, say, the worm that peeps through the tender green of some sun-lit lawn. ’Tis simply love--love for the humblest children of dear Mother Earth. And so it is with the true book-lover; for the humblest volume he has a tender thought.

But what of our fishing? This is, I take it, a fitting place to record how on such and such a day I had the good fortune to ‘hook’ a copy of this or that desirable work for a few humble pence--a ‘mere song’! Well, so it has been, ‘day in and day out.’ But those books, I would remind you, are now my companions, my friends, and I can no more associate money with their value than I can judge a friend in the flesh by the contents of his purse. To me they are _priceless_.

VIII

‘THE CULT OF THE BOOKPLATE’

YOU have often heard the cry, and know full well its meaning, ‘My books are priceless.’ What wonder, then, if you and I--lovers of books--take lively interest in what an ingenuous man of business has called ‘_The Cult of the Bookplate_.’ ‘The mission of the bookplate,’ he advises us, ‘has always been, and must always be, primarily to indicate ownership of the books in which they are placed. They may be ornate or simple, as the taste or means of the owner may indicate; they may incorporate crests, arms, motto, or other family attribute; or, again, they may reflect the personal interests or occupations of the owner; but the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same--a reminder to those who borrow.’

Pretty ground this for contemplation--for doubts, counsels, hopes, fears, regrets; aye, and for _rejoicing_! How my mind leaps, first this way, then that, when I meditate upon that rich circle of friendship in which I may borrow from a fellow book-lover’s treasured volumes, and, of course, lend of my own! Yet by what unspeakable regrets am I possessed when I think of certain treasured volumes lent in wildly generous moments to good but ‘short-minded’ friends! I have in mind a little volume of essays--a first and only edition--by an unknown but charming writer, which is now in the possession of that restless fellow K----. May he see these words and repent! And what of that treasured edition--once mine, but, alas! mine no more--of certain writings of Dr. Johnson? Oh, that I could send the good doctor in quest of the volume! What blushes of shame he would bring to the cheeks of the heartless borrower! ‘Sir!’ he would cry. And what words would follow! Very speedily should I be in a position to fill the gap in my shelves.

And there is that dainty little calf-bound volume of Lamb’s essays, borrowed some months back by J----. Where are you and my little volume now, good friend? For reasons known to ourselves alone I address you tenderly. But I would that I could send the gentle Elia to recover my lost gem. Very gently would he deal with you, with quaint phrases, puns, and happy jests. Aye, and with little speeches uttered with that fascinating lisp of his. Indeed, I fear, now that I come to give the matter careful thought, that he would leave you empty handed. It would be so like his charming ways to console, comfort, and amuse you, and leave with you, after all, my volume of his incomparable essays.

The truth is, this work of restoring borrowed volumes to one’s shelves calls for a stout heart. I confess that I am wanting in the necessary qualifications. I have not the courage to speak harshly to a fellow book-lover. So firm is his hold on my affections that I am as wax in his hands. Yet book-lovers to a man agree that the borrower who never repays stands in dire need of correction. I must call another to the task--one of stronger metal.

Listen! ‘Even the fieldmouse,’ cries my champion, ‘has a russet gown to match the mould, but the book-lover who has let loose a borrower in his library is as forlorn as the goat tied up for tiger’s bait. True, that to spare your Homer you may plead you are re-acquainting yourself with the _Iliad_, but that is to save Homer and lose Virgil. You cannot profess that you study all the classics simultaneously; and who knows that better than the borrower? Snatch your Browning from his grip, and his talons sink into Goethe instead. What does it matter to him? He is out for books, and he will not be placated until he has left gaping rents in your shelves, like the hull of a bombarded battleship. These chasms shall burden your soul with the weight of many unkindly maledictions, but the borrower will return no evil thought, for the simple and satisfactory reason that he will now think no more either of you or of your books. Stabled securely upon his shelves, they will remain on one of those perpetual leases that amount to a freehold. It is useless to invade his lair with the hope of bringing back the spoil. Are you not instructed that he has not yet had time to read them, but that they are yours again whenever you will? Outgeneralled and outflanked, you retreat empty-handed.

‘Books are gentle, lovable company. Why should the lust of them corrupt human nature, turning an amiable citizen into that hopeless irreclaimable, the inveterate book-borrower? Is it that law of contrasts which associates with the noble steed the ignoble horse-coper, and with the gentle dove the cropped head and unshaven jowl of the pigeon-flyer? But truce to theories! It is the hour of action. Will not a benignly reforming Government insist that lent books shall be registered like bills of sale, and a list drawn up of notorious borrowers, with compulsory inspection of their dens, to protect our defenceless libraries from the ravages of the book-pirate? If it is hopeless to look for his cure, shall we not at least petition for his prevention?’

