To an Old Book, by Edgar Greenleaf Bradford

Old Book forlorn, compiled of ancient thought,
Now bought and sold, and once more sold and bought,
At last left stranded, where in time I spied,
Borne thither by an impecunious tide;
Well thumbed, stain-marked, but new and dear to me,
My purse and thy condition well agree.
I saw thee, yearned, then took thee to my arms,
For fellowship in misery has charms.
How long, I know not, thou hadst lain unscanned,
Thy mellow leaves untouched by loving hand--
For there thou was beneath a dusty heap,
Unknown. I raised thee, therefore let me reap
A harvest from thy treasures. Thee I found--
Yea, thee I'll cherish; though new friends abound,
I'll still preserve thee as the years go round.


This poem, from Howard S. Ruddy's compilation, Book Lovers Verse (Bowen-Merrill, Indianapolis, 1899), ties in with a couple of other posts I wrote recently about finding old books (Pillot's book mark and Poetry and poultry) and adequately describes that instant bonding a bibliophile can experience with the serendipitous discovery of an interesting old book.

So who was Edgar Greenleaf Bradford? A forgotten poet of the late nineteenth century, it appears. I can only find a few fragments about him, one of which was a review of his book, Search Lights and Guide Lines, circa 1890s. The reviewer's comments on Bradford's writing style are not flattering: "The author has rather a cumbersome vocabulary, and in his endeavors to be concise is sometimes obscure." So in this modern age of the google search, that's all that can be found about your writing? Sad. But his stuffy Victorian language still gave a good account of what it feels like to find an old book to your liking.

Burton's Anatomy, by Andrew Lang

A quaint old store of learning lies
      In Burton's pleasant pages,
With long quotations that comprise
      The wisdom of the ages.
'Tis strange to read him 'mid the crowd
      And modern hurly-burly;
The only author Johnson vowed
      Could make him get up early.

He lived a solitary life,
      He said "Mihi et musis,"
And put his rest from worldly strife
      To very pleasant uses.
He wrote the book wherein we find
      "All joys to this are folly,"
And naught to the reflective mind
      "So sweet as melancholy."

How strangely he dissects his theme
      In manner anatomic;
He's earnest at one time, you deem,
      Now decorously comic.
And most prodigiously he quotes,
      With learning quite gigantic,
Or telling classic anecdotes,
      Is pleasantly pedantic.

There's sterling sense in every page,
      And shrewdest cogitation;
Your keen attention he'll engage,
      And honest admiration.
If any man should vow to live
      With but one book, be certain
To him could friendly fortune give
      No better book than Burton.

He lies in rest at Christ's Church aisle,
      With all his erudition;
The hieroglyphics make one smile,
      That show his superstition.
His epitaph survives to-day,
      As one "Cui vitam dedit
Et mortem Melancholia,"
      So he himself has said it.

From Book Lovers' Verse, Being Songs of Books and Bookmen Compiled from English and American Authors, by Howard S. Ruddy; The Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, 1899.

The Burton in Burton's Anatomy is Robert Burton (1577–1640), an English scholar and vicar at Oxford University. His well-known "The Anatomy of Melancholy" is likely the inspiration for Andrew Lang's choice of title for his poem above.



Andrew Lang (1844-1912) was a prolific Scottish writer: Poet, novelist, literary critic, and contributor to anthropology. He is well-known for collecting folk tales and fairy tales.

The Solace of Books

What matter though my room be small,
      Though this red lamplight looks
On nothing but a papered wall
      And some few rows of books?

For in my hand I hold a key
      that opens golden doors;
At whose resistless sesame
      A tide of sunlight pours,

In from the basking lawn that lie
      Beyond the bound'ry wall;
Where summer broods eternally,
      Where the cicalas call.

There all the landscape softer is,
      There greener tendrils twine,
The bowers are roofed with clematis,
      With briany and vine.

There pears and golden apples hang,
      There falls the honey-dew,
And there the birds that monrning sang,
      When all the world was new.

Beneath the oaks Menalcas woos
      Arachnia's nut-brown eyes;
And still the laughing faun pursues,
      And still the wood-nymph flies.

And you may hear young Orpheus there
      Come singing through the wood,
Or catch the gleam of golden hair
      In Dian's solitude.

So when the world is all awry,
      When life is out of chime,
I take this key of gold and fly
      To that serener clime;

To thos fair sunlit lawns that lie
      Beyond the bound'ry wall,
Where summer broods eternally
      And youth is over all.

This poem, The Solace of Books, kicks off Howard S. Ruddy's, Book Lovers Verse and is attributed to The Spectator. So who, or what, was the Spectator?

I found this book recently and was very happy to discover between the covers a book lover's wide range of verse from both American and European writers from the past to present-day 1899. The compiler of this volume, Howard S. Ruddy, was the literary editor at the Rochester Herald.