Journeys to Bagdad | Page 8

its post, unhitched, like a family horse.
Here was quandary. I looked at Bell, but God forgive me, it was not
with the old trustfulness. He was on the top shelf but one, just in line
with the eyes, with gilt front winking in the firelight. I had set him thus
conspicuous with intention, because of his calfskin binding, quite old
and worn. A decayed Gibbon, I had thought, proclaims a grandfather. A
set of British Essayists, if disordered, takes you back of the black
walnut. To what length, then, of cultured ancestry must not this Bell
give evidence? (I had bought Bell, secondhand, on Farringdon Road,
London, from a cart, cheap, because a volume was missing.)
And now it seemed he was in some sort a villain. Although shocked, I
felt a secret joy. For somewhat too broadly had Bell smirked his
sanctity on me. When piety has been flaunting over you, you will steal
a slim occasion to proclaim a flaw. There is much human nature goes to
the stoning of a saint. In my ignorance I had set the rogue in the
company of the decorous Lorna Doone and the gentle ladies of Mrs.
Gaskell. It is not that I admire that chaste assembly. But it were
monstrous, even so, that I should neighbor them with this Bell, who, as
it appeared, was no better than a wolf in calf's clothing. It was Little
Red Riding Hood, you will recall, who mistook a wolf for her
grandmother. And with what grief do we look on her unhappy end!
My hand was now raised to drag Bell out by the heels, when I reflected
that what I had heard might be unfounded gossip, mere tattle, and that
before I turned against an old acquaintance, it were well to set an

inquiry afoot. First, however, I put him alongside Herbert Spencer. If it
were Bell's desire to play the grandmother to him, he would find him
tough meat.
Bell, John--I looked him up, first in volume Aus to Bis of the
encyclopedia, without finding him, and then successfully in the
National Biography--Bell, John, was a London bookseller. He was born
in 1745, published his edition of Shakespeare in 1774, and after this
assault, with the blood upon him, lived fifty years. This was reassuring.
It was then but a bit of wild oats, no hanging matter. I now went at the
question deeply. Yet I left him awhile with the indigestible Herbert.
It was in 1774 that Bell squirted his dirty ink. In The Gentleman's
Magazine for that year appear mutterings from America, since called
the Boston Tea Party. I set this down to bring the time more warmly to
your mind, for a date alone is but a blurred signpost unless you be a
scholar. And it is advisedly that I quote from this particular periodical,
because its old files can best put the past back upon its legs and set it
going. There is a kind of history-book that sorts the bones and ties them
all about with strings, that sets the past up and bids it walk. Yet it will
not wag a finger. Its knees will clap together, its chest fall in. Such
books are like the scribblings on a tombstone; the ghost below gives
not the slightest squeal of life. But slap it shut and read what was
written hastily at the time on the pages of The Gentleman's Magazine,
and it will be as though Gabriel had blown a practice toot among the
headstones. It is then that you will get the gibbering of returning life.
So it was in 1774 that Bell put out his version of Shakespeare. Bell was
not a man of the schools. Caring not a cracked tinkle for learning, it
was not to the folios, nor to any authority that he turned for the texts of
his plays. Instead, he went to Drury Lane and Covent Garden and took
their acting copies. These volumes, then, that catch my firelight hold
the very plays that the crowds of 1774 looked upon. Herein is the
Romeo, word for word, that Lydia Languish sniffled over. Herein is
Shylock, not yet with pathos on him, but a buffoon still, to draw the
gallery laugh.
A few nights later, having by grace of God escaped a dinner out, and

being of a consequence in a kindly mood, the scandal, too, having
somewhat abated in my memory, I took down a brown volume and ran
my fingers over its sides and along its yellow edges. Then I made
myself comfortable and opened it up.
There is nothing to-day more degenerate than our title-pages. It is in a
mean spirit that we pinch and starve them. I commend the older kind
wherein, generously ensampled, is the promise