Thus briefly and guardedly have I thrown out a few suggestions, which may enable us to avoid, or mitigate the severity of, the disease called THE BIBLIOMANIA. Happy indeed shall I deem myself, if, in the description of its symptoms, and in the recommendation of the means of cure, I may have snatched any one from a premature grave, or lightened the load of years that are yet to cone [Transcriber's Note: come]!

You, my dear Sir, who, in your observations upon society, as well as in your knowledge of ancient times, must have met with numerous instances of the miseries which "flesh is heir to," may be disposed perhaps to confess that, of all species of afflictions, _the present one_ under consideration has the least moral turpitude attached to it.

True, it may be so: for, in the examples which have been adduced, there will be found neither Suicides, nor Gamesters, nor Profligates.

No woman's heart has been broken from midnight debaucheries: no marriage vow has been violated: no child has been compelled to pine in poverty or neglect: no patrimony has been wasted, and no ancestor's fame tarnished! If men have erred under the influence of this disease, their aberrations have been marked with an excess arising from intellectual fevour, and not from a desire of baser gratifications.

If, therefore, in the wide survey which a philosopher may take of the "Miseries of Human life"[74] the prevalence of this disorder may appear to be less mischievous than that of others, and, if some of the most amiable and learned of mortals seemed to have been both unwilling, as well as unable, to avoid its contagion, you will probably feel the less alarmed if symptoms of it should appear within the sequestered abode of Hodnet![75] Recollecting that even in remoter situations its influence has been felt--and that neither the pure atmosphere of Hafod nor of Sledmere[76] has completely subdued its power--you will be disposed to exclaim with violence, at the intrusion of Bibliomaniacs--

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?

They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide!

By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.[77]

[Footnote 74: In the ingenious and witty work so entitled, I do not recollect whether the disappointment arising from a _cropt_ or a _dirty_ copy has been classed among "_The Miseries of Human Life_."]

[Footnote 75: _Hodnet Hall_, Shropshire. The country residence of Mr. Heber.]

[Footnote 76: _Hafod_, South Wales, the seat of THOS.

JOHNES, Esq., M.P., the translator of the Chronicles of Froissart and Monstrelet, and of the Travels of De Broquiere and Joinville. The conflagration of part of his mansion and library, two years ago, which excited such a general sympathy, would have damped any ardour of collection but that of Mr. Johnes--his Library has arisen, Phoenix-like, from the flames!

_Sledmere_, in Yorkshire, the seat of SIR MARK MASTERMAN SYKES, Bart., M.P. The library of this amiable and tasteful Baronet reflects distinguished credit upon him. It is at once copious and choice.]

[Footnote 77: Pope's "_Prologue to the Satires_," v. 7-10.]

Upon the whole, therefore, attending closely to the symptoms of this disorder as they have been described, and practising such means of cure as have been recommended, we may rationally hope that its virulence may abate, and the number of its victims annually diminish.

But if the more discerning part of the community anticipate a different result, and the preceding observations appear to have presented but a narrow and partial view of the mischiefs of the BIBLIOMANIA, my only consolation is that to advance _something_ upon the subject is better than to preserve a sullen and invincible silence. Let it be the task of more experienced bibliographers to correct and amplify the foregoing outline!

Believe me, My dear Sir,

Very sincerely Yours, &c.

THOMAS FROGNALL DIBBIN [Transcriber's Note: DIBDIN].

_Kensington, May_ 16, 1809.

POSTSCRIPT.

On re-considering what has been written, it has struck me that a SYNOPSIS of this disease, after the manner of BURTON, as prefixed to his _Anatomy of Melancholy_, may be useful to some future pathologist.

The reader is, accordingly, presented with the following one:

SYNOPSIS.

Page.

{ I. HISTORY of; or an account of eminent Book { Collectors who have fallen victims to it 12 T { H { II. SYMPTOMS OF; { 1. Large Paper Copies 44 E { being a passion for { 2. Uncut Copies 46 { { 3. Illustrated Copies 47 B { { 4. Unique Copies 49 I { { 5. Vellum Copies 51 B { { 6. First Editions 52 L { { 7. True Editions 54 I { { 8. Black Letter Editions 56 O { M { III. CURE OF { 1. Reading useful works 56 A { { 2. Reprints of scarce and N { { valuable works _ib._ I { { 3. Editing our best ancient A { { Writers 60 . { { 4. Erecting of Public { { Institutions _ib._ { { 5. Encouragement of { { Bibliography _ib._

PART I.

=The Evening Walk.=

ON THE RIGHT USES OF LITERATURE.

Rede well thyselfe that other folke can'st rede.

