|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 38
For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear,
Till the treasured book is read;
And the ashes betwixt the pages here
Tell us of one long dead.
But the gracious presence reappears
As we read the book again,
And the fragrance of precious, distant years
Filleth the hearts of men
Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks
The posies that bloom for all;
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall!
Better than flowers are they, these books of mine! For what are
the seasons to them? Neither can the drought of summer nor the
asperity of winter wither or change them. At all times and under
all circumstances they are the same--radiant, fragrant, hopeful,
helpful! There is no charm which they do not possess, no beauty
that is not theirs.
What wonder is it that from time immemorial humanity has craved
the boon of carrying to the grave some book particularly beloved
in life? Even Numa Pompilius provided that his books should
share his tomb with him. Twenty-four of these precious volumes
were consigned with him to the grave. When Gabriel Rossetti's
wife died, the poet cast into her open grave the unfinished
volume of his poems, that being the last and most precious
tribute he could pay to her cherished memory.
History records instance after instance of the consolation dying
men have received from the perusal of books, and many a one has
made his end holding in his hands a particularly beloved volume.
The reverence which even unlearned men have for books appeals in
these splendid libraries which are erected now and again with
funds provided by the wills of the illiterate. How dreadful must
be the last moments of that person who has steadfastly refused to
share the companionship and acknowledge the saving grace of
books!
Such, indeed, is my regard for these friendships that it is with
misery that I contemplate the probability of separation from
them by and by. I have given my friends to understand that when
I am done with earth certain of my books shall be buried with me.
The list of these books will be found in the left-hand upper
drawer of the old mahogany secretary in the front spare room.
When I am done,
I'd have no son
Pounce on these treasures like a vulture;
Nay, give them half
My epitaph
And let them share in my sepulture.
Then when the crack
Of doom rolls back
The marble and the earth that hide me,
I'll smuggle home
Each precious tome
Without a fear a wife shall chide me.
The dread of being separated by death from the objects of one's
love has pursued humanity from the beginning. The Hindoos used
to have a selfish fashion of requiring their widows to be
entombed alive with their corpses. The North American Indian
insists that his horse, his bow and arrows, his spear, and his
other cherished trinkets shall share his grave with him.
My sister, Miss Susan, has provided that after her demise a
number of her most prized curios shall be buried with her. The
list, as I recall it, includes a mahogany four-post bedstead, an
Empire dresser, a brass warming-pan, a pair of brass andirons, a
Louis Quinze table, a Mayflower teapot, a Tomb of Washington
platter, a pewter tankard, a pair of her grandmother's
candlesticks, a Paul Revere lantern, a tall Dutch clock, a
complete suit of armor purchased in Rome, and a collection of
Japanese bric-a-brac presented to Miss Susan by a returned
missionary.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|