You will allow that all this bears directly upon the subject in mind. Does not the ingenuous gentleman whom I have quoted at the head of this chapter aver that the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same--‘a reminder to those who borrow.’ Here, then, is one thread of hope, but only a very thin thread, I fear. Not for one moment dare I venture to think that it will bear the weight of our grievances. It is too fine, too delicate, to save us from the hands of the ruthless borrower. Indeed, I suspect that if it in any wise alters our position, it is only to draw us into fresh danger. For you know how many and how varied are the charms of bookplates, both old and new. Indeed, I have known book-lovers borrow a volume for the sole purpose of tracing the design upon the fly-leaf. It is a fault of which the present writer is guilty. With shame he confesses it.

But wait! Why should I speak with blushes of my admiration for the brave armorial designs which adorn the calf-bound volumes of my friend H----? Well may he be proud of his family attributes, and well may I admire the manner in which some skilful designer, long departed, has incorporated arms and family motto with the familiar words _Ex Libris_. I know not, by the way, how any book-lover can bring himself to ignore information so absolutely clear. The announcement ‘FROM MY LIBRARY’ seems in the case of the particular bookplate in mind to come, nay, _does_ come, from a trumpet of amazing dimensions. But it is to be feared that the imaginative designer has been allowed too free a hand. So rich is his fancy, so skilful his line work, that the force of his call to duty is dulled by admiration. Perhaps that is why my friend’s volume still rests on my shelves. And perchance herein may rest an explanation of the heartless manner in which my friend has held fast to my treasured volume of Cowper’s poems.

It is, I say, to be feared that designers of bookplates have sacrificed the primary aim of their calling to the elaboration of playful fancies. From the very birth of the bookplate the fault seems to have been present. I am told that the earliest specimens date back to 1516, and on the Continent, notably in Germany, even earlier than that. Far back into the ages must we travel to find the first offenders. Let the interested book-lover examine the ancient examples presented in 1574 by Sir Nicholas Bacon to the University of Cambridge. He will then see pretty clearly how the war has been waged between the pictorial and the practical, and how, all along the line, the victory has been with the former. And what wonder with such mighty craftsmen as Albrecht Durer, Lucas Cranach, and Hans Holbein to wield the steel point of the engraver! Can one be surprised if such men defeat the chief aim of the bookplate, and put to silence with their wonderful skill the simple cry _Ex Libris_? Bookplates by Durer, Cranach, or Holbein must surely give great value to the volumes in which they rest. Note the danger! True book-lovers will blush to own it, but we must acknowledge the fact that a bookplate may have greater attractions than the volume in which it rests!

Wherefore, I say, we book-lovers will be well advised if we see to it that we do not fall into the error of keeping on our shelves books which may be coveted for the plates they contain. Bookplates in the delicate manner of Chippendale, with ‘wreath and ribbon’ and open shell work, are too alluring. Designs in the manner of Sheraton are also dangerously attractive. Jacobean plates come nearer the desired mark. But to my mind the good old English style of plate, ‘simple armorial,’ is best fitted for the purpose.

Always must we remember that the primary object of the bookplate is _a reminder to those who borrow_. On this score I am disposed to favour those inexpensive modern plates in which are interwoven some dear, familiar scene--a nook or corner of one’s garden, or a beloved scene in one’s native place. If the ruthless borrower has aught of good in him, surely he will be affected by such tender personal associations! But we have seen that the average borrower of books is a strange fellow. Alas! I know him only too well. Indeed, I too must confess that ‘out of an intimate knowledge of my own sinful ways have I spoken.’

IX

BEDSIDE BOOKS

I come to my subject in a sleepy mood. It seems a daring confession to make. But you will allow that only when one’s mind is bent on thoughts of sleep can one hope to speak fittingly of bedside books. ’Tis a subject calling for gentle, quiet thoughts. And what better state of mind? You remember Robert Louis Stevenson’s prayer, ‘Give us the quiet mind.’ How often has a similar prayer been offered! Too often are we disturbed in thought--harassed, perplexed, worried. Let us now turn our attention to books that soothe and lull to rest. Here they stand, ready to hand. But name them I dare not, save in my own heart. For your taste in this matter may be totally different from mine. I dare only say at this point--for here surely I may speak with confidence--that no bedside shelf is complete without a copy of Stevenson’s prayers. With gratitude I confess that of the many volumes which have comforted me during dark hours not one is so dear, so close to my heart, as the little volume bearing the golden letters R. L. S.

