BORROWED BOOKS

Hauraki Plains Gazette, Volume XXXXII, Issue 2806, 27 November 1931, Page 2 (Supplement)

BORROWED BOOKS

AND ABOUT THE BORROWERS.

Frequently people complain that it is quite a common practice of those who have borrowed books never to return them, but even, especially if the books are particularly interesting, to lend them to other persons, and that thus, through carelessness, forgetfulness, or whatever one likes to call it, the original owner loses his books. The troubles of the booklender are not new.

In “ Curiosities of Literature ” Disraeli wrote: “ Great collections of books are subject to certain accidents besides the damp, the worms, and the rats; one not less common is that of the borrowers, not to say a word of the purloiners.” And Charles Lamb complained: “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 volumes.” We take the following verses from Blanchard’s “ The Art of Book-keep-ing —

How hard, when those who do not wish To lend —that’s lose-—their books, /Ire snared by anglers—folk that fish With literary hooks.

Who call and take some favourite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you.

New tales and novels you may shut From view—'tis all in vain; They’re gone—and though the leaves are “ cut,” They never “ come again.”

For pamphlets lent I look around, For tracts my tears are spilt; But when they take a book that’s bound, ’Tis surely extra-guilt.

A circulating library Is mine—-my birds are flown; There’s one odd volume left to be Like all the rest, alone.

I, of my Spencer quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of Lamb I’ve but a quarter left, Nor could I saw my Bacon.

I wondered into what balloon My books their course had bent; And'yet, with all my marvelling, soon I found my Marvell went.

My Mallet served to knock me down. Which makes me thus a talker; And once, while I was out of town, My Johnson proved a Walker.

They picked my Locke, to me far more Than Bramah’s patent’s worth; And now my losses I deplore Without a Home on earth.

If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal; For though 1 caught them stealing Swift As swiftly wont my Steele.

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, Yet could not Tickell touch; And, then, alas! I missed my Mickle, And surely Mickle’s much.

My word's worth little, Wordsworth gone, If I survive its doonl; How many a bard I doted on Was swept off—with my Broome.