Suppose, when now the house is dumb, When lights are out, and ashes fall,-- Suppose their ancient owners come To claim our spoils of shop and stall, Ah me! within the narrow hall How strange a mob would meet and go, What famous folk would haunt them all, Octavo, quarto, folio!

The great Napoleon lays his hand Upon this eagle-headed N, That marks for his a pamphlet banned By all but scandal-loving men,-- A libel from some nameless den Of Frankfort--_Arnaud, a la Sphere_, Wherein one spilt, with venal pen, Lies o'er the loves of Moliere.[21]

Another shade--he does not see "Boney," the foeman of his race-- The great Sir Walter, this is he With that grave homely Border face.

He claims his poem of the chase That rang Benvoirlich's valley through; And _this_, that doth the lineage trace And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch;[22]

For these were his, and these he gave To one who dwelt beside the Peel, That murmurs with its tiny wave To join the Tweed at Ashestiel.

Now thick as motes the shadows wheel, And find their own, and claim a share Of books wherein Ribou did deal, Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert.[23]

What famous folk of old are here!

A royal duke comes down to us, And greatly wants his Elzevir, His Pagan tutor, Lucius.[24]

And Beckford claims an amorous Old heathen in morocco blue;[25]

And who demands Eoba.n.u.s But stately Jacques Auguste de Thou![26]

They come, the wise, the great, the true, They jostle on the narrow stair, The frolic Countess de Verrue, Lamoignon, ay, and Longepierre, The new and elder dead are there-- The lords of speech, and song, and pen, Gambetta,[27] Schlegel,[28] and the rare Drummond of haunted Hawthornden.[29]

Ah, and with those, a hundred more, Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot: Brave 'Smiths' and 'Thompsons' by the score, Scrawled upon many a shabby 'lot.'

This play-book was the joy of Pott[30]-- Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves.

Our names, like his, remembered not, Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves!

At least in pleasant company We bookish ghosts, perchance, may flit; A man may turn a page, and sigh, Seeing one's name, to think of it.

Beauty, or Poet, Sage, or Wit, May ope our book, and muse awhile, And fall into a dreaming fit, As now we dream, and wake, and smile!

[21] 'Histoire des Intrigues Amoureuses de Moliere et de celles de sa femme. (A la Sphere.) A Francfort, chez Frederic Arnaud, MDCXCVII.'

This anonymous tract has actually been attributed, among others, to Racine. The copy referred to is marked with a large N in red, with an eagle's head.

[22] 'The Lady of the Lake,' 1810.

'The Lay of the Last Minstrel,' 1806.

"To Mrs. Robert Laidlaw. Peel. From the Author."

[23] 'Dictys Cretensis.' Apud Lambertum Roulland. Lut. Paris. 1680. In red morocco, with the arms of Colbert.

[24] 'L. Annaei Senecae Opera Omnia.' Lug. Bat., apud Elzevirios. 1649.

With book-plate of the Duke of Suss.e.x.

[25] 'Stratonis Epigrammata.' Altenburgi, 1764. Straton bound up in one volume with Epictetus! From the Beckford library.

[26] 'Opera Helii Eobani Hessi.' Yellow morocco, with the first arms of De Thou. Include a poem addressed "LANGE, _decus meum_." Quant.i.ty of penultimate "Eoba.n.u.s" taken for granted, _metri gratia_.

[27] 'La Journee du Chretien.' Coutances, 1831. With inscription, "Leon Gambetta. Rue St. Honore. Janvier 1, 1848."

[28] Villoison's 'Homer.' Venice, 1788. With Tessier's ticket and Schlegel's book-plate.

[29] 'Les Essais de Michel.' Seigneur de Montaigne. "Pour Francois le Febvre de Lyon, 1695." With autograph of Gul. Drummond, and _cipresso e palma_.

[30] "The little old foxed Moliere," once the property of William Pott, unknown to fame.

THE BOOK BATTALION.

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. _Written for the present collection._

Wherever I go, there's a trusty battalion That follows me faithfully, steady, and true; Their force, when I falter, I safely may rally on, Knowing their stoutness will carry me through: Some fifteen hundred in order impartial, So ranged that they tell what they mean by their looks.

Of all the armies the world can marshal There are no better soldiers than well-tried books.

Dumb in their ranks on the shelves imprisoned, They never retreat. Give the word, and they'll fire!

A few with scarlet and gold are bedizened, But many muster in rough attire; And some, with service and scars grown wizened, Seem hardly the mates for their fellows in youth; Yet they, and the troops armed only with quiz and Light laughter, all battle alike for the truth.

Here are those who gave motive to sock and to buskin; With critics, historians, poets galore; A cheaply uniformed set of Ruskin, Which Ruskin would hate from his heart's very core; Moliere ('99), an old calf-bound edition, "_De Pierre Didot l'aine, et de Firmin Didot_."

Which, meek and demure, with a sort of contrition, Is masking its gun-lights, with fun all aglow;

And Smollett and Fielding, as veterans battered-- Cloth stripped from their backs, and their sides out of joint, Their pictures of life all naked and tattered Being thus applied to themselves with a point; And six or eight books that I wrote myself, To look at which, even, I'm half afraid; They brought me more labor and pleasure than pelf, And are clamoring still because they're not paid.

But these raw levies remain still faithful, Because they know that volumes old Stand by me, although their eyes dim and wraithful Remind me they seldom at profit were sold.

So I say, be they splendid or tatterdemalion, If only you know what they mean by their looks, You will never find a better battalion Of soldiers to serve you than well-tried books.

ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS.

WALTER LEARNED. _Written for the present collection._

At Cato's-Head in Russell Street These leaves she sat a-st.i.tching; I fancy she was trim and neat, Blue-eyed and quite bewitching.

Before her, in the street below, All powder, ruffs, and laces, There strutted idle London beaux To ogle pretty faces;

While, filling many a Sedan chair With hoop and monstrous feather, In patch and powder London's fair Went trooping past together.

Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap They sauntered slowly past her, Or printer's boy, with gown and cap For Steele, went trotting faster.

For beau nor wit had she a look, Nor lord nor lady minding; She bent her head above this book, Attentive to her binding.

And one stray thread of golden hair, Caught on her nimble fingers, Was st.i.tched within this volume, where Until to-day it lingers.

Past and forgotten, beaux and fair; Wigs, powder, all out-dated; A queer antique, the Sedan chair; Pope, stiff and antiquated.

Yet as I turn these odd old plays, This single stray lock finding, I'm back in those forgotten days And watch her at her binding.

TOO MANY BOOKS.

ROBERT LEIGHTON. _From 'Reuben, and Other Poems.' 1875_