To An Athlete Dying Young

In Memory of:
     Nodar Kumaritashvili [1988-2010]
     2010 Winter Olympics:  Luge [Georgia]

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

--A.E. Housman

UNDERSTANDING

How blind men are! We surely cannot know
And judge the way men go!
Perhaps the grind of hectic years
Has won at last.

How sharp--how cruel can human judgments be!
The inmost heart of men we cannot see.
Thus has it been since time began;
Lay down the bruising stones we cast.

Of all the virtues which heaven has to give--
May it be with understanding that we live!

--H.W. Bliss

Casual Meeting

We met upon a crowded street one day,
  And for a fleeting space her glance held mine;
But we were strangers, there was nought to say,
  So each passed on without a spoken sign.

Her eyes were deep and questioning, yet kind,
  But were the eyes of one whose will was strong--
Of one who had a keen and eager mind,
  And made of life a brave and buoyant song.

Strange, how this casual meeting stays with me,
  When things of far more magnitude have fled,
And yet the thought of it will always be
  Something to cherish, though no words were said.

--Margaret E. Bruner

COMMUNION

Quietly I enter the closet
Quietly I close the door.
Outside are the futilities,
The doubts and useless struggles;
Forgotten are the little things
That too long have shackled my mind
And held me prisoner.

Now unhurried and free
I contemplate God,
His mercy and His love,
Patiently I wait.

Lo, out of the shadows
Comes His presence.
Silently we visit.
From His wounded hand
I receive His balm
And His comfort.
I rest.

The door to the world is opened!
Eagerly I pass,
No longer futile, Nor fearful,
Nor yet alone.
No longer I,
But, We!

--P.M. Snider

Too Late

What silences we keep, year after year
With those who are most near to us, and dear!
We live beside each other day by day,
And speak of myriad things, but seldom say
The full, sweet word that lies within our reach
Beneath the common ground of common speech.

Then out of sight and out of reach they go--
These close, familiar ones who loved us so;
And, sitting in the shadow they have left,
Alone with loneliness, and sore bereft,
We think with vain regret of some fond word
That once we might have said and they have heard.

This is the cruel cross of life--to be
Full visioned only when the ministry
Of death has been fulfilled, and in the place
Of some dear presence is but empty space.
What recollected services can then
Give consolation for the "might have been"?

--Nora Perry

Little Things

It's just the little homely things,
  The unobtrusive, friendly things,
The "won't-you-let-me-help-you" things,
  That make our pathway light--
And it's just the jolly, joking things,
  The "never-mind-the-trouble" things,
The "laugh-with-me, it's funny" things
  That make the world seem bright.

For all the countless famous things,
  The wondrous, record-breaking things,
Those "never-can-be-equalled" things
  That all the papers cite,
Aren't like the little human things,
  The everyday-encountered things,
The "just-because-I-like-you" things
  That make us happy quite.

So here's to all the simple things,
  The dear "all-in-a-day's-work" things,
The "smile-and-face-your-troubles" things,
  Trust God to put them right!
The "done-and-then-forgotten" things,
  The "can't-you-see-I-love-you" things,
The hearty "I-am-with-you" things
  That make life worth the fight.

--Author Unknown

WORK

How true it is when I am sad,
A little work can make me glad.
When frowning care comes to my door,
I work a while and fret no more.
I leave my couch harassed with pain,
I work, and soon I'm well again.
When sorrow comes and vain regret,
I go to work and soon forget.
Work soothes the soul when joys depart,
And often mends a broken heart.
The idle mind soon fills with murk,
So that's why God invented work.

--J.W. Thompson

Love Is Kind

Each man is limited by inborn traits;
  Beyond a certain point he cannot go;
The wise excel in high or low estates;
  The good mock not good workers just below.

If one can lift a weight of half a ton,
  Give him full credit, yet not praise him more
Than one who, lifting less, his best has done,
  Nor give the latter less than actual score.

We grant that each has striven toward the best,
  Yet judge by failure, not by worth or toil.
The "highest" is not worthier than the rest,
  And none should other's worthy effort spoil.

--Benjamin Keech

Life Owes Me Nothing

Life owes me nothing. Let the years
Bring clouds or azure, joy or tears;
   Already a full cup I've quaffed;
   Already wept and loved and laughed,
And seen, in ever-endless ways,
New beauties overwhelm the days.

