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the love affairs of a bibliomaniac(藏书癖者的爱情)-第12部分

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to him that famous passage between Kit North and the Ettrick Shepherd; 

wherein the shepherd discourses boastfully of his prowess as a piscator of 

sawmon。 

     As the sun approached midheaven and its heat became insupportable; I 

raised my umbrella; to this sensible proceeding my bookseller objectedin 

fact;   there   was    hardly   any    reasonable     suggestion    I  had   to  make    for 

beguiling the time that my bookseller did not protest against it; and when 

finally I produced my ‘‘Newcastle Fisher's Garlands'' from my basket; and 

began to troll those spirited lines beginning 

              Away     wi'  carking    care   and   gloom             That     make    life's 

pathway       weedy     O!       A    cheerful    glass    makes     flowers    to   bloom 

And lightsome hours fly speedy O! 

     he gathered in his rod and tackle; and declared that it was no use trying 

to catch fish while Bedlam ran riot。 

     As for me; I had a delightful time of it; I caught no fish; to be sure: but 

what of that?      I COULD have caught fish had I so desired; but; as I have 

already intimated to you and as I have always maintained and always shall; 

the    mere     catching    of   fish   is  the    least  of   the   many      enjoyments 

comprehended in the broad; gracious art of angling。 

     Even   my   bookseller   was   compelled   to   admit   ultimately   that   I   was   a 

worthy disciple of Walton; for when we had returned to the club house and 

had partaken of our supper I regaled the company with many a                        cheery 

tale and merry song which I had gathered from my books。                   Indeed; before 

I   returned   to   the   city  I   was   elected   an   honorary   member   of   the   club   by 

acclamation   not   for   the   number   of   fish   I   had   expiscated   (for   I   did   not 

catch one); but for that mastery of the science of angling and the literature 

and the  traditions   and the  religion and   the philosophy  thereof  which;  by 

the grace of the companionship of books; I had achieved。 

     It is said that; with his feet over the fender; Macaulay could discourse 

learnedly   of   French   poetry;   art;   and   philosophy。     Yet   he   never   visited 

Paris    that  he   did  not   experience    the   most   exasperating     difficulties   in 

making himself understood by the French customs officers。 

     In   like  manner     I   am   a  fender…fisherman。     With     my   shins   toasting 



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before a roaring fire; and with Judge Methuen at my side; I love to exploit 

the joys and the glories of angling。          The Judge is ‘‘a brother of the angle;'' 

as all will allow who have heard him tell Father Prout's story of the bishop 

and the turbots or heard him sing 

        With   angle   rod   and   lightsome   heart;       Our   conscience   clear;   we 

gay depart        To pebbly brooks and purling streams;                 And ne'er a care 

to vex our dreams。 

       And   how   could     the   lot   of  the   fender…fisherman   be    happier?     No 

colds; quinsies or asthmas follow his incursions into the realms of fancy 

where in cool streams and peaceful lakes a legion of chubs and trouts and 

sawmon   await   him;   in   fancy   he   can   hie   away   to   the   far…off   Yalrow   and 

once   more   share   the   benefits   of   the   companionship   of   Kit   North;   the 

Shepherd;   and   that   noble   Edinburgh   band;   in   fancy   he   can   trudge   the 

banks of the Blackwater with the sage of Watergrasshill; in fancy he can 

hear the   music   of   the   Tyne   and   feel the   wind  sweep   cool   and   fresh  o'er 

Coquetdale;   in   fancy;   too;   he   knows   the   friendships   which   only   he   can 

knowthe friendships of the immortals whose spirits hover where human 

love and sympathy attract them。 

     How well I love ye; O my precious books my Prout; my Wilson; my 

Phillips;     my    Berners;     my    Doubleday;      my    Roxby;     my     Chatto;    my 

Thompson; my Crawhall!              For    ye are full of joyousness and cheer; and 

your songs uplift me and make me young and strong again。 

     And     thou;   homely     little  brown    thing   with   worn    leaves;   yet  more 

precious to me than all jewels of the earthcome; let me take thee from 

thy shelf and hold thee lovingly in my hands and press thee tenderly to this 

aged and slow…pulsing heart of mine!               Dost thou remember how I found 

thee   half   a   century   ago   all   tumbled   in   a   lot   of   paltry   trash? Did   I   not 

joyously  possess   thee   for   a   sixpence;   and   have   I   not   cherished   thee   full 

sweetly all these years?         My Walton; soon must we part forever; when I 

am gone say unto him who next shall have thee to his own that with his 

latest breath an old man blessed thee! 



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                                          VIII 



                         BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS 

     One of the most interesting spots in all London to me is Bunhill Fields 

cemetery; for herein are the graves of many whose memory I   revere。                     I 

had heard that Joseph Ritson was buried here; and while my sister; Miss 

Susan;  lingered   at the   grave of   her   favorite  poet;  I   took   occasion   to   spy 

around among the tombstones in the hope of discovering the last resting… 

place   of   the   curious   old   antiquary   whose   labors   in   the   field   of   balladry 

have placed me under so great a debt of gratitude to him。 

     But after I had searched in vain for somewhat more than an hour one 

of the keepers of the place told me that in compliance with Ritson's earnest 

desire    while   living;   that  antiquary's    grave   was   immediately      after  the 

interment of the body levelled down and left to              the care of nature; with 

no stone to designate its location。         So at the present time no one knows 

just where old Ritson's grave is; only that within that vast enclosure where 

so   many   thousand   souls   sleep   their   last   sleep   the   dust   of   the  famous 

ballad…lover lies fast asleep in the bosom of mother earth。 

     I have never been able to awaken in Miss Susan any enthusiasm for 

balladry。     My worthy sister is of a serious turn of mind; and I have heard 

her   say   a   thousand   times   that   convivial   songs   (which   is   her   name   for 

balladry) are inspirations; if not actually compositions;  of the devil。               In 

her   younger   days   Miss   Susan   performed   upon   the   melodeon   with   much 

discretion; and at one time I indulged the delusive hope that eventually she 

would not disdain to join me in the vocal performance of the best ditties of 

D'Urfey and his ilk。 

     If I do say it myself; I had a very pretty voice thirty or forty years ago; 

and even at the present time I can deliver the ballad of King Cophetua and 

the    beggar    maid   with   amazing     spirit  when    I  have   my    friend   Judge 

Methuen at my side and a bowl of steaming               punch between us。        But my 

education of Miss Susan ended without being finished。                  We two learned 

to perform the ballad of Sir Patrick Spens very acceptably; but Miss Susan 

abandoned       the  copartnership     when    I  insisted   that  we   proceed    to  the 

sprightly ditty beginning; 



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             Life's   short   hours    too  fast  are   hasting          Sweet      amours 

cannot be lasting。 

       My physician; Dr。 O'Rell; has often told me that he who has a well… 

assorted     ballad    library   should    never   be   lonely;   for   the  limitations    of 

balladly   are    so  broad    that  within    them   are   to  be   found    performances 

adapted   to   every   mood   to   which   humanity   is   liable。      And;   indeed;   my 

experience confirms the truth of my physician's theory。                   It were hard for 

me to tell what delight I have had upon a hot and gusty day in a perusal of 

the   history   of   Robin   Hood;   for   there   is   such   actuality   in   those   simple 

rhymes   as   to   dispel    the   troublesome   environments         of   the   present  and 

transport me to better times and pleasanter scenes。 

     Aha! how many times have I walked with                  brave Robin in Sherwood 

forest!     How     many     times   have    Little   J
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