‘Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each of us to rest. If any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching; and when the day returns, return to us our sun and comforter, and call us up with morning faces and with morning hearts--eager to labour: eager to be happy, if happiness be our portion; and if the day be marked for sorrow, strong to endure it.’ Certainly the prayers of R. L. S. should have a place on every bedside shelf. That you are familiar with the foregoing prayer, I cannot doubt. ‘Many are the golden passages the lover of good books has by heart.’ It may be that you have upon your own particular bedside shelf many ‘devotional authors’ with whose every word you are familiar--books, small and great, which are as jewels in your shelf. And no doubt you have upon the same shelf many every-day and every-hour books, acting, as it were, as a setting to your gems. For certainly the bedside shelf, if it is to be complete, must contain books to suit all moods. One cannot be certain in what mood the night watches will find one. The over-excited brain, for instance, needs its own particular medicine, and sometimes two, three, or more drugs are required, according to the state and nature of the patient. In the majority of cases it is futile to attempt a cure with a book less lively than the patient’s own brain. His abnormal condition must be righted by degrees. One book, or drug, must follow another, till his mind has been restored to a normal state. Then may he resort to his accustomed ‘rest books,’ and so fall asleep.

But I fear that such talk ‘smacks’ of the doctor and his medicine chest, and I desire to conjure up restful thoughts. Well may the reader be forgiven if he starts up in protest. Indeed, here is the difficulty and the danger of seeking to promote a restful condition. One is so apt to make, with the best intentions possible, a remark which has the reverse effect. There is, I say, the risk of naming a book which to the reader might come as a call to action--to daring deeds and mighty enterprises--a mood as far removed from slumber as the North Pole from the South.

I may, however, speak freely enough in the company of book-lovers who wake with the rising sun and take to themselves one of their beloved books. They will not resent my likes and dislikes--they who open the day with a ‘jolly good book.’ In their company I may confess that for the early morning I prefer a book with plenty of ‘go’ in it. Give me life and spirit and enterprise. Thus may I hope to retain some measure of the buoyancy of youth. It is good to have been young in youth, and, as the years go, to grow _younger_. ‘Many,’ it is written, ‘are already old before they are through their teens; but to travel deliberately through one’s ages is to get the heart out of a liberal education. Times change, opinions vary to their opposite, and still the world appears a brave gymnasium, full of sea-bathing, and horse exercise, and bracing, manly virtues; and what can be more encouraging than to find the friend who was welcome at one age welcome at another?’

Let _Westward Ho!_ stand on your bedside shelf, and many other books of the same brave and lively order--‘the travel and adventure books of our spirited youth.’ These, if you meet fresh days with a book, will brace you for the battle. Stevenson must, of course, remain one of your companions--your faithful friend both night and morning. Bravery he will give you, and grace also.

Forth from the casement, on the plain
Where honour has the world to gain,
Pour forth and bravely do your part,
O knights of the unshielded heart!
Forth and for ever forward!--out
From prudent turret and redoubt,
And in the mellay charge amain
To fall, but yet to rise again!
Captive? Ah, still, to honour bright,
A captive soldier of the right!
Or free and fighting, good with ill?
Unconquering but unconquered still!

And mark again with what ‘manly grace’ and beauty of expression Stevenson turns our thoughts to the ‘Giver of all strength.’

‘Give us grace and strength to bear and to persevere. Offenders, give us the grace to accept and to forgive offenders. Forgetful ourselves, help us to bear cheerfully the forgetfulness of others. Give us courage and gaiety and the quiet mind. Spare us to our friends, soften us to our enemies. Bless us, if it may be, in all our innocent endeavours. If it may not, give us the strength to encounter that which is to come, that we be brave in peril, constant in tribulation, temperate in wrath, and in all changes of fortune, and down to the gates of death, loyal and loving one to another.’

If there is a more helpful bedside author than Stevenson, I should much like to make his acquaintance. To few is it given to speak ‘the word that cheers’ with such a fine combination of tenderness and courage.

‘It is a commonplace,’ he says, ‘that we cannot answer for ourselves before we have been tried. But it is not so common a reflection, and surely more consoling, that we usually find ourselves a great deal braver and better than we thought. I believe this is every one’s experience; but an apprehension that they may belie themselves in the future prevents mankind from trumpeting this cheerful sentiment abroad. I wish sincerely, for it would have saved me much trouble, there had been some one to put me in a good heart about life when I was younger; to tell me how dangers are most portentous on a distant sight; and how the good in a man’s spirit will not suffer itself to be overlaid, and rarely or never deserts him in the hour of need.’

To the troubled, relaxed mind such words come as a bracing tonic. Too often have we passed sleepless hours for the want of a word in season--something to put a little ‘grit’ into us for the duties of the morrow. Where the average mortal is concerned Stevenson certainly supplies that need. Should he by any chance fail--well, there is an essayist of our own day, waiting to minister to the most exacting needs. I have in mind the many beautiful and tender pages written by one whom we associate with a certain college window. Certainly of him it may be said that he seeks to comfort and console, and to soothe and lull to rest.

X

OLD FRIENDS

Come, and take choice of my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow.
GOLDSMITH.

