textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/IRVING/irving-mutability-582.txt

                                    1819-20

                                THE SKETCH BOOK

                          THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE

                        A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

                              by Washington Irving

           I know that all beneath the moon decays,

         And what by mortals in this world is brought,

         In time's great period shall return to nought.

           I know that all the muse's heavenly lays,

         With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,

         As idle sounds, of few or none are sought,

           That there is nothing lighter than mere praise.

                                     DRUMMOND  OF  HAWTHORNDEN.

  THERE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we naturally
steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt, where we
may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undisturbed. In
such a mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of
Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which one
is apt to dignify with the name of reflection; when suddenly an
interruption of madcap boys from Westminster school, playing at
foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making
the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I
sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper
into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers
for admission to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich
with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a
gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which
doomsday book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on
the left. To this the verger applied a key; it was double locked,
and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended
a dark narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered
the library.

  I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row
of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and which
apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient
picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung
over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the
books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of
old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In
the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three books
on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse.
The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It
was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from
the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts
of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the
sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs
of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and
fainter, and at length died away; the bell ceased to toll, and a
profound silence reigned through the dusky hall.

  I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a
venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was beguiled
by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, into a
train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their
mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never
disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind
of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously
entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion.

  How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside
with such indifference, cost some aching head! how many weary days!
how many sleepless nights! How have their authors buried themselves in
the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from the
face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature; and devoted
themselves to painful research and intense reflection! And all for
what? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf- to have the title of their
works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or
casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost, even to
remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere
temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has
just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment-
lingering transiently in echo- and then passing away like a thing that
was not!

  While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofitable
speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming with the
other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the
clasps; when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or
three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep; then a husky hem; and
at length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and
broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had
woven across it; and having probably contracted a cold from long
exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time,
however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly
fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather
quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in the present
day, would be deemed barbarous; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am
able, to render it in modern parlance.

  It began with railings about the neglect of the world- about merit
being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace
topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not
been opened for more than two centuries. That the dean only looked now
and then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or two,
trifled with them for a few moments, and then returned them to their
shelves. "What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I
began to perceive was somewhat choleric, "what a plague do they mean
by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by
a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be
looked at now and then by the dean? Books were written to give
pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the
dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year; or if he is
not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole
school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and then
have an airing."

  "Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not aware how much
better you are off than most books of your generation. By being stored
away in this ancient library, you are like the treasured remains of
those saints and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the adjoining
chapels; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left to the
ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to dust."

  "Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, "I
was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. I
was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great
contemporary works; but here have I been clasped up for more than
two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms
that are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had not
by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words
before I go to pieces."

  "My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the
circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no
more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in
years: very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence;
and those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in
old libraries; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems,
you might more properly and gratefully have compared to those
infirmaries attached to religious establishments, for the benefit of
the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employment,
they often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk
of your contemporaries as if in circulation- where do we meet with
their works? what do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln? No one
could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have
written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, at it were, a pyramid of
books to perpetuate his name: but, alas! the pyramid has long since
fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in various libraries,
where they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do
we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher,
theologian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he might shut
himself up and write for posterity; but posterity never inquires after
his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides a learned
history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world,
which the world has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of
Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical
composition? Of his three great heroic poems one is lost forever,
excepting a mere fragment; the others are known only to a few of the
curious in literature; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they
have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis,
the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? Of
William of Malmsbury;- of Simeon of Durham;- of Benedict of
Peterborough;- of John Hanvill of St. Albans;- of-"

  "Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, "how old do
you think me? You are talking of authors that lived long before my
time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner
expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir, was
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde.
I was written in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had
become fixed; and indeed I was considered a model of pure and
elegant English."

  * In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to
endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben
some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the
Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in hearying of
Frenchmen's Englishe.- Chaucer's Testament of Love.

  (I should observe that these remarks were couched in such
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in
rendering them into modern phraseology.)

