I am never quite sure why some books I are considered so eminently suitable for holiday reading, but each year at about this time lists of them appear in the Sunday newspapers and in the magazines. Their titles have a drowsy, deck-chair sound, and their contents, I imagine, conform to a definition once given by Aldous Huxley to this kind of book. It should be, he said, one you can open anywhere and be sure of finding something interesting which does not require continuous or prolonged mental effort. Holiday reading for me, however, is nothing like the kind recommended by the literary critics, or even Mr. Huxley. For years now it has been queer, fascinating stuff, as you shall see. In the family circle I am looked upon as a mild bibliomaniac, chiefly because I buy books with the money I might be spending on cigarettes or the cinema. When quotations come up in the conversation, or some doubtful literary reference is made, faces turn expectantly towards me, often with most disappointing results. 'She's a great reader,' they say, in tones that suggest this is an eccentricity, and go on to mention a youthful occasion when I sold a drop pendant in order to buy a complete set of Shakespeare in limp leather. The pendant was atrocious, but nothing is said about this.
Reading for pleasure, profit and information is part of my job. I belong to two libraries, subscribe to a reprint society, and buy as many books as I can manage. This takes care of what children might call 'reading properly.' But all bibliomaniacs, even the mild cases, have their special madness. When I go away on a holiday for a fortnight or less, I read what I find in the places where I stay. In the spare rooms of dear friends and comparative strangers, in shelves of small hotel lounges—you never find anything exciting or strange in hotels that get starred in the guide books!—in boarding-house drawing-rooms and, best of all, in 'rooms,' I have found reading that is almost a holiday in itself. My searches for 'something to read,' as distinct from mere books, have led me up wild, improbable and enchanting paths, and along some so gloriously dull that even in memory they can still fascinate.
It all began in a Donegal cottage twenty-years ago. I was sent there to recover from an illness and from too much study. Part of my prescription was to lie still and drink in the winey mountain air for three weeks. A large box of books was sent well in advance because, although I was forbidden to study, I was allowed to read if it kept me in one place. The cottage belonged to Bridie O'Hare, the widowed mother of our housemaid, Teresa. She was seventy-two, a famous local story-teller, and a master baker of griddle bread. Her nearest neighbour lived three miles down the mountain valley.
The box of books was not there when I arrived, and on the first evening I inquired anxiously for something to read. 'I have a fine book,' Bridie said, with great pride, and took down a huge volume from a curtained shelf above the fireplace. It was not the Bible, as you might suppose, but a Sears Roebuck catalogue, sent to her many years before by her emigrant son from America. `What any man can write, surely I can read," said dear, good Charles Lamb, but he made some exceptions. Among them he included court calendars, directories, pocket books; draught boards, bound and lettered on the back; scientific treatises, almanacs, statutes at large—all those volumes which 'no gentleman's library should be without.' I am sure he would never have included a Sears Roebuck catalogue on his list.
In the weeks that followed I read the catalogue, issued by that famous American mail-order firm, from cover to cover. My own box of books disappeared into the maze of the Irish railway system and was not found until three months later. During the long, soft days I progressed from reapers and binders, dairy equipment and domestic utensils, through medical supplies and seeds to the latest—twenty years before—in ladies' underwear. I made innumerable calculations on how much it would need to furnish a house or stock the perfect medicine chest, and took notes which later earned me good money. I have them still.
In the evenings I sat in the chimney corner and talked to Bridie about the book. She could not read a single word of it, but from the old, worn catalogue she had made a picture of American life, as complete and a lot more accurate, perhaps, than any she could have made from more conventional sources.
`It's a wonderful place,' she said. I asked her if her son had ever come back to the old country. 'No,' she said humbly. 'Sure, why would a fine boy like that come back from a place where he gets his fill three times in the day and a grand house with taps in it ?'
Some authors seem destined to linger in hotels, boarding-houses and rooms. The quality of the work, its subject, the fame of the writer, and even the price of the book, does not seem to affect this. I have read, though not recently, all the works of O Henry in hotel sitting-rooms, but in twenty years I have never come across a single copy of Katherine Mansfield. Among the classics, people leave behind Scott and George Eliot, but never Trollope or Dickens—or at least that has been my experience. There was a time when I expected to find some work by Bishop Heber in any modest lodging. He must have been the favourite prize-book writer of his day, for I came across him everywhere, always in flawless condition and with “For general progress” written on the flyleaf. Another dead certainty was Windsor Castle, fat, lush, good reading for several days.
