Part 2

Ambrose Fermin Didot recommended binding the "Iliad" in red and the "Odyssey" in blue, for the Greek rhapsodists wore a scarlet cloak when they recited the former and a blue one when they recited the latter. The churchmen he would clothe in violet, cardinals in scarlet, philosophers in black.

I have imagined

HOW A BIBLIOMANIAC BINDS HIS BOOKS.

I'd like my favorite books to bind So that their outward dress To every bibliomaniac's mind Their contents should express.

Napoleon's life should glare in red, John Calvin's gloom in blue; Thus they would typify bloodshed And sour religion's hue.

The prize-ring record of the past Must be in blue and black; While any color that is fast Would do for Derby track.

The Popes in scarlet well may go; In jealous green, Othello; In gray, Old Age of Cicero, And London Cries in yellow.

My Walton should his gentle art In Salmon best express, And Penn and Fox the friendly heart In quiet drab confess.

Statistics of the lumber trade Should be embraced in boards, While muslin for the inspired Maid A fitting garb affords.

Intestine wars I'd clothe in vellum, While pig-skin Bacon grasps, And flat romances, such as "Pelham," Should stand in calf with clasps.

Blind-tooled should be blank verse and rhyme Of Homer and of Milton; But Newgate Calendar of Crime I'd lavishly dab gilt on.

The edges of a sculptor's life May fitly marbled be, But sprinkle not, for fear of strife, A Baptist history.

Crimea's warlike facts and dates Of fragrant Russia smell; The subjugated Barbary States In crushed Morocco dwell.

But oh! that one I hold so dear Should be arrayed so cheap Gives me a qualm; I sadly fear My Lamb must be half-sheep.

No doubt a Book-Worm so far gone as this could invent stricter analogies and make even the binder fit the book.

So we should have

THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S ASSIGNMENT OF BINDERS.

If I could bring the dead to day, I would your soul with wonder fill By pointing out a novel way For bibliopegistic skill.

My Walton, Trautz should take in hand, Or else I'd give him o'er to Hering; Matthews should make the Gospels stand A solemn warning to the erring.

The history of the Inquisition, With all its diabolic train Of cruelty and superstition, Should fitly be arrayed by Payne.

A book of dreams by Bedford clad, A Papal history by De Rome, Should make the sense of fitness glad In every bibliomaniac's home.

As our first mother's folly cost Her sex so dear, and makes men grieve, So Milton's plaint of Eden lost Would be appropriate to Eve.

Hayday would make "One Summer" be Doubly attractive to the view; While General Wolfe's biography Should be the work of Pasdeloup.

For lives of dwarfs, like Thomas Thumb, Petit's the man by nature made, And when Munchasen strikes us dumb It is by means of Gascon aid.

Thus would I the great binders blend In harmony with work before 'em, And so Riviere I would commend To Turner's "Liber Fluviorum."

After all, whether one can afford a three-hundred or a three-dollar binding, the gentle Elia has said the last word about fitness of bindings when he observed: "To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume; magnificence comes after. This, when it can be afforded, is not to be lavished on all kinds of books indiscriminately.

"Where we know that a book is at once both good and rare--where the individual is almost the species,

'We know not where is that Prometian torch That can its light relumine;'

"Such a book for instance as the 'Life of the Duke of Newcastle' by his Duchess--no casket is rich enough, no casing sufficiently durable, to honor and keep safe such a jewel.

"To view a well arranged assortment of block-headed encyclopoedias (Anglicana or Metropolitanas), set out in an array of Russia and Morocco, when a tithe of that good leather would comfortably reclothe my shivering folios, would renovate Parcelsus himself, and enable old Raymond Lully to look like himself again in the world. I never see these impostors but I long to strip them and warm my ragged veterans in their spoils."

There spoke the true Book-Worm. What a pity he could not have sold a part of his good sense and fine taste to some of the affluent collectors of this period!

