The most distinguished of living Englishmen， who， great as he is in many directions， is perhaps inherently more a man of letters than anything else， has been overheard mournfully to declare that there were more booksellers' shops in his native town sixty years ago， when he was a boy in it， than are to-day to be found within its boundaries. And yet the place \"all unabashed\" now boasts its bookless self a city!

Mr. Gladstone was， of course， referring to second-hand bookshops. Neither he nor any other sensible man puts himself out about new books. When a new book is published， read an old one， was the advice of a sound though surly critic.

It is one of the boasts of letters to have glorified the term\"second-hand\"， which other crafts have \"soiled to all ignoble use\".But why it has been able to do this is obvious. All the best books are necessarily second-hand. The writers of today need not grumble. Let them \"bide a wee.\"If their books are worth anything， they， too， one day will be second-hand. If their books are not worth anything there are ancient trades still in full operation amongst us—the pastrycooks and the trunk-makers—who must have paper.

But is there any substance in the plaint that nobody now buys books，meaning thereby second-hand books? The late Mark Pattison， who had 16 000 volumes， and whose lightest word has therefore weight， once stated that he had been informed， and verily believed， that there were men of his own University of Oxford who， being in uncontrolled possession of annual incomes of not less than ￡500， thought they were doing the thing handsomely if they expended ￡50 a year upon their libraries. But we are not bound to believe this unless we like. There was a touch of moroseness about the late rector of Lincoln which led him to take gloomy views of men， particularly Oxford men.

No doubt arguments a priori may readily be found to support the contention that the habit of book-buying is on the decline. I confess to knowing one or two men， not Oxford men either， but Cambridge men (and the passion of Cambridge for literature is a by-word)， who， on the plea of being pressed with business， or because they were going to a funeral， have passed a bookshop in a strange town without so much as stepping inside \"just to see whether the fellow had anything \". But painful as facts of this sort necessarily are， any damaging inference we might feel disposed to draw from them is dispelled by a comparison of price-lists. Compare a bookseller's catalogue of 1862 with one of the present year， and your pessimism is washed away by the tears which unrestrainedly flow as your see what bonnes fortunes you have lost. A young book-buyer might well turn out upon Primroses Hill and bemoan his youth， after comparing old catalogues with new.

Nothing but American competition， grumble some old stagers.

Well！Why not? This new battle for the books is a free fight， not a private one， and Columbia has \"joined in\".Lower prices are not to be looked for. The book-buyer of 1900 will be glad to buy at to-day's prices. I take pleasure in thinking he will not be able to do so. Good finds grow scarcer and scarcer. True it is that but a few short weeks ago I picked up (such is the happy phrase， most apt to describe what was indeed a \"street casualty\") a copy of the original edition of Endymion (Keats's poem -- O subscriber to Mudie 's——not Lord Beaconsfield's novel) for the easy equivalent of half-a-crown-- but then that was one of my lucky days. The enormous increase of booksellers' catalogues and their wide circulation amongst the trade has already produced a hateful uniformity of prices. Go where you will it is all the same to the odd sixpence. Time was when you could map out the country for yourself with some hopefulness of plunder. There were districts where the Elizabethan dram atists were but slenderly protected. A raid into the\"bonnie North Countries\" sent you home again cheered with chap-books and weighted with old pamphlets of curious interests; whilst the West of England seldom failed to yield a crop of novels. I remember getting a complete set of the Bronte books in the original issues at Torquay， I may say， for nothing. Those days are over. Your country bookseller is， in fact， more likely， such tales does he hear of London auctions， and such catalogues does he hear of London auctions， and such catalogues does he receive by every post， to exaggerate the value of his wares than to part with them pleasantly， and as a country bookseller should，\"just to clear my shelves， you know， and give me a bit of room.\"The only compensation for this is the catalogues themselves. You get them， at least， for nothing， and it cannot be denied that they make mighty pretty reading.

These high prices tell their own tale， and force upon us the conviction that there never were so many private libraries in course of growth as there are to-day.

Libraries are not made; they grow. Your first two thousand volumes present no difficulty， and cost astonishingly little money. Given ￡400 and five years， and an ordinary man can in the ordinary course， without undue haste or putting any pressure upon his taste， surround himself with this number of books， all in his own language， and thencefor ward have at least one place in the world in which it is possible to be happy. But pride is still out of the question. To be proud of having two thousand books would be absurd. You might as well be proud of having two top-coats. After your first two thousand difficulty begins， but until you have ten thousand volumes the less you say about your library the better. Then you may begin to speak.

