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Page 50
I recall with what enthusiasm I once heard this superior creature
commend the doctor for having accepted in lieu of a fee a set of
Calvin's ``Institutes,'' with copious notes, in twelve octavo
volumes, and a portfolio of colored fox-hunting prints. My
admiration for this model wife could find expression in no other
way; I jumped from my chair, seized her in my arms, and imprinted
upon her brow a fervent but respectful kiss.
It would be hard to imagine a prettier picture than that
presented to my vision as I looked in from the porch of the
doctor's residence upon the doctor's family gathered together in
the library after dinner. The doctor himself, snuggled down in a
vast easy-chair, was dividing his attention between a brier pipe
and the odes of Propertius; his wife, beside him in her rocker,
smiled and smiled again over the quaint humor of Mrs. Gaskell's
``Cranford''; upon yonder settee, Francis Mahony Methuen, the
oldest son, was deep in the perusal of Wilson's ``Tales of the
Border''; his brother, Russell Lowell, was equally absorbed in
the pathetic tale of ``The Man without a Country''; Letitia
Landon Methuen, the daughter, was quietly sobbing over the
tragedy of ``Evangeline''; in his high chair sat the chubby baby
boy, Beranger Methuen, crowing gleefully over an illustrated copy
of that grand old classic, ``Poems for Infant Minds by Two Young
Persons.''
For several moments I stood spellbound, regarding with ineffable
rapture this inspiring spectacle. ``How manifold are thy
blessings, O Bibliomania,'' thought I, ``and how graciously they
are distributed in this joyous circle, wherein it is permitted to
see not only the maturer members, but, alas, the youth and even
the babes and sucklings drinking freely and gratefully at the
fountain-head of thy delights!''
Dr. O'Rell's library is one of the most charming apartments I
know of. It looks out upon every variety of scenery, for Dr.
O'Rell has had constructed at considerable expense a light iron
framework from which are suspended at different times cunningly
painted canvases representing landscapes and marines
corresponding to the most whimsical fancy.
In the dead of winter, the doctor often has a desire to look out
upon a cheery landscape; thereupon, by a simple manipulation of a
keyboard, there is unrolled a panorama of velvety hillsides and
flowery meads, of grazing sheep, and of piping rustics; so
natural is the spectacle that one can almost hear the music of
the reeds, and fancy himself in Arcadia. If in midsummer the
heat is oppressive and life seems burthensome, forthwith another
canvas is outspread, and the glories of the Alps appear, or a
stretch of blue sea, or a corner of a primeval forest.
So there is an outlook for every mood, and I doubt not that this
ingenious provision contributes potently towards promoting
bibliomaniac harmony and prosperity in my friend's household. It
is true that I myself am not susceptible to external influences
when once I am surrounded by books; I do not care a fig whether
my library overlooks a garden or a desert; give me my dear
companions in their dress of leather, cloth, or boards, and it
matters not to me whether God sends storm or sunshine, flowers or
hail, light or darkness, noise or calm. Yet I know and admit
that environment means much to most people, and I do most
heartily applaud Dr. O'Rell's versatile device.
I have always thought that De Quincey's workshop would have given
me great delight. The particular thing that excited De Quincey's
choler was interference with his books and manuscripts, which he
piled atop of one another upon the floor and over his desk, until
at last there would be but a narrow little pathway from the desk
to the fireplace and from the fireplace to the door; and his
writing-table--gracious! what a Pelion upon Ossa of confusion it
must have been!
Yet De Quincey insisted that he knew ``just where everything
was,'' and he merely exacted that the servants attempt no such
vandalism as ``cleaning up'' in his workshop. Of course there
would presently come a time when there was no more room on the
table and when the little pathway to the fireplace and the door
would be no longer visible; then, with a sigh, De Quincey would
lock the door of that room and betake himself to other quarters,
which in turn would eventually become quite as littered up,
cluttered up, and impassable as the first rooms.
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