One more piece of advice.  Never (or “hardly ever”) buy an imperfect book.  It is a constant source of regret, an eyesore.  Here have I Lovelace’s “Lucasta,” 1649, without the engraving.  It is deplorable, but I never had a chance of another “Lucasta.”  This is not a case of invenies aliam.  However you fare, you will have the pleasure of Hope and the consolation of books quietem inveniendam in abditis recessibus et libellulis.

ROCHEFOUCAULD

To the Lady Violet Lebas.

Dear Lady Violet,—­I am not sure that I agree with you in your admiration of Rochefoucauld—­of the Reflexions, ou Sentences et Maximes Morales, I mean.  At least, I hardly agree when I have read many of them at a stretch.  It is not fair to read them in that way, of course, for there are more than five hundred pensees, and so much esprit becomes fatiguing.  I doubt if people study them much.  Five or six of them have become known even to writers in the newspapers, and we all copy them from each other.

Rochefoucauld says that a man may be too dull to be duped by a very clever person.  He himself was so clever that he was often duped, first by the general honest dulness of mankind, and then by his own acuteness.  He thought he saw more than he did see, and he said even more than he thought he saw.  If the true motive of all our actions is self-love, or vanity, no man is a better proof of the truth than the great maxim-maker.  His self-love took the shape of a brilliancy that is sometimes false.  He is tricked out in paste for diamonds, now and then, like a vain, provincial beauty at a ball.  “A clever man would frequently be much at a loss,” he says, “in stupid company.”  One has seen this embarrassment of a wit in a company of dullards.  It is Rochefoucauld’s own position in this world of men and women.  We are all, in the mass, dullards compared with his cleverness, and so he fails to understand us, is much at a loss among us.  “People only praise others in hopes of being praised in turn,” he says.  Mankind is not such a company of “log-rollers” as he avers.

There is more truth in a line of Tennyson’s about

      “The praise of those we love,
   Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise.”

I venture to think we need not be young to prefer to hear the praise of others rather than our own.  It is not embarrassing in the first place, as all praise of ourselves must be.  I doubt if any man or woman can flatter so discreetly as not to make us uncomfortable.  Besides, if our own performances be lauded, we are uneasy as to whether the honour is deserved.  An artist has usually his own doubts about his own doings, or rather he has his own certainties.  About our friends’ work we need have no such misgivings.  And our self-love is more delicately caressed by the success of our friends than by our own.  It is still self-love, but it is filtered, so to speak, through our affection for another.