NOW let us dwell upon our every-day and every-hour books--our dear old familiar friends. ‘On a shelf in my bookcase,’ says Alexander Smith, ‘are collected a number of volumes which look somewhat the worse for wear. Those of them that originally possessed gilding have had it fingered off, each of them has leaves turned down, and they open of themselves in places wherein I have been happy, and with whose every word I am familiar as with the furniture of the room in which I nightly slumber; each of them has remarks relevant and irrelevant scribbled on their margins. Those favourite volumes cannot be called peculiar glories of literature; but out of the world of books I have singled them, as I have singled my intimates out of the world of men.’

Ah! that makes pleasant reading. For do not the sentiments expressed reflect our own feelings? And do they not place us in gracious and distinguished company? In his charming way, Goldsmith whispers, ‘The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me as if I had gained a new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles the meeting with an old one.’ And to this Dillon adds, ‘Choose an author as you would choose a friend’; whilst Langford, touching the same theme, declares that ‘a wise man will select his book with care, for he will not wish to class them all under the sacred name of friends.’

And as friendship has its roots deep set in love and sympathy, and is for ‘serene days and country rambles, and also for rough roads and hard fare, shipwreck, poverty, and persecution, and, moreover, keeps company with the sallies of the wit,’ it is easy enough to understand why such authors as Charles Lamb, Oliver Goldsmith, William Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, Richard Jefferies, Thomas De Quincey, Joseph Addison, and, of later years, Robert Louis Stevenson, have our affections.

Here they stand--Lamb, Goldsmith, Hazlitt, Hunt, Jefferies--the whole lovable company. What shall I say concerning these friends of ours? I am moved by deep and serious feelings. But, according to his own telling, the gentle Elia, the first in mind, ‘had a general aversion from being treated like a grave or respectable character, and kept a wary eye upon the advances of age that should so entitle him. He herded always, while it was possible, with people younger than himself. He did not conform to the march of time, but was dragged along in the procession. His manners lagged behind his years. He was too much of the boy man. The _toga virilis_ never sate gracefully on his shoulders. The impressions of infancy had burnt into him, and he resented the impertinence of manhood.’ And therein, surely, rests the secret of his charm. In spite of his brave confessions, how firm to discerning hearts is the bed of the stream over which his thoughts flow! Who can doubt the source of a stream that flows so sweetly?

And what of Oliver Goldsmith--poor ‘Goldy,’ as he was called by his circle of intimates on earth? He, too, was very human, and, indeed, had many weaknesses. And they tell us--they who write of such matters with authority--that his days of poverty and wretchedness were largely, if not entirely, the outcome of his follies. Even in the sphere in which he shines--a clear, bright, inextinguishable star--it is said that he had many short-comings. ‘He had neither the gift of knowledge nor the power of research. As an essayist and poet, he has neither extended views nor originality; as a critic, upon the few occasions upon which he embarks on criticism his sympathies are of the most restricted kind.’ And yet for the warmth and gentleness of his heart and the purity of his style we love him. ‘His playful and delicate style transformed everything he touched into something radiant with warmth and fragrant with a perfume all its own.’

And how fared it with Hazlitt--the keen critic, the impassioned writer--‘unbending and severe, insurgent in his political views’? Are we not told that he was really more of an artist and sentimentalist than a politician? ‘As for his life, it was aesthetic, Bohemian, and irregular in the extreme. The restraints of domestic life were intolerable; he wanted to be alone to write; rough accommodation and coarse fare appeased him best; _tinkerdom_ was the ordinary state of his interior environment; save for two pictures (which served as a link with past aspiration and were treasured accordingly), he had no property; a fugitive amour seemed to furnish the emotional side of him with the stimulant it most required; he was a night rambler and a reveller in Rousseau, over whose _Héloise_ and _Confessions_ he expended literally pints of tears.’ Such was the temperament of the writer, artist, and sentimentalist who gave us those incomparable essays ‘On Going a Journey,’ ‘On the Ignorance of the Learned,’ and ‘On Familiar Style.’

And what of those other old friends, Hunt, Jefferies, De Quincey, Robert Louis Stevenson? But our inquiries have gone far enough. What boots it to repeat that our friends were human in life, just as surely as they are human in their books, but with a humanity that allures, charms, captivates? They do not preach to us, these old friends of ours, or make open claims to virtue; and yet we are never so conscious of goodness as when they are near. Their lightest raillery scorns a mean act. In their company meanness flees as from a pestilence.... Our _friends_!

Wisely is it said that the ‘best way to represent to life the manifold use of friendship is to cast and see how many things there are which a wise man cannot do himself; and then it will appear that it was a sparing speech of the ancients to say, “that a friend is more than himself”: for that a friend is far more than himself.’

And so I thank heaven for my friends, for the wise, the lovely, and the noble-minded who stand side by side, ever willing, ever ready, upon my humble shelf.

