"Could a poet but light a lamp at that glorious flame," remarked I,"he might then consume the midnight oil to some good purpose.""That is the very thing which modern poets have been too apt to do,or at least to attempt," answered a critic. "The chief benefit to beexpected from this conflagration of past literature undoubtedly is,that writers will henceforth be compelled to light their lamps atthe sun or stars.""If they can reach so high," said I. "But that task requires agiant, who may afterward distribute the light among inferior men. Itis not everyone that can steal the fire from heaven, likePrometheus; but when once he had done the deed, a thousand hearthswere kindled by it."It amazed me much to observe how indefinite was the proportionbetween the physical mass of any given author, and the property ofbrilliant and long-continued combustion. For instance, there was not aquarto volume of the last century- nor, indeed, of the present- thatcould compete, in that particular, with a child's littlegilt-covered book, containing Mother Goose's Melodies. The Life andDeath of Tom Thumb outlasted the biography of Marlborough. An epic-indeed, a dozen of them- was converted to white ashes, before thesingle sheet of an old ballad was half consumed. In more than onecase, too, when volumes of applauded verse proved incapable ofanything better than a stifling smoke, an unregarded ditty of somenameless bard- perchance in the corner of a newspaper- soared up amongthe stars, with a flame as brilliant as their own. Speaking of theproperties of flame, methought Shelley's poetry emitted a purerlight than almost any other productions of his day; contrastingbeautifully with the fitful and lurid gleams, and gushes of blackvapor, that flashed and eddied from the volumes of Lord Byron. Asfor Tom Moore, some of his songs diffused an odor like a burningpastille.
I felt particular interest in watching the combustion of Americanauthors, and scrupulously noted, by my watch, the precise number ofmoments that changed most of them from shabbily printed books toindistinguishable ashes. It would be invidious, however, if notperilous, to betray these awful secrets; so that I shall contentmyself with observing, that it was not invariably the writer mostfrequent in the public mouth that made the most splendid appearance inthe bonfire. I especially remember, that a great deal of excellentinflammability was exhibited in a thin volume of poems by ElleryChanning; although, to speak the truth, there were certain portionsthat hissed and spluttered in a very disagreeable fashion. A curiousphenomenon occurred in reference to several writers, native as well asforeign. Their books, though of highly respectable figure, insteadof bursting into a blaze, or even smouldering out their substance insmoke, suddenly melted away, in a manner that proved them to be ice.
If it be no lack of modesty to mention my own works, it must herebe confessed, that I looked for them with fatherly interest, but invain. Too probably, they were changed to vapor by the first actionof the heat; at best, I can only hope that, in their quiet way, theycontributed a glimmering spark or two to the splendor of the evening.
"Alas! and wo is me!" thus bemoaned himself a heavy-lookinggentleman in green spectacles. "The world is utterly ruined, and thereis nothing to live for any longer! The business of my life is snatchedfrom me. Not a volume to be had for love or money!""This," remarked the sedate observer beside me, "is a book-worm-one of those men who are born to gnaw dead thoughts. His clothes,you see, are covered with the dust of libraries. He has no inwardfountain of ideas; and, in good earnest, now that the old stock isabolished, I do not see what is to become of the poor fellow. Have youno word of comfort for him?""My dear sir," said I, to the desperate book-worm, "is not Naturebetter than a book? is not the human heart deeper than any system ofphilosophy? is not life replete with more instruction than pastobservers have found it possible to write down in maxims? Be of goodcheer! The great book of Time is still spread wide open before us;and, if we read it aright, it will be to us a volume of eternalTruth.""Oh, my books, my books, my precious, printed books!" reiteratedthe forlorn book-worm. "My only reality was a bound volume; and nowthey will not leave me even a shadowy pamphlet!"In fact, the last remnant of the literature of all the ages was nowdescending upon the blazing heap, in the shape of a cloud of pamphletsfrom the press of the New World. These, likewise, were consumed in thetwinkling of an eye, leaving the earth, for the first time since thedays of Cadmus, free from the plague of letters- an enviable field forthe authors of the next generation!
"Well! and does anything remain to be done?" inquired I, somewhatanxiously. "Unless we set fire to the earth itself, and then leapboldly off into infinite space, I know not that we can carry reform toany further point.""You are vastly mistaken, my good friend," said the observer.
"Believe me, the fire will not be allowed to settle down without theaddition of fuel that will startle many persons, who have lent awilling hand thus far."Nevertheless, there appeared to be a relaxation of effort, for alittle time, during which, probably, the leaders of the movementwere considering what should be done next. In the interval, aphilosopher threw his theory into the flames; a sacrifice which, bythose who knew how to estimate it, was pronounced the mostremarkable that had yet been made. The combustion, however, was byno means brilliant. Some indefatigable people, scorning to take amoment's ease, now employed themselves in collecting all thewithered leaves and fallen boughs of the forest, and thereby recruitedthe bonfire to a greater height than ever. But this was mere by-play.
"Here comes the fresh fuel that I spoke of," said my companion.