Doubtless an experienced binder could give some amusing examples of mistakes in indorsing books with their names. One remains in my memory. A French binder, entrusted with a French translation of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," in two volumes, put "L'Oncle" on both, and numbered them "Tome 1," "Tome 2." Charles Cowden-Clarke tells of his having ordered Leigh Hunt's poems entitled "Foliage" to be bound in green, and how the book came home in blue. That would answer for the "blue grass" region of Kentucky. I have no patience with those disgusting realists who bind books in human or snake skin. In his charming book on the Law Reporters, Mr. Wallace says of Desaussures' South Carolina Reports: "When these volumes are found in their original binding most persons, I think, are struck with its peculiarity. The cause of it is, I believe, that it was done by negroes." What the "peculiarity" is he does not disclose. But book-binding seems to be an unwonted occupation for negro slaves. It was not often that they beat skins, although their own skins were frequently beaten.

VI.

PAPER.

It is a serious question whether the art of printing has been improved except in facility. Is not the first printed book still the finest ever printed? But in one point I am certain that the moderns have fallen away, at least in the production of cheap books, and that is in the quality and finish of the paper. Not to speak of injurious devices to make the book heavy, the custom of calendering the paper, or making it smooth and shiny, practised by some important publishers, is bad for the eyes, and the result is not pleasant to look at. It is like the glare of the glass over the framed print. It is said to be necessary to the production of the modern "process" pictures. Even here however there is a just mean, for some of the modern paper is absurdly rough, and very difficult for a good impression of the types. Modern paper however has one advantage: Mr. Blades, in his pleasant "Enemies of Books," tells us "that the worm will not touch it," it is so adulterated. One hint I would give the publishers--allow us a few more fly leaves, so that we may paste in newspaper cuttings, and make memoranda and suggestions.

It is predicted by some that our nineteenth century books--at least those of the last third--will not last; that the paper and ink are far inferior to those of preceding centuries, and that the destroying tooth of time will work havoc with them. No doubt the modern paper and the modern ink are inferior to those of the earlier ages of printing, when making a book was a fine art and a work of conscience, but whether the modern productions of the press will ultimately fade and crumble is a question to be determined only by a considerable lapse of time, which probably no one living will be qualified to pronounce upon. Take for what they are worth my sentiments respecting

THE FAILING BOOKS.

They say our books will disappear, That ink will fade and paper rot-- I sha'n't be here, So I don't care a jot.

The best of them I know by heart, As for the rest they make me tired; The viler part May well be fired.

Oh, what a hypocritic show Will be the bibliomaniac's hoard! Cheat as hollow As a backgammon board.

Just think of Lamb without his stuffing, And the iconoclastic Howells, Who spite of puffing Is destitute of bowels.

'Twould make me laugh to see the stare Of mousing bibliomaniac fond At pages bare As Overreach's bond.

Those empty titles will displease The earnest student seeking knowledge,-- Barren degrees, Like these of Western College.

That common stuff, "Excelsior," In poetry so lacking, I care not for-- 'Tis only fit for packing.

It has occurred to me that publishers might appeal to bibliomaniacal tastes by paying a little more attention to their paper, and I have thrown a few suggestions on this point into rhyme, so that they may be readily committed to memory:

SUITING PAPER TO SUBJECT.

Printers the paper should adapt Unto the subject of the book, Thus making buyers wonder-rapt Before they at the contents look.

Thus Beerbohm's learned book on Eggs On a laid paper he should print, But Motley's "Dutch Republic" begs Rice paper should its matter hint.

That curious problem of what Man Inhabited the Iron Mask Than Whatman paper never can A more suggestive medium ask.

The "Book of Dates," by Mr. Haydon, Should be on paper calendered; That Swift on Servants be arrayed on A hand-made paper is inferred.

Though angling-books have never been Accustomed widely to appear On fly-paper, 'twould be no sin To have them wormed from front to rear.

The good that authors thus may reap I'll not pursue to tedium, But hint, for books on raising sheep Buckram is just the medium.

VII.

WOMEN AS COLLECTORS.