XI

THROUGH ROSE-COLOURED SPECTACLES

NOW let another occupy the printed page. I have promised to give the experiences of other book-lovers, to show how books influence their thoughts and ways; and I am anxious to introduce a short, slim gentleman of sixty odd summers, with a smiling face and an air of wellbeing, a retiring, peaceful book-lover, whom you would never suspect of playing any part in a mystery.

Nevertheless, my friend must plead guilty to practising the ‘art of make-believe’ to such a degree that one could never be certain how much was real concerning him and his affairs and how much was imaginary. Indeed, the only sure and unchanging thing about him was his spectacles and the manner in which he viewed life through them--his _point of view_.

‘My spectacles,’ he told me, over and over again, ‘are rose-coloured. You understand, _rose-coloured_. They and myself are inseparable. Without them I am as bad as stone-blind, and dare not take a step in any direction.’

Then he would smile in a manner that led one to suspect that he was merely drawing upon his imagination. But I learnt that my friend’s life had been lived under such peculiar difficulties, and that he had passed through so much sorrow and affliction, that without his rose-coloured spectacles he was, in _one_ sense, stone-blind.

It pleased him to imagine that the lenses in his treasured spectacles, which were gold-rimmed and old-fashioned in shape, had been cut from rose-coloured pebbles, with the power of giving a rosy hue to life, and bringing all things into correct perspective.

‘Correct perspective and the right point of view,’ he remarked on a certain day, ‘are everything in life. My spectacles give me the correct vision. They bring men and affairs into proper focus, and, what is more, they give them a rose tint. Robert Louis Stevenson wore spectacles something like mine, but his were far and away more powerful. They enabled him to see farther and more clearly. They were of a deeper and purer tint.’

He drew from his pocket a small cloth-bound edition of passages from Stevenson’s works. The little volume did not measure more than, say, three by five inches, and was considerably soiled and worn; but he handled it as though it were worth its weight in precious stones.

It was clear, before he opened the volume, that he knew the greater part of the contents by heart; for he commenced to quote as he ran his fingers round the edge of the cover:

‘“When you have read, you carry away with you a memory of the man himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked into brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another bond on you thenceforward, binding you to life and to the love of virtue.”’

He accompanied the quotation with a pleasing smile, as who should say, ‘How true that is and how nobly expressed!’ Then he turned the leaves hastily as though looking for a favourite passage; but he abandoned the search a moment later, and glanced up.

‘I fancy I can give you the passage correctly. I should like you to hear it. It will throw light upon what I have said about my rose-coloured spectacles.’

He looked up, as he spoke, at the trees overhanging the lane through which we walked.

‘“Nor does the scenery any more affect the thoughts than the thoughts affect the scenery. We see places through our humours as through differently-coloured glasses.”’

He paused a moment, then repeated the last line slowly and with emphasis: ‘_We see places through our humours as through differently-coloured glasses._’

‘“We are ourselves,”’ he continued, ‘“a term in the quotation, a note of the chord, and make discord and harmony almost at will. There is no fear for the result, if we but surrender ourselves sufficiently to the country that surrounds and follows us, so that we are ever thinking suitable thoughts or telling ourselves some suitable sort of story as we go. We become thus, in some sense, a centre of beauty; we are provocative of beauty, such as a gentle and sincere character is provocative of sincerity and gentleness in others....”’

Then he told me ‘some suitable sort of story’ about a certain man who built a castle upon dry land, a castle of stone, firm as a rock, and filled it with his heart’s desire. But no sooner had the man taken up his abode therein than the tide of circumstances turned. Misfortune followed misfortune; sorrow followed sorrow; first, the loss of earthly possessions, then the loss of loved ones. All brightness and hope were taken out of the man’s life, and for many years he dwelt in darkness.

At this point my friend turned away, and slowly, thoughtfully, polished his spectacles. One could not help thinking that he was relating in a parable the story of his own past. This suspicion was strengthened, if not actually confirmed, when he readjusted his spectacles and continued:

‘Then this same man built a castle in the air partly out of the creations of his own mind, partly out of the creations of others, a castle of thought, a building without visible support. He found, however, that this castle in the air, built on lines he had been taught to smile at in his youth, was more enduring than his castle of stone. Moat and drawbridge were impassable, the gates impregnable. Changed circumstances could not affect it; misfortune and sorrow could not shake it; even death left it unmoved.’

‘You see,’ he continued, ‘what I am driving at? Listen to this from my little volume: “No man can find out the world, says Solomon, from beginning to end, because the world is in his own heart.” And this: “An inspiration is a joy for ever, a possession as solid as a landed estate, a fortune we can never exhaust, and which gives us year by year a revenue of pleasurable activity. To have many of these is to be spiritually rich.”’

The next moment he drew from his pocket a worn leather case and showed me a portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson. He had it wrapped in two layers of paper, both yellow with age and stained from much handling. But the likeness was well preserved, as clear, perhaps, as on the day it was taken.