Life owes me nought. No pain that waits
Can steal the wealth from memory's gates;
   No aftermath of anguish slow
   Can quench the soul fire's early glow.
I breathe, exulting, each new breath,
Embracing Life, ignoring Death.

Life owes me nothing. One clear morn
Is boon enough for being born;
   And be it ninety years or ten,
   No need for me to question when.
While Life is mine, I'll find it good,
And greet each hour with gratitude.

--Author Unknown

The Human Heart

There's a heap o'love in the human heart
  If we just dig down a bit;
It's the masterpiece of the Mighty Hand
  And He gave His best to it.
There's a heap o'good in the most of men,
  Just underneath the skin,
And much would show that we never know,
  Could we only look within.

There's a lot inside that we never see,
  And perhaps we never know,
'Til fortunes turn and we're down and out,
  Or sickness strikes us low.
But the heart is right in the most of men,
  When the truth is really known,
And we often find that the heart is kind
  That we thought was cold as stone.

We sometimes tire of the road so rough
  And the hill that seems so steep,
And we sometimes feel that hope is gone,
  As we sit alone and weep;
And then when our faith is burning low
  And we lose our trust in men,
True friends appear with a word of cheer
  And the sun comes out again.

And so I claim that the heart of man
  Is about what it ought to be,
For it's made of goodness through and through,
  Could we look inside and see.
God made all things and He made them well,
  On the true and perfect plan,
But He did His best in the greatest test
  When He made the heart of man.

--Frank Carleton Nelson

Thanks Be To God

I do not thank Thee, Lord,
That I have bread to eat while others starve;
Nor yet for work to do
While empty hands solicit Heaven;
Nor for a body strong
While other bodies flatten beds of pain.
No, not for these do I give thanks!

But I am grateful, Lord,
Because my meager loaf I may divide;
For that my busy hands
May move to meet another's need;
Because my doubled strength
I may expend to steady one who faints.
Yes, for all these do I give thanks!

For heart to share, desire to bear
And will to lift,
Flamed into one by deathless Love--
Thanks be to God for this!
Unspeakable! His Gift!

--Janie Alford

"Jefferson and Liberty"

Emotions ran high during the months prior to the
election of 1800. Many who felt that laws passed
during President Adams' administration, particular-
ly the Alien and Sedition Acts, had infringed on
their constitutional rights now looked to Jefferson
as a symbol of freedom from oppressive govern-
ment. Jefferson was elected in what has been cal-
led the "Revolution of 1800." The feeling of many
people for the President-elect is reflected in the
following verses, which were sung to a traditional
Irish tune.

JEFFERSON AND LIBERTY

The gloomy night before us flies,
  The reign of terror now is o'er;
Its gags, inquisitors, and spies,
  Its herds of harpies are no more!
  Chorus:
  Rejoice! Columbia's sons, rejoice!
  To tyrants never bend the knee;
But join with heart and soul and voice,
  for Jefferson and Liberty.

His country's glory, hope, and stay,
  In virtue and in talents tried,
Now rises to assume the sway,
  O'er freedom's temple to preside.

No lordling here, with gorging jaws,
  Shall wring from industry the food;
Nor fiery bigot's holy laws
  Lay waste our fields and streets in blood.

Here strangers, from a thousand shores,
  Compelled by tyranny to roam,
Shall find, amidst abundant stores,
  A nobler and a happier home.

Here art shall lift her laureled head,
  Wealth, industry, and peace divine;
And where dark, pathless forests spread,
  Rich fields and lofty cities shine.

From Europe's wants and woes remote,
  A friendly waste of waves between,
Here plenty cheers the humblest cot,
  And smiles on every village green.

Let foes to freedom dread the name;
  But should they touch the sacred tree,
Twice fifty thousand swords would flame
  For Jefferson and Liberty.

--Songs, Odes, and Other Poems on
National Subjects, compiled by Wm.
McCarty, Philadelphia, 1842, pp. 172-175

[Amendment 3]

   No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered
in any house, without the consent of the owner,
nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed
by law.

   This amendment grew directly out of an old complaint
against the British, who had forced people to take soldiers
into their homes.

--World Book Encyc., Vol. 4, p. 798o

[Amendment 2]

   A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security
of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear
arms shall not be infringed.

   This amendment prohibits only the national government from
limiting the right to carry weapons. The amendment was adopt-
ed so that Congress could not disarm a state militia.