Women collect all sorts of things except books. To them the book-sense seems to be denied, and it is difficult for them to appreciate its existence in men. To be sure, there have been a few celebrated book-collectors among the fair sex, but they have usually been rather reprehensible ladies, like Diane de Poictiers and Madame Pompadour. Probably Aspasia was a collector of MSS. Lady Jane Grey seems to have been a virtuous exception, and she was cruelly "cropped." I am told that there are a few women now-a-days who collect books, and only a few weeks ago a lady read, before a woman's club in Chicago, a paper on the Collection and Adornment of Books, for which occasion a fair member of the club solicited me to write her something appropriate to read, which of course I was glad to do. But this was in Chicago, where the women go in for culture. In thirty years' haunting of the book-shops and print-shops of New York, I have never seen a woman catching a cold in her head by turning over the large prints, nor soiling her dainty gloves by handling the dirty old books. Women have been depicted in literature in many different occupations, situations and pleasures, but in all the literature that I have read I can recall only one instance in which she is imagined a book-buyer. This is in "The Sentimental Journey," and in celebrating the unique instance let me rise to a nobler strain and sing a song of

THE SENTIMENTAL CHAMBERMAID.

When you're in Paris, do not fail To seek the Quai de Conti, Where in the roguish Parson's tale, Upon the river front he Bespoke the pretty chambermaid Too innocent to be afraid.

On this book-seller's mouldy stall, Crammed full of volumes musty, I made a bibliophilic call And saw, in garments rusty, The ancient vender, queer to view, In breeches, buckles, and a queue.

And while to find that famous book, "Les Egaremens du Coeur," I dilligently undertook, I suddenly met her; She held a small green satin purse, And spite of Time looked none the worse.

I told her she was known to Fame Through ministerial Mentor, And though I had not heard her name, That this should not prevent her From listening to the homage due To one to Sentiment so true.

She blushed; I bowed in courtly fashion; In pockets of my trousers Then sought a crown to vouch my passion, Without intent to rouse hers; But I had left my purse 'twould seem-- And then I woke--'twas but a dream!

The heart will wander, never doubt, Though waking faith it keep; That is exceptionally stout Which strays but in its sleep; And hearts must always turn to her Who loved, "Les Egaremens du Coeur."

M. Uzanne, in "The Book-Hunter in Paris," avers that "the woman of fashion never goes book-hunting," and he puts the aphorism in italics. He also says that the occasional woman at the book-stalls, "if by chance she wants a book, tries to bargain for it as if it were a lobster or a fowl." Also that the book-stall keepers are always watchful of the woman with an ulster, a water-proof, or a muff. These garments are not always impervious to books, it seems.

The imitative efforts of women at "extra-illustrating" are usually limited to buying a set of photographs at Rome and sticking them into the cracks of "The Marble Faun," and giving it away to a friend as a marked favor. Poor Hawthorne! he would wriggle in his grave if he could see his fair admirers doing this. Mr. Blades certainly ought to have included women among the enemies of books. They generally regard the husband's or father's expenditure on books as so much spoil of their gowns and jewels. We book-men are up to all the tricks of getting the books into the house without their knowing it. What joy and glee when we successfully smuggle in a parcel from the express, right under our wife's nose, while she is busy talking scandal to another woman in the drawing-room! The good creatures make us positively dishonest and endanger our eternal welfare. How we "hustle around" in their absence, when the embargo is temporarily raised; and when the new purchases are detected, how we pretend that they are old, and wonder that they have not seen them before, and rattle away in a fevered, embarrassed manner about the scarcity and value of the surreptitious purchases, and how meanly conscious we are all the time that the pretense is unavailing and the fair despots see right through us. God has given them an instinct that is more than a match for our acknowledged superior intellect. And the good wife smiles quietly but satirically, and says, in the form in that case made and provided, "My dear, you'll certainly ruin yourself buying books!" with a sigh that agitates a very costly diamond necklace reposing on her shapely bosom; or she archly shakes at us a warning finger all aglow with ruby and sapphire, which she has bought on installments out of the house allowance. Fortunate for us if the library is not condemned to be cleaned twice a year. These beloved objects ought to deny themselves a ring, or a horse, or a gown, or a ball now and then, to atone for their mankind's debauchery in books; but do they? They ought to encourage the Bibliomania, for it keeps their husbands out of mischief, away from "that horrid club," and safe at home of evenings. The Book-Worm is always a blameless being. He never has to hie to Canada as a refuge. He is "absolutely pure," like all the baking powders.