‘I number this likeness,’ he said, ‘amongst my treasures. They go everywhere with me--this portrait of Stevenson and this little volume of extracts from his works.’ He fingered the cover affectionately. ‘The case,’ he continued, ‘is worn with much handling, but the rose-coloured lenses have not lost their power. Listen to this: “It is in virtue of his own desires and curiosities that any man continues to exist with even patience, that he is charmed by the look of things and people, and that he awakens every morning with a renewed appetite for work and pleasure.” And this: “Noble disappointment, noble self-denial, are not to be admired, not even to be pardoned, if they bring bitterness. It is one thing to enter the kingdom of heaven maim; another to maim yourself and stay outside.”’

He glanced up and handed me the volume. ‘Make your own selection,’ he suggested; ‘read something that condemns me.’

I acted on the suggestion, or, rather, the _first_ part of it; for my selection, contrary to his request, was in the form of commendation:

‘“His was, indeed, a good influence in life while he was still among us; he had a fresh laugh; it did you good to see him; and, however sad he may have been at heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful countenance, and took fortune’s worst as it were the showers of spring.”’

I was not aware how entirely this fitted my friend’s case until some months had passed. Our friendship was only in its infancy at that time, little more than an acquaintance. We had no formal introduction. He had asked the time of day, then gone on to talk of his rose-coloured spectacles. We had much to say concerning his spectacles in the days that followed--always in a light and pleasant vein. To be tedious or heavy was, to his mind, a grievous fault, particularly in books. In life and in letters he would always look for, and never fail to find, the brightest side, the happiest passages. And he would apply the one to the other--a passage from Stevenson, or some other author, to an incident in his own or some other life--in a manner that was wonderfully illuminating and helpful.

In brief, his was ‘the life that loves, that gives, that loses itself, that overflows; the warm, hearty, social, helpful life.’ From a sorrowful chapter in his history he would weave a story for the help of others, always from a rose-coloured standpoint; from a calamity he would make a fairy tale, showing that, in spite of adversity, the _House Beautiful_ was still upon its hill-top.

I remarked, in introducing him, that he was guilty of playing a part in a mystery. You will have seen through the mystery by now; at least, as regards his rose-coloured spectacles. But there is more to be said concerning his life and his love of books.

XII

WITH NATURE

ANOTHER meeting with my friend of the rose-coloured spectacles was beneath a blue sky and in a ‘glow of sunlight.’ This was some while after a visit to the little room that formed his home, where I had seen certain photographs which had aroused my interest and curiosity.

‘Come,’ he wrote, ‘and saunter with me for an hour or two in the best stretch of country within easy reach of London, which, to us, shall be the best between the two Poles. Take rail to Hampstead and meet me near the flagstaff, overlooking the heath valley, at any hour you care to name. But, mark you, I only promise to _saunter_. I have no legs for hard walking, and even if I had, would prefer an easy pace. You remember Thoreau’s words in praise of sauntering: “I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking; that is, of taking walks--who had a genius, so to speak, for _sauntering_; which word is beautifully derived ‘from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going _a la Sainte Terra_, to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, ‘There goes a _Sainte-Terrer_,’ a Saunterer--a Holy Lander. They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from _sans terre_, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea. But I prefer the first, which indeed is the most probable derivation. For every walk is a sort of crusade, preached by some Peter the Hermit in us, to go forth and reconquer this Holy Land from the hands of the Infidels.”’

‘That is so very pleasingly and bravely expressed,’ the letter continued, ‘that I am hoping it will convert you to “the gentle pace.” But have no fear that my spirit will prove as slow as my legs. I am still in possession of my rose-coloured spectacles, and can take full share in joy derived from pleasing thoughts and impressions.’

This, too, was bravely expressed; for when I met my friend at the spot named, I was pained to find him considerably thinner and paler than at our last meeting. But his greeting was as cordial as on any previous occasion, and I was glad to find that his voice had lost none of its familiar ring of enjoyment.

‘What think you of this passage?’ he cried after an exchange of greetings. ‘It is from a comparatively modern book--from a novel, to be precise, by Henry Harland. I fancy it should put us in the right mood for our saunter. There is an open estate across the heath into which we may go and find much of the splendour mentioned.’

As we sauntered forward, he read the passage for my benefit in his rich, musical voice: ‘“Beyond the shade, the sunshine broke into a mosaic of merry colours, on larkspur and iris, pansies and pink geraniums, jessamine, sweet-peas, tulips shameless in their extravagance of green and crimson, red and white carnations, red, white, and yellow roses. The sunshine broke into colour, it laughed, it danced, it almost rioted, among the flowers; but in the prim alleys, and on the formal hedges of box, and the quaintly clipped yews, and the old purple brick walls, where fruit-trees were trellised, it lay fast, fast asleep. Without the walls, in the cool greenery of the park, there was a perpetual drip-drip of bird-notes. This was the web upon which a chosen handful of more accomplished birds were embroidering and cross-embroidering their bold, clear arabesques of song.”’

