Column

Authors and bibliomaniacs are many and their habits and idiosyncrasies are innumerable. Take the case of Samuel Johnson, the celebrated lexicographer, critic, poet and the maker of the celebrated dictionary which made an epoch in the history of the language.

Johnson had the tenderest of hearts, though he was rough and domineering in his mannerisms. James Boswell’s marvellous Life of Johnson has made Johnson’s bodily appearance, dress and manners more familiar to posterity than those of any other man — the large unwieldy form the face seemed with Scrofula, the purblind eyes, the spasmodic movements, the sonorous voice, even the brown suit, metal buttons, the black worsted stockings and bushy wig, the conversation so full of matter, strength, sense, wit and prejudice, superior in force once sparkle to the sounding but offer wearisome periods of his written style.

When I was recently going through the essays by Austin Dobson’s 18th Century Studies I came across an essay on Johnson’s library. “These are my friends; these are my books, to which I have not yet bid farewell. This is how Dr Johnson wrote to his friend from Lincolnfield — speaks of the London that he loved so dearly. He loved his books dearly too.

Johnson’s love for his library and friends, though deep, can best be described to be the “rough and growling” type. For example, Johnson, while referring to his books, used to be so slovenly — he would set the leg of a chair on a volume to keep it open. What is certain is that he would not scruple to cut the leaves with a greasy knife and read while he was eating (one knows how he ate!); and it is probable that in his haste to tear out the heart of his subject and his frequent fit of absence or abstraction, he was not, in the least, the kind of person to whom one would have cared to confide the masterpieces.

Bosewell, Johnson’s devoted friend and disciple, once wrote: “Johnson has many good books, but they are all lying in confusion and dust.” Another writer reports that the books held by Samuel Johnson were ‘miserably ragged’ and ‘defaced’ and ‘chosen with so little regard to editors or their external appearance’ as showed they were intended for use and that he disdained the ostentation of learning.

In conclusion, I wish to share a little about a book collector called Heber. There have been many instances of the indulgence of book collecting to the extent which is termed book madness, but none more remarkable than that of Mr Heber. Half-brother to the celebrated Bishop of Calcutta of the same name, Mr Heber inherited sums in the purchase of books, and he received an education which enabled him to appreciate the books when purchased. He was not, therefore, strictly speaking, a bibliomaniac and nothing more, though his exertions in collecting amounted to eccentricities.

The writer is the proprietor of Select Book Shop on Brigade Road