--World Book Encyc., Vol. 4, p. 798o

[Amendment 1]

  Congress shall make no law respecting an
establishment of religion, or prohibiting the
free exercise thereof; or abridging the free-
dom of speech, or of the press; or the right
of the people peaceably to assemble, and to
petition the government for a redress of
grievances.

   Many countries have made one religion the es-
tablished (official) church and supported it with gov-
ernment funds. This amendment forbids Congress
to set up or in any way provide for an established
church. In addition, Congress may not pass laws
limiting worship, speech, or the press, or prevent-
ing people from meeting peacefully. Congress also
may not keep people from asking the government
for relief from unfair treatment.
--World Book Encyc., Vol. 4, p. 798o

This Is Your Hour

This is your hour--creep upon it!
Summon your power, leap upon it!
Grasp it, clasp it, hold it tight!
Strike it, spike it, with full might!
If you take too long to ponder,
Opportunity may wander.
Yesterday's a bag of sorrow;
No man ever finds Tomorrow,
Hesitation is a mire--
Climb out, climb up, climb on higher!
Fumble, stumble, risk a tumble,
Make a start, however humble!
Do your best and do it now!
Pluck and grit will find out how,
Persevere, although you tire--
While a spark is left, there's fire.
Distrust doubt; doubt is a liar.
Even if all mankind jeer you,
You can force the world to cheer you.

--Herbert Kaufman

[Abraham Lincoln]: Mini-Bio #9

  Lincoln was not a type. He stands alone--
no ancestors, no fellows, and no successors.
He had the advantage of living in a new coun-
try, of social equality, of personal freedom, of
seeing in the horizon of his future the perpetual
star of hope. He preserved his individuality and
his self-respect. He knew and mingled with men
of every kind; and, after all, men are the best
books. He became acquainted with the ambi-
tions and hopes of the heart, the means used to
accomplish ends, the springs of action and the
seeds of thought. He was familiar with nature,
with actual things, with common facts. He loved
and appreciated the poem of the year, the drama
of the seasons. . . . Lincoln never finished his edu-
cation. To the night of his death he was a pupil, a
learner, and inquirer, a seeker after knowledge. . .
Wealth could not purchase, power could not awe,
this divine, this loving man. He knew no fear ex-
cept the fear of doing wrong. Hating slavery,
pitying the master--seeking to conquer, not per-
sons, but prejudices--he was the embodiment of
the self-denial, the courage, the hope, and the no-
bility of a nation. He spoke, not to inflame, not to
upbraid, but to convince. He raised his hands, not
to strike, but in benediction. He longed to pardon.
He loved to see the pearls of joy on the cheeks of
a wife whose husband he had rescued from death.
Lincoln was the grandest figure of the fiercest civil
war. He is the gentlest memory of our world.

--Robert G. Ingersoll, 1885, Motley and Monarch,
North American Review, vol. 141, pp. 528, 529,
531

[Thomas Jefferson]: Mini-Bio #8

  Mr. Jefferson's stature was commanding-
six feet two-and-one-half inches in height,
well formed, indicating strength, activity,
and robust health; his carriage erect; step
firm and elastic, which he preserved to his
death; his temper, naturally strong, under
perfect control; his courage cool and impas-
sive. No one ever knew him exhibit trepida-
tion. His moral courage of the highest order--
his will firm and inflexible--it was remarked
of him that he never abandoned a plan, a
principle, or a friend. A bold and fearless
rider, you saw at a glance, from his easy and
confident seat, that he was master of his horse,
which was usually the fine-blood-horse of
Virginia. . . . His habits were regular and sys-
tematic. He was a miser of his time, rose al-
ways at dawn, wrote and read until breakfast,
breakfasted early, and dined from three to
four; . . . . retire at nine, and to bed from ten
to eleven. He said, in his last illness, that the
sun had not caught him in bed for fifty years.
He always made his own fire. He drank water
but once a day, a single glass, when he return-
ed from his ride. He ate heartily, and much
vegetable food, preferring French cookery,
because it made the meats more tender. He
never drank ardent spirits or strong wines.
Such was his aversion to ardent spirits, that
when, in his last illness, his physician desired
him to use brandy as an astringement, he
could not induce him to take it strong enough.

--Sarah N. Randolph, 1871, The Domestic
Life of Thomas Jefferson, p. 338

The Greatest Gift

  Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,
but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a
  clanging cymbal.