You will notice that this pleasing passage is in lighter vein than the style of writing that usually won my friend’s admiration. I think the reason lay in his desire to show that a man might suffer from indifferent health and still enjoy a bright and lively spirit. I wish you could have heard him give voice to the following passage, as we made our way over the heath, through a wealth of fresh green undergrowth. He looked up, as he recited the words, at the blue sky, and spoke half playfully, half seriously:

‘“The sky is an inverted bowl of blue Sèvres--that priceless bleu-royal. The air is full of gold like _eau-de-vie de Dantzic_; if we only had a liquefying apparatus, we could recapture the first fine careless nectar of the gods, the poor dead gods of Greece. The earth is as aromatic as an orange stuck with cloves; I can’t begin to tell you all the wondrous woody, mossy, racy things it smells of. And the birds, the robins and the throstles, the blackbirds and the blackcaps, the linnets and the little Jenny wrens, knowing the value of silence, are hoarding it like misers; but, like prodigals, they’re squandering sound. The ear of mortal never heard such a delirious, delicious, such a crystalline, argentine, ivory-smooth, velvety-soft, such a ravishing, such an enravished tumult of sweet voices. Showers, cascades of pearls and rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires.”’

He laughed aloud, after the last word had left his lips, out of pure lightness of heart, then went on to speak of the value of pure air as a health restorer: ‘Pure air and an unsophisticated spirit in the presence of Nature--these are the best medical appliances.’ Bright colour showed in his cheeks as he continued to speak in playful vein of the doctor and his pharmacopoeia. To his mind, Mother Nature was the best of doctors. Had not Stevenson and many others written in praise of the soothing influence of conditions such as we enjoyed that day, the happy impressions, the sense of peace and wellbeing?

Then the conversation drifted into other channels, and we fell to talking of the time spent together in my friend’s little room--of his books, his pictures, his china, and of the photographs he had shown me. And here our talk took on a serious complexion; but we were still conscious of the flood of sunlight, the happy surroundings. Therefore, our tone, though serious, had nothing of melancholy. I learnt that the photographs that had aroused my curiosity had been taken at an establishment in old Hampstead, now demolished. In those days my friend had lived in a large, well-appointed house overlooking the heath. His means had been ample, his position seemingly secure. But misfortune had come, business reverses, the failure of a company in which large interests were vested, the betrayal of a friend in whom confidence had been placed. Then followed the sickness and death of his wife and child.

I looked at my friend and marvelled at his courage in the face of such misfortunes. At our first meeting he had said that without his rose-coloured spectacles, his bright point of view, all seemed dark. The meaning of his words was now touchingly clear. How could he have continued to live had he not been blessed with an indomitable spirit?

I wish I could give a faithful idea of the inspiring manner in which he interwove his story with bright and consoling touches; but so much depended upon his manner, the inflexions of his voice, the expression in his eyes, that I cannot hope to convey an adequate impression. I can only say that no spark of hope or consolation escaped his gratitude; that his bright and cheerful spirit was as ‘pervasive as sweet lavender, unavoidable as the sunset before the westward-bound traveller.’ The blue sky above, the foliage around, the rich growth beneath our feet--all had their message. Nature was our ‘good host’ for the day, and he ‘looked through Nature up to Nature’s God.’

So the day passed by, and the shadows lengthened, but the light still shone upon the hill-tops; whilst the sun set in a glory of red. ‘I wonder,’ said my friend, ‘if you remember Thoreau’s beautiful passage: “We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of Elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a herdsman driving us home at evening.

‘“So we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn.”’

XIII

A PILGRIMAGE

‘SO we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn.’ These were the last words I heard from my friend’s lips. He had a serious relapse, shortly after our visit to the country, and died within a few days. And now I am divided between a deep sense of personal loss and my duty to his memory. He would, I know, have had me look upon his journey to the ‘Other Side’ in the light of a pilgrimage, gone upon bravely, cheerfully, in perfect confidence.

By my side is a letter in which he speaks of this attitude in the course of a reference to our day in the country. ‘I have been reading,’ he says, ‘a volume of Mr. A. C. Benson’s essays, procured from a circulating library, and am filled with gratitude for their soothing influence. The following passage from his essay on “Beauty” will recall the conversation we had at our last meeting--our day in the country: “Nature has a magic for many of us--that is to say, a secret power that strikes across our lives at intervals, with a message from an unknown region. And this message is aroused by symbols; a tree, a flash of light on lonely clouds, a flower, a stream--simple things that we have seen a thousand times--have sometimes the power to cast a spell over our spirit, and to bring something that is great and incommunicable near us. This must be called magic, for it is not a thing which can be explained by ordinary laws, or defined in precise terms; but the spell is there, real, insistent, undeniable; it seems to make a bridge for the spirit to pass into a far-off, dimly apprehended region; it gives us a sense of great issues and remote visions; it leaves us with a longing which has no mortal fulfilment.”’