CHAUCER'S _Good Counsail_.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

=The Evening Walk.=

ON THE RIGHT USES OF LITERATURE.

It was on a fine autumnal evening, when the sun was setting serenely behind a thick copse upon a distant hill, and his warm tints were lighting up a magnificent and widely-extended landscape, that, sauntering 'midst the fields, I was meditating upon the various methods of honourably filling up the measure of our existence; when I discovered, towards my left, a messenger running at full speed towards me. The abruptness of his appearance, and the velocity of his step, somewhat disconcerted me; but on his near approach my apprehensions were dissipated.

I knew him to be the servant of my old college friend, whom I chuse here to denominate LYSANDER. He came to inform me, in his blunt and honest manner, that his master had just arrived with PHILEMON, our common friend; and that, as they were too fatigued with their journey to come out to me, they begged I would quickly enter the house, and, as usual, make them welcome. This intelligence afforded me the liveliest satisfaction. In fifteen minutes, after a hearty shaking of hands, I was seated with them in the parlour; all of us admiring the unusual splendour of the evening sky, and, in consequence, partaking of the common topics of conversation with a greater flow of spirits.

"You are come, my friends," said I (in the course of conversation), "to make some stay with me--indeed, I cannot suffer you to depart without keeping you at least a week; in order, amongst other things, to view the beauty of our neighbour Lorenzo's grounds, the general splendour of his house, and the magnificence of his LIBRARY." "In regard to grounds and furniture," replied Lysander, "there is very little in the most beautiful and costly which can long excite my attention--but the LIBRARY--" "Here," exclaimed Philemon, "here you have him in the toils." "I will frankly confess," rejoined Lysander, "that I am an arrant BIBLIOMANIAC--that I love books dearly--that the very sight, touch, and, more, the perusal--" "Hold, my friend," again exclaimed Philemon, "you have renounced your profession--you talk of _reading_ books--do BIBLIOMANIACS ever _read_ books?" "Nay," quoth Lysander, "you shall not banter thus with impunity. We will, if it please you," said he, turning round to me, "make our abode with you for a few days--and, after seeing the library of your neighbour, I will throw down the gauntlet to Philemon, challenging him to answer certain questions which you may put to us, respecting the number, rarity, beauty, or utility of those works which relate to the literature and antiquities of our own country. We shall then see who is able to return the readiest answer." "Forgive," rejoined Philemon, "my bantering strain. I revoke my speech. You know that, with yourself, I heartily love books; more from their contents than their appearance." Lysander returned a gracious smile; and the hectic of irritability on his cheek was dissipated in an instant.

The approach of evening made us think of settling our plans. My friends begged their horses might be turned into the field; and that, while they stayed with me, the most simple fare and the plainest accommodation might be their lot. They knew how little able I was to treat them as they were wont to be treated; and, therefore, taking "the will for the deed," they resolved to be as happy as an humble roof could make them.

While the cloth was laying for supper (for I should add that we dine at three and sup at nine), we took a stroll in my small garden, which has a mound at the bottom, shaded with lilacs and laburnums, that overlooks a pretty range of meadows, terminated by the village church.

The moon had now gained a considerable ascendancy in the sky; and the silvery paleness and profound quiet of the surrounding landscape, which, but an hour ago, had been enlivened by the sun's last rays, seemed to affect the minds of us all very sensibly. Lysander, in particular, began to express the sentiments which such a scene excited in him.--"Yonder," says he, pointing to the church-yard, "is the bourne which terminates our earthly labours; and I marvel much how mortals can spend their time in cavilling at each other--in murdering, with their pens as well as their swords, all that is excellent and admirable in human nature--instead of curbing their passions, elevating their hopes, and tranquillizing their fears. Every evening, for at least one-third of the year, heaven has fixed in the sky yonder visible monitor to man. Calmness and splendour are her attendants: no dark passions, no carking cares, neither spleen nor jealousy, seem to dwell in that bright orb, where, as has been fondly imagined, "the wretched may have rest."--"And here," replied Philemon, "we do nothing but fret and fume if our fancied merits are not instantly rewarded, or if another wear a sprig of laurel more verdant than ourselves; I could mention, within my own recollection, a hundred instances of this degrading prostitution of talent--aye, a thousand."--"Gently reprimand your fellow creatures," resumed Lysander, "lest you commit an error as great as any of those which you condemn in others. The most difficult of human tasks seems to be the exercise of forbearance and temperance.