It is no doubt a pleasant thing to have a library left you. The present writer will disclaim no such legacy， but hereby undertakes to accept it， however dusty. But good as it is to inherit a library， it is better to collect one. Each volume then， however lightly a stranger's eye may roam from shelf to shelf， has its own individuality， a history of its own. You remember where you got it， and how much you gave for it; and your word may safely be taken for the first of these facts， but not for the second.

The man who has a library of his own collection is able to contemplate himself objectively， and is justified in believing in his own existence. No other man but he would have made precisely such a combination as his. Had he been in any single respect different from what he is， his library， as it exists， never would have existed. Therefore， surely he may exclaim， as in the gloaming he contemplates the backs of his loved ones. \"They are mine， and I am theirs.\"

But the eternal note of sadness will find its way even through the keyhole of a library. You turn some familiar page， of Shakespeare it may be， and his \"infinite variety\"， his \"multitudinous mind\"suggests some new thought， and as you are wondering over it you think of Lycidas， your friend， and promise yourself the pleasure of having his opinion of your discovery the very next time when by the fire you two \"help: waste a sullen day\". Or it is， perhaps， some quainter， tenderer fancy that engages your solitary attention， something in Sir Philip Sydney or Henry Vaughan， and then you turn to look for Phyllis， ever the best interpreter of love，human or divine. Alas! The printed page grows hazy beneath a filmy eye as you suddenly remember that Lycidas is dead -- \"dead ere his prime\" --- and that the pale cheek of Phyllis will never again be relumined by the white light of her pure enthusiasm. And then you fall to thinking of the inevitable， and perhaps， in you present mood， not unwelcome hour， when the \"ancient peace\" of your old friends will be disturbed， when rude hands will dislodge them from their accustomed nooks and break up their goodly company.

\"Death bursts amongst them like a shell

And strews them over haft the town.\"

They will form new combinations， lighten other men's toil， and soothe another's sorrow. Fool that I was to call anything mine!

在英國有一位久負(fù)盛名的偉人，他在很多方面成就非凡，尤其以天才作家著稱。有人無意中聽見他悲哀地說，六十年前，他的孩提時代，家鄉(xiāng)的書店比現(xiàn)在多得多。但這個地方現(xiàn)在一本書都沒有，還“無恥”地自稱是一座城市!

當(dāng)然，格拉德斯通先生在這里指的是二手書店。他是不會為新書勞神的，智者都是如此。一位怪僻而又頗有見地的批評家說過，出新書時讀舊書。作家可以夸耀的事很多，其一就是給二手貨增輝，而不是像其他行業(yè)那樣使它變得俗不可耐。原因顯而易見。最好的書肯定都是舊書，今天的作家不必不高興，權(quán)且忍耐一下。如果他們的書真有價值，總有一天也會變成舊書；就算沒有一點價值，還有一些歷史悠久的職業(yè)在我們中間活躍——做糕點的，做箱子的，這些都是需要用紙的。

但是現(xiàn)在抱怨沒人買書，這里是指舊書，對嗎?已逝的馬克·帕蒂森生前有一萬六千冊的藏書，所以他說的每句話都很值得掂量。他曾說，有人告訴他，在他的母校牛津大學(xué)，有些人年收人中可自由支配的不下五百英鎊，但覺得一年花五十英鎊用于藏書就很不錯了——對于這個說法他確實相信。信不信由你。因為脾氣不大好，這位已故的林肯學(xué)院院長對人，尤其是牛津人很悲觀。

毫無疑問，很容易就能夠找出一些論據(jù)來支持買書的風(fēng)氣每況日下的觀點。我就認(rèn)識那么一兩個人，不是牛津而是劍橋的(劍橋熱衷于文學(xué)已經(jīng)成為笑料)，以公事為托辭，或借以參加葬禮，在一座陌生的城市哪怕路過一家書店時，也不肯進(jìn)去“僅僅是看看那家伙有沒有點東西”。雖然這種事情令人痛心，但與書價單比較一下，這些不好的結(jié)論，又算不了什么。把1862年的書目與今年的相比，你不僅是悲觀，而可能是痛哭流涕，因為你發(fā)現(xiàn)你錯失良機(jī)!新舊書目比較之后，喜好購書的年輕人，可能會登上報春花山，惋惜他沒趕上好時機(jī)。資歷頗深的人將之歸咎于美國人的競爭。