‘I mention this,’ the letter continues, ‘because it seems to me to lead to certain deep issues of life about which I have seldom spoken. I have always felt a certain diffidence in touching upon matters relating to the soul and the life hereafter. Yet, I have not let others do _all_ the thinking. I have had my own thoughts, my own visions. But, after all, refined speculations are of little use if there be not some tangible belief at the back of them. I like the passage just quoted, and I like the author’s reference, in another part of the volume, to the guarded city of life. But I think the following passage makes the strongest appeal, for _all_ may participate in the deep yet simple feelings expressed: “What are the thoughts of the mighty unresting heart, to whose vastness and agelessness the whole mass of these flying and glowing suns are but as a handful of dust that a boy flings upon the air? How has He set me here, a tiny moving atom, yet more sure of my own identity than I am of all the vast panorama of things which lie outside of me? Has He, indeed, a tender and patient thought of me, the frail creature whom He has moulded and made? I do not doubt it; I look upon the star-sown spaces, and the old aspiration rises in my heart, ‘Oh, that I knew where I might find Him! that I might come into His presence!’ How would I go, like a tired and sorrowful child to his father’s knee, to be comforted and encouraged, in perfect trust and love, to be raised in His arms, to be held to His heart! He would but look in my face, and I should understand without a question, without a word.”’

When I think of this passage and others which were included in letters written by my friend during his illness, I see clearly that he must have realized that he stood on the brink of the unknown. But no fears were expressed. Indeed, I gathered nothing from his letters regarding his physical condition. He made no mention of sickness or pain, dropped no hint of weariness. On the contrary, the letters of which I speak struck a deeper and truer note of cheerfulness and courage than any previous communications from his hand. I like to think that he continued, as of old, to speak of his rose-coloured spectacles, his point of view. ‘The secret of a happy life,’ he remarks, in the letter from which I have just quoted, ‘consists in immediately clearing away the specks of dust which are so apt to fall upon one’s rose-coloured spectacles, the little annoyances, the petty worries, the hundred and one little dark specks which I leave you to name at your leisure.’

Then follows a deeper note, taken, I think, from Epictetus: ‘Happiness is not in strength, or wealth or power, or all three. It lies in ourselves, in true freedom, in the conquest of every ignoble fear, in perfect self-government, in a power of contentment and peace, the even flow of life, even in poverty, exile, disease, and the very valley of the shadow of death.’

‘So you see,’ my friend continues, ‘there are also dark fogs and thick mists against which the would-be cheerful man must contend--deep trials compared to which our daily petty annoyances are, indeed, but specks of dust. But these, too, may be overcome. The truth is “the cheerful life is neither a matter of circumstance nor of temperament. It is a gift of God, and we can covet no better gift. The black hag of care can no longer sit on the shoulder of the man whose cheerfulness is the child of reason, not of impulse; whose heart is light because he can trust, not because the sky is blue and the world smiling.”’

I wish I could give you some account, from personal knowledge, of the way my friend spent his last days. This I cannot do, for many miles stood between us. But I am told by those who nursed him that up till the end his mind retained its clearness and vigour; that he never ceased to take an interest in his surroundings, in the great world outside his little room, in the many ill-favoured ones whom he had befriended.

Close by my side stands a shelf upon which are stored a number of volumes from his library. They are typical of his treasured collection, some of the best of the world’s best books, each volume showing signs of much reading and meditation, each page bearing marginal notes--original observations and thoughts from other sources, showing how one great writer differed from others, or, in the main, was of like opinion with his contemporaries. Many of the observations seem to me to be remarkably fresh and interesting--quite simple, it is true, but of the type of simplicity that captivates.

I shall hope to set down some of these, together with the passages to which they refer. Here is one example, which will serve to convey an idea of my friend’s manner of commenting upon an author’s words. The passage in point reads thus: ‘When thou hast been compelled by circumstances to be disturbed in a manner, quickly return to thyself, and do not remain out of tune longer than the compulsion lasts; for thou wilt have more mastery over the harmony by continually recurring to it.’ By the side of this, written in lead pencil, are the following words: ‘Might not human life be compared to an orchestra, composed of all kinds of instruments? I mean that each of our natures is, so to say, an instrument, some more pleasing and, seemingly, more useful than others; but of equal value when played in accord with the combined orchestra. And if we, at any time, drop out of him, is it not because we have failed to give our attention to the Great Conductor of all?’

They tell me that towards the end he referred repeatedly to the help he had derived from keeping his spiritual vision clear, his faith unclouded. So far as I can gather, his closing words were these: ‘Faith kept in lively exercise can make roses spring out of the midst of thorns, and change the briers of the wilderness into the fruit-trees of Paradise.’

XIV

FAREWELL