textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/IRVING/irving-art-599.txt

                                    1819-20

                                THE SKETCH BOOK

                             THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING

                              by 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 seemed 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 sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to
comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty 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 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, 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 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 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 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,
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' caldron 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 cornfield, 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 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
elements 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 from 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
remained 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
fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed,
however, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular
suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from
a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his
original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery.

  There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed ogling
several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He soon
contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old
fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, endeavored
to look exceedingly wise; but the smirking commonplace of his
countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One
sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment
with gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reign
of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from
an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled
from "The Paradise of Daintie Devices," and having put Sir Philip
Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite
air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had
bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure
tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front; but he was
lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched his
small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author.

  There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own
ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate
the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principles
of taste, and to catch their air and spirit; but I grieve to say, that
too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe in the patchwork
manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one genius, in
drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent
propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been
confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes
of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons
from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side,
went about with a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, "babbling about
green fields." But the personage that most struck my attention was a
pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably
large and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and
puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy
self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto,
clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically away in a
formidable frizzled wig.

  In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly
resounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves!" I looked, and lo!
the portraits about the wall became animated! The old authors thrust
out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down
curiously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, and then
descended with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The
scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description.
The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their
plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a
modern professor; on another, there was sad devastation carried into
the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by
side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben
Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in
Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some
time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about
him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many
men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe and
reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their
nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old
gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore
affright with half a score of authors in full cry after him! They were
close upon his haunches: in a twinkling off went his wig; at every
turn some strip of raiment was peeled away; until in a few moments,
from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, "chopped
bald shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering
at his back.

  There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this
learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which
broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an end.
The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk
back into their picture frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along
the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with
the whole assemblage of bookworms gazing at me with astonishment.
Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound
never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the
ears of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity.

  The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had a
card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found
that the library was a kind of literary "preserve," subject to
game-laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without
special license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat,
lest I should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me.

                        THE END
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