THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING
by Washington Irving
"If that severe doom of Synesius be true- 'It is a greater offenceto steal dead men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall become ofmost writers?"BURTON'S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.
I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and howit comes to pass that so many heads, on which nature seemed to haveinflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem with voluminousproductions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, hisobjects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding outsome very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have Ichanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, toblunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of thebook-making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment.
I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of theBritish Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt tosaunter about a museum in warm weather; sometimes lolling over theglass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on anEgyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, tocomprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst Iwas gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to adistant door, at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed,but every now and then it would open, and some strange-favoredbeing, generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glidethrough the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding objects.
There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my languidcuriosity, and I determined to attempt the passage of that strait, andto explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand,with that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yieldto the adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in a spaciouschamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above thecases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number ofblack-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placedlong tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which sat manypale, studious personages, poring intently over dusty volumes,rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes oftheir contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mysteriousapartment, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens oversheets of paper, or 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 tolearned research.
Now and then one of these personages would write something on asmall slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar wouldappear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, andreturn shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the other wouldfall tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubtthat I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the studyof occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of aphilosopher shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of amountain, which opened only once a year; where he made the spiritsof the place bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so thatat the end of the year, when the magic portal once more swung openon its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to beable to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control thepowers of nature.
My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of thefamiliars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged aninterpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words weresufficient for the purpose. I found that these mysteriouspersonages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors,and in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in thereading-room of the great British Library- an immense collection ofvolumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten,and most of which are seldom read: one of these sequestered pools ofobsolete literature, to which modern authors repair, and drawbuckets 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 andwatched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one lean,bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most worm-eatenvolumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing somework of profound erudition, that would be purchased by every man whowished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of hislibrary, or laid open upon his table; but never read. I observedhim, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket,and gnaw; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoringto keep off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by muchpondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself todetermine.