The gentle Addison, in "The Spectator," thus described a woman's library: "The very sound of a lady's library gave me a great curiosity to see it; and as it was some time before the lady came to me, I had an opportunity of turning over a great many of her books, which were ranged together in a very beautiful order. At the end of the folios (which were finely bound and gilt) were great jars of china placed one above another in a very noble piece of architecture. The quartos were separated from the octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which rose in a delightful pyramid. The octavos were bounded by tea-dishes of all shapes, colors, and sizes, which were so disposed on a wooden frame that they looked like one continued pillar indented with the finest strokes of sculpture, and stained with the greatest variety of dyes. That part of the library which was designed for the reception of plays and pamphlets, and other loose papers, was inclosed in a kind of square, consisting of one of the prettiest grotesque works that I ever saw, and made up of scaramouches, lions, mandarins, monkeys, trees, shells, and a thousand other odd figures in china ware. In the midst of the room was a little Japan table with a quire of gilt paper upon it, and on the paper a silver snuff-box made in shape of a little book. I found there were several other counterfeit books upon the upper shelves, which were carved in wood, and served only to fill up the number, like fagots in the muster of a regiment. I was wonderfully pleased with such a mixed kind of furniture as seemed very suitable both to the lady and the scholar, and did not know at first whether I should fancy myself in a grotto or in a library".

If so great a favorite with the fair sex could say such satirical things of them, I may be permitted to have my own idea of

A WOMAN'S IDEA OF A LIBRARY.

I do not care so much for books, But Libraries are all the style, With fine "editions de luxe" One's formal callers to beguile;

With neat dwarf cases round the walls, And china teapots on the top, The empty shelves concealed by falls Of India silk that graceful drop.

A few rare etchings greet the view, Like "Harmony" and "Harvest Moon;" An artist's proof on satin too By what's-his-name is quite a boon.

My print called "Jupiter and Jo" Is very rarely seen, but then Another copy I can show Inscribed with "Jupiter and 10."

A fisher boy in marble stoops On pedestal in window placed, And one of Rogers' lovely groups Is through the long lace curtains traced.

And then I make a painting lean Upon a white and gilded easel, Illustrating that famous scene Of Joseph Andrews and Lady Teazle.

Of course my shelves the works reveal Of Plutarch, Rollin, and of Tupper, While Bowdler's Shakespeare and "Lucille" Quite soothe one's spirits after supper.

And when I visited dear Rome I bought a lot of photographs, And had them mounted here at home, And though my dreadful husband laughs,

I've put them in "The Marble Faun," And envious women vainly seek At Scribner's shop, from early dawn, To find a volume so unique.

And monthly here, in deep surmise, Minerva's bust above us frowning, A club of women analyze The works of Ibsen and of Browning.

In the charming romance, "Realmah," the noble African prince prescribes monogamy to his subjects, but he allows himself three wives; one is a State wife, to sit by his side on the throne, help him receive embassadors, and preside at court dinners; another a household wife, to rule the kitchen and the homely affairs of the palace; the third is a love-wife, to be cherished in his heart and bear him children. Why would it not be fair to the Book-Worm to concede him a Book-wife, who should understand and sympathize with him in his eccentricity, and who should care more for rare and beautiful books than for diamonds, laces, Easter bonnets and ten-button gloves?

