Have you ever come out of the thick, smoky atmosphere of the town

into the fragrant, graciousatmosphere of a library? If you
have, you know how grateful the change is, and you will agree

with me when I say that nothing else is so quieting to the
nerves, so conducive to physical health, and so quick to restore

a lively flow of the spirits.
Lafcadio Hearn once wrote a treatise upon perfumes, an ingenious

and scholarly performance; he limited the edition to fifty copies
and published it privately--so the book is rarely met with.

Curiously enough, however, this author had nothing to say in the
book about the smells of books, which I regard as a most

unpardonable error, unless, properly estimating the subject to be
worthy of a separate treatise, he has postponed its

consideration and treatment to a time when he can devote the
requisite study and care to it.

We have it upon the authority of William Blades that books
breathe; however, the testimony of experts is not needed upon

this point, for if anybody be sceptical, all he has to do to
convince himself is to open a door of a bookcase at any time and

his olfactories will be greeted by an outrush of odors that will
prove to him beyond all doubt that books do actuallyconsume air

and exhale perfumes.
Visitors to the British Museum complain not unfrequently that

they are overcome by the closeness of the atmosphere in that
place, and what is known as the British Museum headache has come

to be recognized by the medicalprofession in London as a
specific ailment due to the absence of oxygen in the atmosphere,

which condition is caused by the multitude of books, each one of
which, by that breathing process peculiar to books, consumes

several thousand cubic feet of air every twenty-four hours.
Professor Huxley wondered for a long time why the atmosphere of

the British Museum should be poisonous" target="_blank" title="a.有毒的；讨厌的">poisonous while other libraries were
free from the poison; a series of experiments convinced him that

the presence of poison in the atmosphere was due to the number of
profane books in the Museum. He recommended that these

poison-engendering volumes be treated once every six months with
a bath of cedria, which, as I understand, is a solution of the

juices of the cedar tree; this, he said, would purge the
mischievous volumes temporarily of their evil propensities and

abilities.
I do not know whether this remedy is effective, but I remember to

have read in Pliny that cedria was used by the ancients to render
their manuscripts imperishable. When Cneius Terentius went

digging in his estate in the Janiculum he came upon a coffer
which contained not only the remains of Numa, the old Roman king,

but also the manuscripts of the famous laws which Numa compiled.
The king was in some such condition as you might suppose him to

be after having been buried several centuries, but the
manuscripts were as fresh as new, and their being so is said to

have been due to the fact that before their burial they were
rubbed with citrus leaves.

These so-called books of Numa would perhaps have been preserved
unto this day but for the fanaticism of the people who exhumed

and read them; they were promptly burned by Quintus Petilius, the
praetor, because (as Cassius Hemina explains) they treated of

philosophical subjects, or because, as Livy testifies, their
doctrines were inimical to the religion then existing.

As I have had little to do with profaneliterature, I know
nothing of the habits of such books as Professor Huxley has

prescribed an antidote against. Of such books as I have gathered
about me and made my constant companions I can say truthfully

that a more delectable-flavored lot it were impossible to find.
As I walk amongst them, touching first this one and then that,

and regarding all with glances of affectionate" target="_blank" title="a.亲爱的">affectionateapproval, I fancy
that I am walking in a splendid garden, full of charming vistas,

wherein parterre after parterre of beautiful flowers is unfolded
to my enraptured vision; and surely there never were other odors

so delightful as the odors which my books exhale!
My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks

And fragrance is over it all;
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books

In their places against the wall.
Here is a folio that's grim with age

And yellow and green with mould;
There's the breath of the sea on every page

And the hint of a stanch ship's hold.
And here is a treasure from France la belle

Exhaleth a faint perfume
Of wedded lily and asphodel

In a garden of song abloom.
And this wee little book of Puritan mien

And rude, conspicuous print
Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen,

Or, may be, of peppermint.
In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell

Where the cheery daisy grows,
And where in meadow or woodland dwell

The buttercup and the rose.
But best beloved of books, I ween,

Are those which one perceives
Are hallowed by ashes dropped between

The yellow, well-thumbed leaves.
For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear,

Till the treasured book is read;
And the ashes betwixt the pages here

Tell us of one long dead.
But the gracious presence reappears

As we read the book again,
And the fragrance of precious, distant years

Filleth the hearts of men
Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks

The posies that bloom for all;
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books

In their places against the wall!
Better than flowers are they, these books of mine! For what are

the seasons to them? Neither can the drought of summer nor the
asperity of winter wither or change them. At all times and under

all circumstances they are the same--radiant, fragrant, hopeful,
helpful! There is no charm which they do not possess, no beauty

that is not theirs.
What wonder is it that from time immemorialhumanity has craved

the boon of carrying to the grave some book particularly beloved
in life? Even Numa Pompilius provided that his books should

share his tomb with him. Twenty-four of these precious volumes
were consigned with him to the grave. When Gabriel Rossetti's

wife died, the poet cast into her open grave the unfinished
volume of his poems, that being the last and most precious

tribute he could pay to her cherished memory.
History records instance after instance of the consolation dying

men have received from the perusal of books, and many a one has
made his end holding in his hands a particularly belovedvolume.

The reverence" target="_blank" title="n.尊敬；敬畏；尊严">reverence which even unlearned men have for books appeals in
these splendid libraries which are erected now and again with

funds provided by the wills of the illiterate. How dreadful must
be the last moments of that person who has steadfastly refused to

share the companionship and acknowledge the saving grace of
books!

Such, indeed, is my regard for these friendships that it is with
misery that I contemplate the probability of separation from

them by and by. I have given my friends to understand that when
I am done with earth certain of my books shall be buried with me.

The list of these books will be found in the left-hand upper
drawer of the old mahogany secretary in the front spare room.

When I am done,
I'd have no son

Pounce on these treasures like a vulture;
Nay, give them half

My epitaph
And let them share in my sepulture.