The Castle
The room was filled with books arranged after whimsical associations. One set of cases, for instance, was called the Academy, and into these he only admitted the masters, following the guidance of his own eccentric judgment quite as much as he followed traditional estimate. Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton of course had undisputed possession of the department devoted to the “Kings of Epic,” as he styled them. Sophocles, Calderon, Corneille, and Shakespeare were all that he admitted to his list of “Kings of Tragedy.” Lope he rejected on literary grounds, and Goethe because he thought his moral tendency bad. He rejected Rabelais from his chief humorists, but accepted Cervantes, Le Sage, Molière, Swift, Hood, and the then fresh Pickwick of Boz. To these he added the Georgia Scenes of Mr. Longstreet, insisting that they were quite equal to Don Quixote. I can only stop to mention one other department in his Academy. One case was devoted to the “Best Stories,” and an admirable set they were! I wish that anything of mine were worthy to go into such company. His purity of feeling, almost ascetic, led him to reject Boccaccio, but he admitted Chaucer and some of Balzac’s, and Smollett, Goldsmith, and De Foe, and Walter Scott’s best, Irving’s Rip Van Winkle, Bernardin St. Pierre’s “Paul and Virginia,” and “Three Months under the Snow,” and Charles Lamb’s generally overlooked “Rosamund Gray.” There were eases for “Socrates and his Friends,” and for other classes. He had amused himself for years in deciding what books should be “crowned,” as he called it, and what not. And then he had another case, called “The Inferno.” I wish there was space to give a list of this department. Some were damned for dullness and some for coarseness. Miss Edgeworth’s Moral Tales, Darwin’s Botanic Garden, Rollin’s Ancient History, and a hideously illustrated copy of the Book of Martyrs were in the First-class, Don Juan and some French novels in the second. Tupper, Swinburne, and Walt Whitman he did not know.
In the corner next the donjon chimney was a little room with a small fireplace. Thus the hermit economized wood, for wood meant time, and time meant communion with his books. All of his domestic arrangements were carried on after this frugal fashion. In the little room was a writing-desk, covered with manuscripts and commonplace books.
“Well, my young friend, you’re thrice welcome,” said Andrew, who never dropped his book language. “What will you have? Will you resume your apprenticeship under Goethe, or shall we canter to Canterbury with Chaucer? Grand old Dan Chaucer! Or, shall we study magical philosophy with Roger Bacon—the Friar, the Admirable Doctor? or read good Sir Thomas More? What would Sir Thomas have said if he could have thought that he would be admired by two such people as you and I, in the woods of America, in the nineteenth century? But you do not want books! Ah! my brave friend, you are not well. Come into my cell and let us talk. What grieves you?”
And Andrew took him by the hand with the courtesy of a knight, with the tenderness of a woman, and with the air of an astrologer, and led him into the apartment of a monk.