By exasperating, you only rekindle, and not extinguish, the evil sparks in our dispositions. A man will bear being told he is in the wrong; but you must tell him so gently and mildly. Animosity, petulance, and persecution, are the plagues which destroy our better parts."--"And envy," replied Philemon, "has surely enough to do."--"Yes," said Lysander, "we might enumerate, as you were about to do, many instances--and (what you were not about to do) pity while we enumerate! I think," continued he, addressing himself particularly to me, "you informed me that the husband of poor Lavinia lies buried in yonder church-yard; and perhaps the very tomb which now glistens by the moonbeam is the one which consecrates his memory! That man was passionately addicted to literature;--he had a strong mind; a wonderful grasp of intellect; but his love of paradox and hypothesis quite ruined his faculties. NICAS happened to discover some glaring errors in his last treatise, and the poor man grew sick at heart in consequence. Nothing short of _infallibility_ and _invincibility_ satisfied him; and, like the Spaniard in the 'Diable Boiteux,' who went mad because five of his countrymen had been beaten by fifty Portugese, this unhappy creature lost all patience and forbearance, because, in an hundred systems which he had built with the cards of fancy, ninety-nine happened to tumble to the ground.

"This is the dangerous consequence, not so much of vanity and self-love as of downright literary Quixotism. A man may be cured of vanity as the French nobleman was--'Ecoutez messieurs! Monseigneur le Duc va dire la meillure chose du monde!'[78] but for this raving, ungovernable passion of soaring beyond all human comprehension, I fear there is no cure but in such a place as the one which is now before us. Compared with this, how different was MENANDER'S case! Careless himself about examining and quoting authorities with punctilious accuracy, and trusting too frequently to the _ipse-dixits_ of good friends:--with a quick discernment--a sparkling fancy--great store of classical knowledge, and a never ceasing play of colloquial wit, he moved right onwards in his manly course--the delight of the gay, and the admiration of the learned! He wrote much and variously: but in an evil hour the demon Malice caught him abroad--watched his deviations--noted down his failings--and, discovering his vulnerable part, he did not fail, like another Paris, to profit by the discovery.

Menander became the victim of over-refined sensibility: he need not have feared the demon, as no good man need fear Satan. His pen ceased to convey his sentiments; he sickened at heart; and after his body had been covered by the green grass turf, the gentle elves of fairy-land took care to weave a chaplet to hang upon his tomb, which was never to know decay! SYCORAX was this demon; and a cunning and clever demon was he!"

[Footnote 78: This is the substance of the story related in Darwin's _Zoonomia_: vol. iv. p. 81.]

"I am at a loss," said Philemon, "to comprehend exactly what you mean?"--"I will cease speaking metaphorically," replied Lysander; "but Sycorax was a man of ability in his way. He taught literary men, in some measure, the value of careful research and faithful quotation; in other words, he taught them to speak the truth as they found her; and, doubtless, for this he merits not the name of a demon, unless you allow me the priviledge of a Grecian.[79] That Sycorax loved truth must be admitted; but that he loved no one so much as himself to speak the truth must also be admitted. Nor had he, after all, any grand notions of the goddess. She was, in his sight, rather of diminutive than gigantic growth; rather of a tame than a towering mien; dressed out in little trinkets, and formally arrayed in the faded point-lace and elevated toupee of the ancient English school, and not in the flowing and graceful robes of Grecian simplicity. But his malice and ill-nature were frightful; and withal his love of scurrility and abuse quite intolerable. He mistook, in too many instances, the manner for the matter; the shadow for the substance. He passed his criticisms, and dealt out his invectives, with so little ceremony, and so much venom, that he seemed born with a scalping knife in his hand to commit murder as long as he lived! To him, censure was sweeter than praise; and the more elevated the rank, and respectable the character of his antagonist, the more dexterously he aimed his blows, and the more frequently he renewed his attacks. In consequence, scarcely one beautiful period, one passionate sentiment of the higher order, one elevated thought, or philosophical deduction, marked his numerous writings. 'No garden-flower grew wild' in the narrow field of his imagination; and, although the words decency and chastity were continually dropping from his lips, I suspect that the reverse of these qualities was always settled round his heart.[80] Thus you see, my dear Philemon," concluded Lysander, "that the love of paradox, of carelessness, and of malice, are equally destructive of that true substantial fame which, as connected with literature, a wise and an honest man would wish to establish. But come; the dews of evening begin to fall chilly; let us seek the house of our friend."

[Footnote 79: Without turning over the ponderous tones of Stephen, Constantine, and Scaliger, consult the sensible remarks upon the word '[Greek: Daimon]' in _Parkhurst's Greek and English Lexicon to the New Testament_, 8vo. edit.

1798. In the Greek language, it is equally applied to an accomplished and unprincipled character. Homer alone will furnish a hundred instances of this.]