PERHAPS because they have a peculiar fascination for me, old books come first on my long list of holiday reading over the years. You might belong to the London Library for ever and never come across Maria Monk, with ghoulish illustrations; a deliciously prim tale called a Kiss for a Blow; and the Imperial-Royal Dream Book, Fortune Teller and Book of Fate Combined. Those were my weekend portion as lately as 1940 at a Welsh inn.
A Devon farmhouse produced Meriel's Pilgrimage in twelve parts, and The Art of Tormenting, or Illustrations of the most approved Methods of excelling in this valuable acquisition comprised in Forty Four subjects. I fell in love with Meriel so deeply that I copied her twelve parts out and learned most of them by heart. For years 'Tell .us about Meriel' was a favourite bedtime request in our house. Who cares if the summers' evening is set or drawing in when bookcase has yielded an Esquimeaux Vocabulary, for the use of Travellers to the Arctic Regions! In hotels and lodgings which cater mainly for men—fishing and golfing hotels for example—you can be sure of a fine selection of books on dog breaking, salmon fishing, hurricane guides, every kind of extremely ancient sporting annual. Under any roof that shelters me and a good encyclopaedia, there can never be a dull moment, but if I may choose, it should be Britannica, and the twelfth edition.
If I must give a prize to one find in my long and fruitful search for holiday reading, it goes without hesitation to four copies of Thomas Hoods' The Anniversary of the Literary Fun, published each year between 1830 and 1833. I commend it to all those who make collections of story, feature, and verse, either in fine binding or paper covers. I doted so much on these books that my landlord said I could have them for half a crown. Nobody ever got a better bargain. There is an article in one called `The Wooden Leg,' which is a model. It begins, 'Ever since the year 1799, I have had, in the, coachman phrase, an off leg and a near one; the right limb, thanks to a twelve pounder, lies somewhere at Seringapatam, its twin brother being at this moment under a table in Brighton.'
Another particular joy is a Letter from a settler for Life in Van Dietnan' Land, written by Susan Gale to her friend Mary, a housemaid at 45 Mount Street, Grosvenor Square. `Little did I think,' writes Susan, 'when I advertised in the Tims for annother Plaice of taking wan in Vandemins' land. But so it his and hear I am amung Kangerooses and Savidges and other Forriners. But goverment offering to Yung Wimmin to Find them in Vittles and Drink and Close and Husbands was turms not to be sneazed at, so I rit to the Outlandish Seckertary and he was so Kind as Grant.' I can never find this kind of literary fun in modern holiday reading. and from all appearances neither can any of the guests who so often occupy my spare room.
Reading for pleasure, profit and information is part of my job. I belong to two libraries, subscribe to a reprint society, and buy as many books as I can manage. This takes care of what children might call 'reading properly.' But all bibliomaniacs, even the mild cases, have their special madness. When I go away on a holiday for a fortnight or less, I read what I find in the places where I stay. In the spare rooms of dear friends and comparative strangers, in shelves of small hotel lounges—you never find anything exciting or strange in hotels that get starred in the guide books!—in boarding-house drawing-rooms and, best of all, in 'rooms,' I have found reading that is almost a holiday in itself. My searches for 'something to read,' as distinct from mere books, have led me up wild, improbable and enchanting paths, and along some so gloriously dull that even in memory they can still fascinate.
It all began in a Donegal cottage twenty-years ago. I was sent there to recover from an illness and from too much study. Part of my prescription was to lie still and drink in the winey mountain air for three weeks. A large box of books was sent well in advance because, although I was forbidden to study, I was allowed to read if it kept me in one place. The cottage belonged to Bridie O'Hare, the widowed mother of our housemaid, Teresa. She was seventy-two, a famous local story-teller, and a master baker of griddle bread. Her nearest neighbour lived three miles down the mountain valley.
The box of books was not there when I arrived, and on the first evening I inquired anxiously for something to read. 'I have a fine book,' Bridie said, with great pride, and took down a huge volume from a curtained shelf above the fireplace. It was not the Bible, as you might suppose, but a Sears Roebuck catalogue, sent to her many years before by her emigrant son from America. `What any man can write, surely I can read," said dear, good Charles Lamb, but he made some exceptions. Among them he included court calendars, directories, pocket books; draught boards, bound and lettered on the back; scientific treatises, almanacs, statutes at large—all those volumes which 'no gentleman's library should be without.' I am sure he would never have included a Sears Roebuck catalogue on his list.