In regard to women's book-clubs, a recent writer, Mr. Edward Sanford Martin, in "Windfalls of Observation," observes: "If a man wants to read a book he buys it, and if he likes it he buys six more copies and gives (not all the same day, of course) to six women whose intelligence he respects. But if a club of fifteen girls determine to read a book, do they buy fifteen copies? No. Do they buy five copies? No. Do they buy--No, they don't buy at all; they borrow a copy. It doesn't lie in womankind to spend money for books unless they are meant to be a gift for some man." Mr. Martin is a little too hard here, for I have been told of such clubs which sometimes bought one copy. To be sure they always bully the bookseller into letting them have it at cost on account of the probable benefit to his trade. But it is true that no normally organized woman will forego a dollar's worth of ribbon or gloves for a dollar's worth of book. I have sometimes read aloud to a number of women while they were sewing, but I do it no more, for just as I got to a point where you ought to be able to hear a pin drop, I always have heard some woman whisper, "Lend me your eighty cotton." A story was told me of the first meeting of a Browning Club in a large city in Ohio. My informant was a young lady from the East, who was present, and my readers can safely rely on the correctness of the narration. The club was composed of young ladies from sixteen to twenty-five years of age, all of the "first families." It was thought best to take an easy poem for the first meeting, and so one of them read aloud, "The Last Ride Together". After the reading there was a moment's silence, and then one observed that she would like to know whether they took that ride on horseback or in a "buggy." Another silence, and then an artless young bud ventured the remark that she thought it must have been in a buggy, because if it was on horseback he could not have got his arm around her. I once thought of sending this anecdote to Mr. Browning, but was warned that he was destitute of the sense of humor, especially at his own expense, and so desisted.

"Ah, that our wives could only see How well the money is invested In these old books, which seem to be By them, alas! so much detested."

But the wives are not always unwise in their opposition to their husband's book-buying. There is nothing more pitiful than to see the widow of a poor clergyman or lawyer trying to sell his library, and to witness her disappointment at the shrinkage of value which she had been taught and accustomed to regard as so great. A woman who has a true and wise sympathy with her husband's book-buying is an adored object. I recollect one such, who at her own suggestion gave up the largest and best room in her house to her husband's books, and received her callers and guests in a smaller one--she also received her husband's blessing.

VIII.

THE ILLUSTRATOR.

The popular notion of the Illustrator, as the term is used by the Book-Worm, is that he buys many valuable books containing pictures and spoils them by tearing the pictures out, and from them constructs another valuable book with pictures. We smile to read this in the newspapers. If it were strictly true it would be a very reprehensible practice. But generally the books compelled to surrender their prints to the Illustrator are good for nothing else. To lament over them is as foolish as to grieve over the grape-skins out of which has been pressed the luscious Johannisburger, or to mourn over the unsightly holes which the porcelain-potter has made in the clay-bank. Even among Book-Worms the Illustrator, or the "Grangerite," as the term of reproach is, has come in for many hard knocks in recent years. John Hill Burton set the tune by his merry satire in "The Book-Hunter," in which he portrays the Grangerite illustrating the pious Watts' stanzas, beginning, "How doth the little busy bee." In his first edition Mr. Burton mentioned among "great writers on bees," whose portrait would be desirable, Aristarchus, meaning probably Aristomachus. This mistake is not corrected in the last edition, but the name is omitted altogether.

Mr. Beverly Chew "drops into poetry" on the subject, and thus apostrophises the Grangerite:

"Ah, ruthless wight, Think of the books you've turned to waste, With patient skill."

Mr. Henri Pere Du Bois thus describes the ordinary result: "Of one hundred books extended by the insertion of prints which were not made for them, ninety-nine are ruined; the hundredth book is no longer a book; it is a museum. An imperfect book, built with the spoils of a thousand books; a crazy quilt made of patches out of gowns of queens and scullions." So Burton compares the Grangerite to Genghis Kahn. Mr. Lang declares the Grangerites are "book ghouls, and brood, like the obscene demons of Arabian superstition, over the fragments of the mighty dead." I would like to show Mr. Lang how I have treated his "Letters to Dead Authors" and "Old Friends" by illustration. He would probably feel, with AEsop's lawyer, that "circumstances alter cases," although he says "no book deserves the honor".