是嗎!干嗎不競爭呢?這場新的書業(yè)之戰(zhàn)是自由之戰(zhàn)，不只是私人事務(wù)，所以哥倫比亞公司“參戰(zhàn)”了。廉價書沒有了。如果1900年的購書者能夠以今天的價格去購買圖書，一定非常開心!但我心中竊喜這是不可能的。真的，便宜書越來越少了。不過幾周前我“撿到” （多妙的字眼啊，最適合形容不期而遇）《恩底彌翁》的初版（濟(jì)慈的詩——喔!是米迪圖書館讀者的——不是比肯斯菲爾德勛爵的小說），只花了大約半克朗——那一天真走運。業(yè)內(nèi)書目劇增，流通廣泛，致使書價趨同，令人憎惡。以前踏遍全國，總能淘到一些東西，現(xiàn)在走到哪里，都是六便士左右一本書。伊麗莎白時代的戲曲作品在有些地區(qū)保護(hù)不嚴(yán)。如果偷襲“美麗的北國”，你將滿載而歸，購回大量廉價書和一摞內(nèi)容離奇的舊書。而在英格蘭西部，搜羅一大批小說十分容易。記得我?guī)缀鯖]花錢就在托基弄到了勃朗特作品全集的初版。不過這都是往事了。事實上，鄉(xiāng)下的書商由于聽說了倫敦書目拍賣的事，并且郵差也送來很多書目，這些都使他們原本應(yīng)該很樂意將書賣掉，“您知道，我只是想清理書架，騰出點地方，”現(xiàn)在卻夸大了手頭物品的價值，不愿賣了。這樣一來，只好以目錄本身為籍了。它們至少不用花錢。不可否認(rèn)，目錄值得一讀。

書價高本身就說明了某些事情，也令我們深信，個人圖書館從來沒有像今天這樣蓬勃發(fā)展。

圖書館可以進(jìn)行自身維持。攢上頭兩千冊不是什么問題，花錢很少。只要有四百英鎊和五年時間，不緊不慢，不需要抑制自己的興趣，按照常規(guī)的做法，就可以積攢出一堆書。都是母語書，從此擁有至少一個可以獲得快樂的地方。不過要想自豪還不行。有兩千本書就驕傲是很讓人好笑的。那你擁有兩件外套也就值得自豪了。問題開始在藏書超過兩千冊之后，藏書沒有到一萬還是少拿出來說好些，除非你有了一萬本藏書才有資格發(fā)言。

毫無疑問，有人遺贈藏書是一件高興的事。現(xiàn)有的作者不放棄這種遺產(chǎn)，并特此保證不管塵封多久都樂意接受。不過盡管繼承藏書好，但自己收集更好。自己收集的每一本書，都有它的個性，它的來歷——雖然陌生人目光會漫不經(jīng)心地瀏覽一架架藏書。每本書你都記得是在哪里買的，花了多少錢；你說的這些事實中的第一點——購書地點別人也許會相信，但價錢就不一定了。

擁有自己藏書的人能夠客觀地檢視自我，能夠證明自己存在的價值。沒有人能夠收集到跟他十分相似的圖書。如果他跟現(xiàn)在的自己略有不同，就不可能存在現(xiàn)有的藏書。因此，日落薄暮時分，當(dāng)他凝望一排排心愛圖書的書脊時，一定會感慨地說：“它們屬于我，我也屬于它們?！?/p>

即使是通過門上的鎖眼，一絲永恒的憂愁也會襲來。翻動熟悉的某一頁，可能是莎士比亞的著作，他“無窮變幻”、“博大胸襟”，給人帶來嶄新的思索：你思緒飛轉(zhuǎn)，想起你的朋友利西達(dá)斯，滿懷喜悅地等待著能夠再次聽到他對你的發(fā)現(xiàn)的看法；你們倆會坐在火爐旁“相互探討：混過毫無生氣的一天”?；蛘?，可能是某種更奇特更溫柔的幻想占據(jù)你孤寂的注意力，比如菲利普·錫德尼爵士或亨利·沃恩的某種東西，然后你又去尋找菲利斯，只有她最能闡釋天上人間的愛情。突然想到利西達(dá)斯死了——“英年早逝”——菲利斯那蒼白的臉頰再也不能為她那純潔熱情的白光所照亮了!啊!這時眼睛模糊了，書上的字也看不清了。然后你開始想到必然來臨，或許就你目前心情而言也還能接受的那一刻，老朋友“遠(yuǎn)古的寧靜”將被打破，粗暴的雙手將把它們從習(xí)慣的角落拿走，拆散它們友好的伴侶。

“死亡像炮彈一樣在它們中間爆炸，

它們被炸得滿城皆是?！?/p>

它們將形成新組合，減輕他人的勞作，撫平他人的憂傷。我是如此地傻，竟然將任何東西說成是我的。

作者介紹

奧古斯丁·比勒爾(1850——1933)，英國政治家、散文家。曾任教育大臣，愛爾蘭事務(wù)大臣。因出版兩部題為《余論》的散文集而享譽英國文壇?！顿I書》一文以平和的口吻談及書，藏書，心懷喜悅而又無可奈何地回憶起過去書的物美價廉。其愛書藏書的癡情發(fā)人深思。