In the weeks that followed I read the catalogue, issued by that famous American mail-order firm, from cover to cover. My own box of books disappeared into the maze of the Irish railway system and was not found until three months later. During the long, soft days I progressed from reapers and binders, dairy equipment and domestic utensils, through medical supplies and seeds to the latest—twenty years before—in ladies' underwear. I made innumerable calculations on how much it would need to furnish a house or stock the perfect medicine chest, and took notes which later earned me good money. I have them still.
In the evenings I sat in the chimney corner and talked to Bridie about the book. She could not read a single word of it, but from the old, worn catalogue she had made a picture of American life, as complete and a lot more accurate, perhaps, than any she could have made from more conventional sources.
`It's a wonderful place,' she said. I asked her if her son had ever come back to the old country. 'No,' she said humbly. 'Sure, why would a fine boy like that come back from a place where he gets his fill three times in the day and a grand house with taps in it ?'
Some authors seem destined to linger in hotels, boarding-houses and rooms. The quality of the work, its subject, the fame of the writer, and even the price of the book, does not seem to affect this. I have read, though not recently, all the works of O Henry in hotel sitting-rooms, but in twenty years I have never come across a single copy of Katherine Mansfield. Among the classics, people leave behind Scott and George Eliot, but never Trollope or Dickens—or at least that has been my experience. There was a time when I expected to find some work by Bishop Heber in any modest lodging. He must have been the favourite prize-book writer of his day, for I came across him everywhere, always in flawless condition and with “For general progress” written on the flyleaf. Another dead certainty was Windsor Castle, fat, lush, good reading for several days.
PERHAPS because they have a peculiar fascination for me, old books come first on my long list of holiday reading over the years. You might belong to the London Library for ever and never come across Maria Monk, with ghoulish illustrations; a deliciously prim tale called a Kiss for a Blow; and the Imperial-Royal Dream Book, Fortune Teller and Book of Fate Combined. Those were my weekend portion as lately as 1940 at a Welsh inn.
A Devon farmhouse produced Meriel's Pilgrimage in twelve parts, and The Art of Tormenting, or Illustrations of the most approved Methods of excelling in this valuable acquisition comprised in Forty Four subjects. I fell in love with Meriel so deeply that I copied her twelve parts out and learned most of them by heart. For years 'Tell .us about Meriel' was a favourite bedtime request in our house. Who cares if the summers' evening is set or drawing in when bookcase has yielded an Esquimeaux Vocabulary, for the use of Travellers to the Arctic Regions! In hotels and lodgings which cater mainly for men—fishing and golfing hotels for example—you can be sure of a fine selection of books on dog breaking, salmon fishing, hurricane guides, every kind of extremely ancient sporting annual. Under any roof that shelters me and a good encyclopaedia, there can never be a dull moment, but if I may choose, it should be Britannica, and the twelfth edition.
If I must give a prize to one find in my long and fruitful search for holiday reading, it goes without hesitation to four copies of Thomas Hoods' The Anniversary of the Literary Fun, published each year between 1830 and 1833. I commend it to all those who make collections of story, feature, and verse, either in fine binding or paper covers. I doted so much on these books that my landlord said I could have them for half a crown. Nobody ever got a better bargain. There is an article in one called `The Wooden Leg,' which is a model. It begins, 'Ever since the year 1799, I have had, in the, coachman phrase, an off leg and a near one; the right limb, thanks to a twelve pounder, lies somewhere at Seringapatam, its twin brother being at this moment under a table in Brighton.'
Another particular joy is a Letter from a settler for Life in Van Dietnan' Land, written by Susan Gale to her friend Mary, a housemaid at 45 Mount Street, Grosvenor Square. `Little did I think,' writes Susan, 'when I advertised in the Tims for annother Plaice of taking wan in Vandemins' land. But so it his and hear I am amung Kangerooses and Savidges and other Forriners. But goverment offering to Yung Wimmin to Find them in Vittles and Drink and Close and Husbands was turms not to be sneazed at, so I rit to the Outlandish Seckertary and he was so Kind as Grant.' I can never find this kind of literary fun in modern holiday reading. and from all appearances neither can any of the guests who so often occupy my spare room.
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