1 THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING.pdf

Washington Irving The Art Of Book-Making

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING

WASHINGTON IRVING

If that severe doom of Synesius be true,--"It is a greater

offence to steal dead men's labor, than their clothes,"--what

shall become of most writers?

BURTON'S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and

how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature seems to

have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem with

voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the

journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is

continually finding out some very simple cause for some great

matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about

this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to

me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once

put an end to my astonishment.

I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of the

British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to

saunter about a museum in warm weather; sometimes lolling over

the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics

on an Egyptian mummy, and some times trying, with nearly equal

success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty

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Washington Irving The Art Of Book-Making

ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my

attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suite

of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would

open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed in black,

would steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing

any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about

this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to

attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown

regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with all that

facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the

adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber,

surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases,

and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of

black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were

placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which

sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently over dusty

volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious

notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this

mysterious apartment, excepting that you might hear the racing of

pens over sheets of paper, and occasionally the deep sigh of one

of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the page

of an old folio; doubtless arising from that hollowness and

flatulency incident to learned research.

Now and then one of these personages would write something on a

small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would

appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the

room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which

the other would fall, tooth and nail, with famished voracity. I

had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi,

deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene

reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in

an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, which opened

only once a year; where he made the spirits of the place bring

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Washington Irving The Art Of Book-Making

him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of

the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its

hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be

able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the

powers of Nature.

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of the

familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an

interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were

sufficient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious

personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally

authors, and were in the very act of manufacturing books. I was,

in fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library, an

immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of

which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read: one

of these sequestered pools of obsolete literature to which modern

authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or "pure

English, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of

thought.

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner,

and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one

lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most

worm-eaten volumes, printed in black letter. He was evidently

constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be

purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed

upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his

table--but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large

fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was

his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that

exhaustion of the stomach, produced by much pondering over dry

works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine.

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored clothes,

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Washington Irving The Art Of Book-Making

with a chirping gossiping expression of countenance, who had all

the appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller.

After considering him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent

getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the

trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He

made more stir and show of business than any of the others;

dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of

manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another,

"line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a

little." The contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous

as those of the witches' cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a

finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's sting,

with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's blood," to make the

medley "slab and good."

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be

implanted in authors for wise purposes? may it not be the way in

which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and

wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the

inevitable decay of the works in which they were first produced?

We see that Nature has wisely, though whimsically provided for

the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of

certain birds; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little

better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the

orchard and the corn-field, are, in fact, Nature's carriers to

disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the

beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are

caught up by these flights of predatory writers, and cast forth,

again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of

time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of

metempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was formerly

a ponderous history, revives in the shape of a romance--an old

legend changes into a modern play--and a sober philosophical

treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and

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Washington Irving The Art Of Book-Making

sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our American

woodlands; where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a

progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place; and we never see

the prostrate trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it gives

birth to a whole tribe of fungi.

Let us not then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which

ancient writers descend; they do but submit to the great law of

Nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall

be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their

element shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in

animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle

is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to

flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having

produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with

their fathers, that is to say, with the authors who preceded

them--and from whom they had stolen.

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had leaned my

head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to

the soporific emanations for these works; or to the profound

quiet of the room; or to the lassitude arising from much

wandering; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times

and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that

I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued

busy, and indeed the same scene continued before my mind's eye,

only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the

chamber was still decorated with the portraits of ancient

authors, but that the number was increased. The long tables had

disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged,

threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the great

repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they

seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to

dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique

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