Our Book Causerie

Is there a booklover, whose first bookshelf (containing half-a-dozen, or, maybe, half-a-score of favourite volumes) has grown bulky and overflowed with the passing years, who does not feel the thrill of that old-time gratification, the pulsing of that verdant enthusiasm, as he recalls the pleasure the possession of those books brought him? His bookshelves to-day may be many, long and high, and the tally of his literary treasures total four, or even five, figures; nevertheless, if he be a true bookman, he will confess that that small collection of his callow youth-time—cheap though the books were—brought him more real joy than all the volumes, however costly and famous, he has since added. This feeling remains, though with the passing years one's vision has widened and one's tastes have changed. There may be an added satisfaction in the case of those whose choice of books was wisely directed. Some booklovers will be sceptical of this last. In them the hunter instinct was still strong, and they were fain to seek and find for themselves. And such will tell you that, to them, as to the hunter, half the pleasure lay in the seeking. Happy they who have the leisure to seek, and the luck to find!

In this work-a-day world, with its multifarious duties and interests, the majority of men and women have little or no time to seek. In their case a guide is a pre-requisite. There are book-sellers, no doubt, who, if appealed to, will tell a prospective book-buyer that a particular volume enquired about is “no good,” or “not worth the time it takes to read it.” Such booksellers are the exception. Enquiry generally brings the reply that the bookseller has “not read the volume” referred to, but that “the author has a reputation,” or that “the reviews, so far, have been very favourable.” The cautious booklover, in such circumstances, does not buy. He knows that the average bookseller lives to sell books, as many books as he can, and to sell them at a profit.

The reviews of books in too many of our newspapers to-day are mere puff pars supplied by publishers and eeked out to “a couple of sticks,” or a quarter of a column, according to the importance of the volume, the reputation of the author, or, often, for some less worthy reason. We do not say, with Byron, that “Barabbas was a publisher,” or that he was a book reviewer, and that in these degenerate days his tribe has manifestly increased; but we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that day after day new books are boomed as masterpieces, and new authors acclaimed as possessed of consummate skill, and, in ninety-nine cases in the hundred, both statements are mere mendacities. Sometimes these “reader” paragraphs are advertisements paid for by the authors, who, unfortunately for the buyers of their books, are possessed of more money than merit. Under such conditions, to be guided in the choice of one's books by an independent critic is “great gain” in time and money saved, and in the sum total of pleasure derived from the books bought. This is so, perhaps more so, even in the case of those to whom the reading of books is merely a diversion, a mental vagrancy. Let it be understood, then, that the writer of these notes has no consideration in commending or condemning the books dealt with in “Our Book Causerie,” other than that of seeking to guide readers to a wise choice. Though unbiassed, he is not infallible. He does not expect that his verdict, in all cases, will be accepted as “the last word,” but, insofar as estimating an author's inventive genius, or skill of craftsmanship, his judgments, if not always wise, will never be other than honest.