  And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand
all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith,
  so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I
am nothing.

  And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and
though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it
  profits me nothing.

  Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy, love
does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave
  rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no
evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;
  bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, en-
dures all things.

  Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies, they
will fail; whether there are tongues, they will cease; whether
there is knowledge, it will vanish away.

  For we know in part and we prophesy in part. But when
that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will
  be done away.

  When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a
child, I thought as a child, but when I became a man, I put
  away childish things.

  For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.
Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also
  am known.

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest
  of these is love.

--1 Corinthians 13
[The Love Chapter]

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
  Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
  Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
  Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
  How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
  But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
  A heart whose love is innocent!

--George Gordon, Lord Byron
[1788-1824]

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

In Memory of Abraham Lincoln [Feb.12, 1809-
Apr. 15, 1865]

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
          But O heart! heart! heart!
           O the bleeding drops of red,
            Where on the deck my Captain lies,
             Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores
   a-crowding:
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning:
          Here Captain! dear father!
           The arm beneath your head!
            It is some dream that on the deck,
             You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship comes in with object won:
          Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
           But I, with mournful tread,
            Walk the deck my Captain lies,
              Fallen cold and dead.

--Walt Whitman

FAITH

I will not doubt, though all my ships at sea
   Come drifting home with broken masts and sails;
   I shall believe the Hand which never fails,
From seeming evil worketh good to me;
   And, though I weep because those sails are battered,
   Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered,
          "I trust in Thee."

I will not doubt, though all my prayers return
   Unanswered from the still, white realm above;
   I shall believe it is an all-wise Love
Which has refused those things for which I yearn;
   And though, at times, I cannot keep from grieving,
   Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believing
          Undimmed shall burn.

I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain,
   And troubles swarm like bees about a hive;
   I shall believe the heights for which I strive,
Are only reached by anguish and by pain;
   And, though I groan and tremble with my crosses,
   I yet shall see, through my severest losses,
          The greater gain.

I will not doubt; well anchored in the faith,
   Like some stanch ship, my soul braves every gale,
   So strong its courage that it will not fail
To breast the mighty, unknown sea of death.
   Oh, may I cry when body parts with spirit,
   "I do not doubt," so listening worlds may hear it
          With my last breath.

--Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Mighty Fortress Is Our God

"The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is
our fortress." Psalm 46:7

A mighty fortress is our God, A bulwark never failing;
Our helper He amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing.
For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe--
His craft and pow'r are great, And, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide, Our striving would be
losing, Were not the right man on our side, The man of God's
own choosing. Dost ask who that may be? Christ Jesus, it is He
Lord Sabaoth His name, From age to age the same,
And He must win the battle.

And tho this world, with devils filled, Should threaten to undo us,
We will not fear, for God hath willed His truth to triumph thru us.
The prince of darkness grim, We tremble not for him--His rage
we can endure, For lo, his doom is sure: One little word shall
fell him.

That word above all earthly pow'rs, No thanks to them, abideth;
The Spirit and the gifts are ours Thru Him who with us sideth.
Let goods and kindred go, This mortal life also-- The body
they may kill; God's truth abideth still: His kingdom is forever.

--Martin Luther

Little Words

  "Yes, you did, too!"
  "I did not!"
Thus the little quarrel started,
Thus by unkind little words,
Two fond friends were parted.

  "I am sorry."
  "So am I."
Thus the little quarrel ended,
Thus by loving little words
Two fond hearts were mended.

--Benjamin Keech

WORTHWHILE

It is easy enough to be pleasant,
  When life flows by like a song,
But the man worthwhile is one who will smile,
  When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
  And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
  Is the smile that shines through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent,
  When nothing tempts you to stray,
When without or within no voice of sin
  Is luring your soul away;
But it's only a negative virtue
  Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honor on earth
  Is the one that resists desire.

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen,
  Who had no strength for the strife,
The world's highway is cumbered today;
  They make up the sum of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
  And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage on earth
  For we find them but once in a while.

