________________________________________________
_
Washington Irving's short story: The Art of Book-making
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
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
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,
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
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
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 eyeglass. 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 Dainty 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, lackadaisical air, "babbling about green field." 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 walls 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, "chopp'd 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 hookworms 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.
Washington Irving's short story: The Art of Book-making
_
Read next: A Royal Poet
Read previous: The Broken Heart
Table of content of Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your reviewYour review will be placed after the table of content of this book
