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The Love Affairs Of A Bibliomaniac-Part12_Eugene Field(1850-1895)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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destruction a penitent and loyal soul be added to the roster of

bibliomaniacs. There is more joy over one Grangerite that



repenteth than over ninety and nine just men that need no

repentance.



And we have a similar feeling toward such of our number as for

the nonce become imbued with a passion for any of the other



little fads which bibliomaniac flesh is heir to. All the

soldiers in an army cannot be foot, or horse, or captains, or



majors, or generals, or artillery, or ensigns, or drummers, or

buglers. Each one has his place to fill and his part to do, and



the consequence is a concinnate whole. Bibliomania is beautiful

as an entirety, as a symmetrical blending of a multitude of



component parts, and he is indeed disloyal to the cause who,

through envy or shortsightedness or ignorance, argues to the



discredit of angling, or Napoleonana, or balladry, or Indians, or

Burns, or Americana, or any other branch or phase of bibliomania;



for each of these things accomplishes a noble purpose in that

each contributes to the glory of the great common cause of



bibliomania, which is indeed the summum bonum of human life.

I have heard many decried who indulged their fancy for



bookplates, as if, forsooth, if a man loved his books, he should

not lavish upon them testimonials of his affection! Who that



loves his wife should hesitate to buy adornments for her person?

I favor everything that tends to prove that the human heart is



swayed by the tenderer emotions. Gratitude is surely one of the

noblest emotions of which humanity is capable, and he is indeed



unworthy of our respect who would forbidhumanity's expressing in

every dignified and reverential manner its gratitude for the



benefits conferred by the companionship of books.

As for myself, I urge upon all lovers of books to provide



themselves with bookplates. Whenever I see a book that bears its

owner's plate I feel myself obligated to treat that book with



special consideration. It carries with it a certificate of its

master's love; the bookplate gives the volume a certain status it



would not otherwise have. Time and again I have fished musty

books out of bins in front of bookstalls, bought them and borne



them home with me simply because they had upon their covers the

bookplates of their former owners. I have a case filled with



these aristocratic estrays, and I insist that they shall be as

carefully dusted and kept as my other books, and I have provided



in my will for their perpetualmaintenance after my decease.

If I were a rich man I should found a hospital for homeless



aristocratic books, an institution similar in all essential

particulars to the institution which is now operated at our



national capital under the bequest of the late Mr. Cochrane. I

should name it the Home for Genteel Volumes in Decayed



Circumstances.

I was a young man when I adopted the bookplate which I am still



using, and which will be found in all my books. I drew the

design myself and had it executed by a son of Anderson, the first



of American engravers. It is by no means elaborate: a book rests

upon a heart, and underneath appear the lines:



My Book and Heart

Must never part.



Ah, little Puritan maid, with thy dear eyes of honest blue and

thy fair hair in proper plaits adown thy back, little thought we



that springtime long ago back among the New England hills that

the tiny book we read together should follow me through all my



life! What a part has that Primer played! And now all these

other beloved companions bear witness to the love I bear that



Primer and its teachings, for each wears the emblem I plucked

from its homely pages.



That was in the springtime, Captivity Waite; anon came summer,

with all its exuberant glory, and presently the cheery autumn



stole upon me. And now it is the winter-time, and under the

snows lies buried many a sweet, fair thing I cherished once. I



am aweary and will rest a little while; lie thou there, my pen,

for a dream--a pleasant dream--calleth me away. I shall see



those distant hills again, and the homestead under the elms; the

old associations and the old influences shall be round about me,



and a child shall lead me and we shall go together through green

pastures and by still waters. And, O my pen, it will be the



springtime again!

XIII



ON THE ODORS WHICH MY BOOKS EXHALE




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