--Ella Wheeler Wilcox

[BOOKS]: Pt. 7

     Mrs. Fields was nourished by her books,
and while it is evident that she read them with
sensitivity as well, some collectors would argue
that mere possession of these artifacts is reason
enough to justify their acquisition. Winston S.
Churchill addressed himself to this matter in
Thoughts and Adventures, a collection of es-
says published in 1932, twenty-four hours be-
fore he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Lit-
erature. In "Hobbies," one of the essays, he
wrote:

          "What shall I do with all my books?"
          was the question; and the answer,
          "Read them," sobered the question-
          er. But if you cannot read them, at
          any rate handle them and, as it were,
          fondle them. Peer into them. Let them
          fall open where they will. Read on
          from the first sentence that arrests the
          eye. Then turn to another. Make a
          voyage of discovery, taking soundings
          of uncharted seas. Set them back on
          their shelves with your own hands. Ar-
          range them on your own plan, so that
          if you do not know what is in them,
          you at least know where they are. If
          they cannot be your friends, let them
          at any rate be your acquaintances. If
          they cannot enter the circle of your life,
          do not deny them at least a nod of
          recognition.

     A century earlier, the most graceful British es-
sayist of all, Charles Lamb, divided the human
species into "two distinct races," neither of them
identifiable by skin color, language, geographic
roots, or religious conviction. Instead, Lamb (writ-
ing as "Elia") judged people simply as "the men who
borrow, and the men who lend." But it was not bor-
rowing currency that provoked his displeasure. "To
one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased in
leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a
class of alienators more formidable than that which
I have touched upon; I mean your borrowers of
books--those mutilators of collections, spoilers of
the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd vol-
umes."
     As Lamb escorted readers through his "little
back study" in Bloomsbury, he pointed out the "foul
gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a great eye-
tooth knocked out," a cavity that once held "the tal-
lest of my folios." Further on, he indicated evidence
of other similar offenses: "Here stood The Anatomy
of Melancholy, in sober state. There loitered The
Compleat Angler; quiet as in life, by some stream
side." A frequent visitor to his rooms, Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, was singled out for special umbrage,
though Lamb did concede a single compensation:

          Justice I must do my friend, that if he
          sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away
          a treasure, at another time, sea-like, he
          throws up as rich an equivalent to match
          it. I have a small under-collection of this
          nature (my friend's gatherings in his vari-
          ous calls), picked up, he has forgotten at
          what odd places, and deposited with as
          little memory at mine. I take in these or-
          phans, the twice-deserted. These pros-
          elytes of the gate are welcome as the
          true Hebrews. There they stand in con-
          junction; natives and naturalized.

--A Gentle Madness, pp. 42,43
by Nicholas A. Basbanes

[BOOKS]: Pt. 6

   One of the most eloquent statements of all on the collecting of con-
temporary material is to be found in a largley forgotten memoir writ-
ten in 1894 by Mrs. James T. Fields, widow of a Boston publisher
acclaimed for the consistently high quality of work issued under his
imprint, Ticknor & Fields. Mrs. Fields' A Shelf of Old Books
walks readers through the couple's library of particularly loved posses-
sions, pausing along the way at some of the most valued items. "There
is a sacredness about the belongings of good and great men which is
quite apart from the value and significance of the things themselves," she
pointed out. "Their books become especially endeared to us; as we
turn the pages they have loved, we can see another hand point along the
lines, another head bending over the open volume."
   In a corner were several shelves filled with material James Fields
acquired from Leigh Hunt during a visit to England thirty-five years
earlier, the same material, perhaps, that had heartened John Keats
when the young poet was an overnight guest in Hunt's home and slept
in the library. "Sleep and Poetry" was written as a result:

          It was a poet's home who keeps the keys
          Of pleasure's temple--round about were hung
          The glorious features of the bards who sung
          In other ages--cold and sacred gusts
          Smiled at each other.

   "As I quote these lines," Mrs. Fields wrote,

   fearful of some slip of a treacherous memory, I take a small vol-
   ume of Keats from the shelf of old books. It is a battered little
   copy in green cloth, with the comfortable aspect of having been
   abroad with some loving companion in a summer shower. It is
   the copy long used by Tennyson, and evidently worn in his
   pocket on many an excursion. He once handed it to Mr. Fields
   at parting, and it was always cherished by the latter with rev-
   erence and affection. Here, in its quiet corner, the little book
   now awaits the day when some new singer shall be moved to
   song in memory of the great poet who loved and treasured it.

   Appropriately, the frontispice to A Shelf of Old Books is a wood
engraving of the library in the Back Bay townhouse where James T.
and Annie Adams Fields shared so many precious hours. Pictured on
the right are paintings and a piano. On the left are books and a fire-
place, and at the far end are two tall windows that look out on the
Charles River. It is here, in this space, that Mrs. Fields concluded her
meditation.

