WITH PIPE ALIGHT

Southland Times, Issue 19294, 12 July 1924, Page 9

WITH PIPE ALIGHT

ON BORROWING BOOKS.

(By

“ Criticus.”)

People who dredge pieces of eight and doubloons from sunken galleons, find sometimes that these discoveries bring in their train unexpected punishments, miniature disasters which come plunking down on unprotected heads, and raise those lumps so often sent to remind us that experience leaves its mark. Perhaps the old rum-raddled pirates who sent portly merchantmen to the deeps, sinking chests of gold in the ooze, left a few malevolent spirits as a guard, arming them with powers of a punitive order to frighten superstitious mortals out of their curious shoes. . . . These thoughts were running through my mind as I gloated over a few lines written by some unknown hand and pasted in a book published at the beginning of the nineteenth century. A hundred years old they were, and yet they dealt tersely and pointedly with a problem which confronts us in these more enlightened days. I was still gloating over them when Maurice entered and took an easy chair close to the blaze leaping from some fragrant manuka, so that perforce I had to read them to him: If thou art borrowed by a friend, Right welcome shall he be, To read, to study, and to lend, But to return to me. Not that imparted knowledge doth Diminish learning’s store, But books, I find, if often lent, Return to me no more. Read slowly, Pause frequently, Think seriously, Keep cleanly, Return duly with the corners Of the leaves not turned down. “A lover of books,” I explained to Maurice, “and a fellow who evidently had suffered much at the hands of his*friends but was undaunted. I can sympathise with him; I can extend my hand over the years and touch his shoulder in absolute comradeship, for I, too, have suffered and yet am not discouraged. Shakespeare, when he urged us to ‘neither the borrower nor lender be’ may have had a library in his mind’s eye, but we cannot be sure. In sooth some do say that the lender of books inviteth disaster, for who are there that value his property as he does himself, who are there who commit any crime in the calendar save that of passing on a tome lent to them ? “I can see you are stirred, Maurice; your emotion does you credit, though I doubt very much that you set a proper store in books. You are, however, an understanding chap and even sympathetic at times. Listen, then to a tale of adventuring which will reveal to you the dangers of this lending of books but also of the manner in which gold is found in unsuspected places. Many years ago—l was young and trusting in those days!—there came into my hands what I verily believe to have been the first copy of ‘Once Abroad the Lugger’ sent to tfiese fair dominions of the south. ’Tis a book by A. 8. M. Hutchinson, who has since found fame and bullion through ‘lf Winter Comes’ and other dithyrambic novels. In those days he was unknown, even to those newspaper reviewers who obtain their opinions from the columns of other newspapers, and I remember well the circumstances under which this book came into my hands. . . . “It was a day in May. I was standing idly by the counter of a bookseller's shop —his business has since been absorbed by another, managed with far more commercial skill—when a grey-bearded pard strode in and threw a fawn.-covered book on the counter, the while he snorted vigorously: ‘How dare you send rubbish like that to me?’ Then he moved into the street again and the world swallowed him—his fate is of no consequence. I turned to the astonished attendant and remarked that the old gentleman seemed peevish. He agreed with me, and when I asked what might be the origin of this particular peev he whined away: 1 thought he’d like it —it’s by an English humorist, a new one.’ An English humorist! In those days the Americans told us they had cornered literary humour and we believed them. Here was revolt with gay banners and high courage? I took up the book and said that I was always ready to risk the unknown. The result? I got the book for nix—my bearded pard had paid for it! “Guffaws and side-splits! But it was a dandy! Somehow Hutchinson, with his broad farce, fresh and without effort, touched a whole collection of responsive chords in me and my chuckles made all the friends who came near me envious. It was so rich a find I could not keep it to myself and I lent it to a newspaper man. He promised to return it to me in a day or so. This much I will say for him: he was boisterously enthusiastic about it. Then I asked for it, but he had mislaid it and as the days went by my grief increased—the book was gone and no further copies came to the shops. A few round oaths of regret and the incident closed. . . . “Twelve months passed, as they do in the melodrama and the movies, and one day there passed me Hugh J. Ward carrying a book in his hand. I stared at it. It was? It most certainly was the lost ‘Once Aboard the Lugger’! I approached Mr Ward firmly. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘you have a book of mine there.’ He was affable but also firm. ‘I fear there has been some mistake,’ he began. I was not to be diverted. You are right,’ I answered. ‘I made the mistake of lending it tp So-an-so a year ago and he lent it to you. Inside the cover you will find a reference to the Benedictine monks and a monastery in Africa.’ I could see that I had hit the bull’s eye. ‘Bless me, you are right,’ he said. ‘I have wondered what that meant— I was going to ask So-an-so about it. And so it is to you that I am indebted for this wonderful story—which should make a fine stage farce—a story I have carried with me right round the world. Many thanks, sir, and let me say how pleased I am to restore this book to you.’ “I remember every word, Maurice. And there is a lesson in this for us. Do you notice that my irritation at the loss of my book was without justification? In truth I was deprived of it for many months, and thought it lost, but it came back to me after having brought joy to many people who were unknown to me. The lender of books must not always be sad if their return is delayed, for in the lending of books much good is done. . . ?’ Maurice looked up. “That’s all right, old man,” he remarked dryly, “I know you are going to apologise for keeping my Francis Thompson so long; but you have made the introduction very elaborate.” That poem had evidently been pirated by someone.