  "I cry your mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it
matters little: almost all the writers of your time have likewise
passed into forgetfulness; and De Worde's publications are mere
literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability of
language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been
the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the
times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in
rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* Even now many talk of Spenser's 'well of
pure English undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well or
fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various
tongues, perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is
this which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the
reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be
committed to something more permanent and unchangeable than such a
medium, even thought must share the fate of every thing else, and fall
into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and
exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language in
which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to
the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back
and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favorites of
their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few short ages have covered
them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the
quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the
fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its day, and
held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow
antiquated and obsolete; until it shall become almost as
unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of
those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I
declare," added I, with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern
library, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and
binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep; like the good Xerxes,
when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military
array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them would
be in existence!"

  * Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by
diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of
Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate,
monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe,
notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until
the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum,
John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully
accomplished the ornature of the same, to their great praise and
immortal commendation."

  "Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how it is;
these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I
suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia,
Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the
fine-spun euphuisms of the 'unparalleled John Lyly.'"

  "There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom you
suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in
circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sydney's
Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his
admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate
images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever
mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly,
though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently
perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A
whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have
likewise gone down, with all their writings and their controversies.
Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until
they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some
industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen
for the gratification of the curious.

  * Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle witt, and
the golden-pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto the world
that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the
muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the
pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the
field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Practise in
esse, and the paragon of excellency in print.- Harvey Pierce's
Supererogation.

  "For my part," I continued, "I consider this mutability of language
a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world at large,
and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy, we daily behold
the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up,
flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading
into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case,
the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing.
The earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its
surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the works of
genius and learning decline, and make way for subsequent productions.
Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of
authors who have flourished their allotted time; otherwise, the
creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind
would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature.
Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive multiplication.
Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious
operation; they were written either on parchment, which was expensive,
so that one work was often erased to make way for another; or on
papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a
limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the
leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of
manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to
monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be
owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity;
that the fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern
genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the
press have put an end to all these restraints. They have made every
one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and
diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are
alarming. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent-
augmented into a river- expanded into a sea. A few centuries since,
five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but
what would you say to libraries such as actually exist, containing
three or four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at the same
time busy; and the press going on with fearfully increasing
activity, to double and quadruple the number? Unless some unforseen
mortality should break out among the progeny of the muse, now that she
has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere
fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much.
It increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of
those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. All
possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of
critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain; let criticism do
what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world
will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the
employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of
passable information, at the present day, reads scarcely any thing but
reviews; and before long a man of erudition will be little better than
a mere walking catalogue.

  "My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily in
my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are rather
given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was making
some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was
considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at him,
for he was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and
nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for
deer-stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk
into oblivion."

  "On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that the
literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the
ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now and
then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because
they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human
nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the
banks of a stream; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating
through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of
the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away by
the ever-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, and,
perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with
Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the encroachments of time,
retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and
giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from having
flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually
assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion
of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost
bury the noble plant that upholds them."

  Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until
at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that had well
nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. "Mighty well!"
cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well! and so you
would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated
by a vagabond deer-stealer! by a man without learning; by a poet,
forsooth- a poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter.

  I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which,
however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less
polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point.

  "Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all writers he has the
best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, but he
writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He is
the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are always the
same, and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and
unwieldy; their pages are crowded with commonplaces, and their
thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every thing
is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in
the choicest language. He illustrates them by every thing that he sees
most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human
life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore,
contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age
in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small
compass the wealth of the language- its family jewels, which are
thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may
occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed,
as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of
the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of
literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish
legends and academical controversies! what bogs of theological
speculations! what dreary wastes of metaphysics! Here and there only
do we behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on
their widely-separate heights, to transmit the pure light of
poetical intelligence from age to age."*

           * Thorow earth and waters deepe,

                 The pen by skill doth passe:

             And featly nyps the worldes abuse,

                 And shoes us in a glasse,

             The vertu and the vice

                 Of every wight alyve;

             The honey comb that bee doth make

                 Is not so sweet in hyve,

             As are the golden leves

                 That drop from poet's head!

             Which doth surmount our common talke

                 As farre as dross doth lead.

                                                Churchyard.

  I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of
the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my
head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to
close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto,
but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed: and
it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to
the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it
into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all this
rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of
those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this
moment been able to discover.

                        THE END
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