   There is no Leigh Hunt now to enchant, and no Keats to be
   enchanted among the old books; but as we stand silent in the
   corner where the volumes rest together, watching the inter-
   changing lights thrown through green branches from the shin-
   ing river beyond, we remember that these causes of inspiration
   still abide with us, and that other book-lovers are yet to pore
   over these shelves and gather fresh life from the venerable vol-
   umes which stand upon them.

A Gentle Madness, pp.41, 42
--Nicholas A. Basbanes

[BOOKS]: Pt. 5

   "We have it upon the authority of William Blades
that books breathe; however, the testimony of ex-
perts is not needed upon this point, for if anybody
be skeptical, all he has to do to convince himslef 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 actually consume air and exhale perfumes."
--Eugene Field

"...Better than men and women, friend,
That are dust, though dear in our joy and pain,
  Are the books their cunning hands have penned,
For they depart, but the books remain,
  Through those they speak to us what was best
In the loving heart and the whole mind,
  All their royal souls possessed
Belongs forever to all mankind!
  When others fail him, the wise man looks
To the sure companionship of books."
--Richard Henry Stoddard

"As for myself, I verily believe that, if by
fire or by water my library should be destroyed
this night, I should start in again tomorrow
upon the collection of another library. Or if I
did not do this, I should lay myself down to die,
for how could I live without the companion-
ships to which I have ever been accustomed,
and which have grown as dear to me as life
itself."
--The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac,
Eugene Field

"Himself an indefatigable collector of books,
the possessor of a library as valuable as it was
interesting, a library containing volumes obtained
only at the cost of great personal sacrifice, he
was in the most active sympathy with the disease
called bibliomania, and knew, as few compar-
atively poor men have known, the half-pathetic,
half-humorous side of that incurable mental in-
firmity."
--Roswell Martin Field
(on his brother Eugene Field)

[BOOKS]: Pt. 4

   Nothing of book-hunting love has
been more happily expressed than
"The Bibliomaniac's Prayer."

But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee
To keep me in temptation's way,
I humbly ask that I may be
Most notably beset today,
Let my temptation be a book,
Which I shall purchase, hold and keep,
Whereon, when other men shall look
They'll wail to know I got it cheap.
                                 --Eugene Field

Field on bookplates:

  "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 affection!
Who that loves his wife should hesitate to
buy adornments for her person? I favor
everything that tends to prove that the hu-
man heart is swayed by the tenderer emo-
tions. Gratitude is surely one of the noblest
emotions of which humanity is capable, and
he is indeed unworthy of our respect who
would forbid humanity's expressing in every
dignified and reverential manner its gratitude
for the benefits conferred by the companion-
ship of books.
  As for myself, I urge upon all lovers of
books to provide themselves with book-
plates. 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 stat-
us it would not otherwise have. Time and a-
gain 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 form-
er owners. I have a case filled with these arist-
ocratic 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 perpet-
ual maintenance after my decease."
                                 --Eugene Field

Bibliomaniac's Bride

Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse when to verse inclined,
Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but mine!
                               --Eugene Field

[BOOKS]: Pt. 3

     This union of freedom with authority is,
I believe, the true and the only guide in the
selection of books to read. In the long run,
nothing but truth, simplicity, purity, and a
lofty purpose approves a book to the fav-
or of the ages, and nothing else ought to
approve it to the individual reader. Thus
the end is reached, and the choice is made,
not by taking a book because a "course of
reading" commands you to do so, but be-
cause you come to see for yourself the wis-
dom of the selection.
--Charles Francis Richardson, 1881, The
Choice of Books

     The book is the lens between life and
the reader by which he gathers a clear
knowledge of the former. The book re-
ceives light, it also gives light. Literature
which does not show a life below itself,
and fundamental, is too shallow to live.
Therefore, a man or a people must live
before writing. What darkness would fall
on the world if this were not so. For litera-
ture is a point of departure for new achieve-
ments, without which each person would
have to start at the bottom and climb the
whole hill of knowledge anew. Literature
does more than this. It gives life new qual-
ities through style. In Carlyle's "French
Revolution," we recognize a revolution
which existed in the world, because it ex-
isted in his intellect and soul. The same is
true of all books. The relations between
life and literature are so delicate that if the
life is a little too strong for literature, or
vice-versa they are much disturbed. The
former is now the case. The latter was the
case when Goethe lived; books were con-
sidered sacred. Literature as the food of
life appeals to three faculties--curiosity,
obedience and admiration. The perfection
of these in Christ makes the Bible the book
of books. Literature appeals to the same
vitality which gives man knowledge, and so
it is the livliest man who makes the best
reader. A good idea is to pursue some top-
ic as deeply as possible.
--Phillips Brooks, 1886, Address before
New England Sunday-School Assembly.

[BOOKS]: Pt. 2

"It is our duty to live among books."
--John Henry Newman, 1834, Tracts
for the Times, No. 2

     Nothing can supply the place of
books. They are cheering and soothing
companions in solitude, illness, affliction.
The wealth of both continents would be
no equivalent for the good they impart.
Let every man, if possible, gather some
good books under his roof, and obtain
access for himself and family to some
social library. Almost any luxury should
be sacrificed to this.
--William Ellery Channing, 1838, Self-
Culture.

     In a library we are surrounded by
many hundred of dear friends but they
are imprisoned by an enchanter in these
paper and leathern boxes.
--Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1870,
Society and Solitude

     Every book that we take up without
a purpose, is an opportunity lost of tak-
ing up a book with a purpose. It is so
certain that information, that is, the know-
ledge, the stored thoughts and observa-
tions of mankind, is now grown to pro-
portions so utterly incalculable and pro-
digious, that even the learned whose
lives are given to study, can but pick up
some crumbs that fall from the table of
truth. They delve and tend but a plot in
that vast and teeming kingdom, whilst
those whom active life leaves with but a
few cramped hours of study can hardly
come to know the very vastness of the
field before them, or how infinitesimally
small is the corner they can traverse at
the best.
--Frederic Harrison, 1879-86, The
Choice of Books.

[BOOKS]: Pt. 1

   Libraries are as the shrines where all
the relics of the ancient saints, full of
true virtue, and that without delusion or
imposture, are preserved and reposed.
--Sir Francis Bacon, 1605, The Ad-
vancement of Learning.

   I never come into a library (saith Hein-
sius) but I bolt the door to me, excluding
lust, ambition, avarice, and all such vices
whose nurse is idleness, the mother of
ignorance and melancholy herself; and in
the very lap of eternity, among so many
divine souls, I take my seat with so lofty
a spirit and sweet content that I pity all
our great ones and rich men that know
not their happiness.
--Robert Burton, 1621, Anatomy of
Melancholy.

   My neighbors think me often alone,
and yet at such times I am in company
with more than five hundred mutes, each
of whom communicates his ideas to me by
dumb signs quite as intelligibly as any
person living can do by uttering of words;
and with a motion of my hand I can bring
them as near to me as I please; I handle
them as I like; they never complain of
ill-usage; and when dismissed from my
presence, though ever so abruptly, take
no offence.
--Laurence Sterne, 1775, Letters.

   What a place to be in is an old library!
It seems as though all the souls of all the
writers that have bequeathed their labors
to the Bodleians were reposing her as in
some dormitory or middle state. . . . I
seem to inhale learning, walking amid their
foliage; and the odour of their old moth-
scented coverings is fragrant as the first
bloom of the sciential apples which grew
amid the happy orchard.
--Charles Lamb, 1820, Oxford in the
Long Vacation.

   In my youthful days I never entered a
great library . . . . but my predominant
feeling was one of pain and disturbance
of mind, . . . Here, said I, are one hun-
dred thousand books, the worst of them
capable of giving me some pleasure and
instruction; and before I can have had
time to extract the honey from one-
twentieth of this hive, in all likelihood,
I shall be summoned away.
--Thomas DeQuincy, 1823-60, Letters
to a Young Man.

   Were I to pray for a taste which should
stand me instead under every variety of
circumstances, and be a source of happi-
ness and cheerfulness to me during life,
and a shield against its ill, however things
might go amiss, and the world frown
upon me, it would be a taste for reading.
Give a man this taste, and the means of
gratifying it, and you can hardly fail of
making him a happy man. . . .You place
him in contact with the best society in
every period of history,--with the wisest,
the wittiest, the tenderest, the bravest,
and the purest characters who have a-
dorned humanity. You make him a deni-
zen of all nations, a contemporary of all
ages.
--Sir John Herschel, 1833, Address at
the Opening of the Eton Library.