HORE CREVISIANE. DESCRIPTION OF A CUP, AND OF THOSE WHO DID JUSTICE TO IT. IMPROVIDENT of space, revered, and old,— What time, outstretched beneath o'ershading trees, With only echo for an arbitre,) But tempered to ale's deep dye within, Seen through its sides, that were so smooth and thin, To draw the dappled cow's less potent juice, 'Twas hooped around; between the circles stand A fisher's keel by some translucent tide, His silver quarry gasping by his side; A patient cow with udders overstored, A maid beside it on the cool green sward, The husbands of the herd at distance grazed. Such was the work beneath each ring, that raised, As indistinct as half-remembered dreams, Unwelcome thoughts of milk, and cool blue mountain streams. Along the handle's back were vine-leaves chased, With hops and barley-bristles interlaced, That (roughened to the grasp of those who quaffed) Curled to the top, and overhung the draught. The rim was worn,-but less from age than use, Of lips devoted to its dark-brown juice, Where crab-tree fruits, like ships at sea did swim, Athwart its steaming foam, and anchored at the brim : So southern shrines are worn by pilgrim's knees, And fragment of true cross by those who kiss their deities, Between each hole a lord might drink his fill. Where one was taken down, a space remained To tell the rest how each deep draught was drained. Deep as Truth's own-like that, infallible. 'Twas a stripling then; and paused to see E E Rest lazily-more patient than the rest. CHORUS FROM THE HECUBA, ON me, on me, V. 629. Fated sorrow, fated shame, When the goddess-dooming swain, Thence some demon sent in steering, Of earth, and kisses with its golden blaze, For penance drear, and worse Than penance drear, the necessary curse, The proper fate of frenzied men, Pain, and rack, and desolation Have wound their toil around the encircled nation THE BIBLIOMANIAC. "Is it to read, this dolt doth buy And margin without end?"-Ship of Fools. - SOME philosophers would have us believe that all men are monomaniacs,—that is, mad on one particular point. Those who feel sore at the personal application of this uncompromising dictum, will perhaps be justified in interpreting it to mean simply, that all men have their respective foibles, tastes, and pursuits; a truism which even they will not be disposed to deny, because they will have no difficulty in bringing the fact home to themselves. Granting, then, that every man is, on this modified construction, an idiomaniac, how constantly ought we to consider, that while we openly or secretly ridicule the tastes and fancies of our brother maniacs, we are ourselves sure to possess some peculiarity, or indulge some conceit, which is equally obnoxious to criticism, and may appear equally absurd, useless, or degrading in the eyes of others. Indeed, this propensity to peep into the bag of our neighbour's follies, which Æsop tells us we carry in front of us, is chiefly characteristic of those who unconsciously bear a still heavier appendage at their own backs. He who is most devotedly attached to his own favourite pursuit, always sees most clearly, and in the most ludicrous light, the peculiar partialities of others. Thus, the athletic sportsman looks with pity upon the pale student, and wonders what pleasure or profit there can possibly be in poring half the night over books in a garret; while the student is equally unable to appreciate the delights of wet, hunger, and fatigue, which the sportsman has daily to undergo in pursuing his less intellectual "recreations." The classic does not understand how any one can delight in solving interminable equations, or subjugating intractable curves: but the mathematician, with his brains wandering among his dear stars, professes himself, with sarcastic complacency, totally incapable of discovering the beauties which others find in a corrupt chorus of Eschylus. The architect sees very little amusement in poking among ditches and bogs for diminutive flies and beetles; nor does the entomologist perceive much more in copying the mouldings of a time-worn doorway. The geologist stigmatizes the botanist as a "nettle-picker;" and the botanist retorts upon the geologist, by applying the epithet "pebbleraker." But of all maniacs, none meet with so little pity, and so much obloquy on every side, as the BIBLIOMANIAC. His taste is not courteously called " a foible,”—oh, no! nothing half so mild. It is a madness; and he is a downright, hopeless, incurable, unmitigated madHe is a fit subject for a voyage to Anticyra; indeed, it is only by special indulgence that he is permitted to go at large at all, as he EE 2 man. has on several occasions been disinterred by his friends from some obscure book-vault in an anonymous alley, begrimed with dust, and half dead with starvation; having been unaccountably oblivious, while feasting his eyes, to feed his craving internals with some less etherial aliment than defunct literature. The whole conduct of the bibliomaniac is indeed marked by a humorous earnestness, which the apparent frivolity of his pursuit seems hardly to justify in a man of sense. Touch the chord of any other monomaniac's "particular vanity,” and you will perhaps set him chattering about it for the next half-hour : but shew him a Pannartz, or an Aldus, or a Junta, and he instantly becomes like one distraught—a raving enthusiast, or a moody, melancholy lunatic: he will neither speak nor hear till he has scanned the title-page, measured the margin, duly weighed the Aldine symbol, inspected the date, and felt the smoothness or roughness, or soundness or rottenness, of every leaf in the unparalleled folio! Take him into a library—the asylum after his own heart-and he will put himself into voluntary confinement for the next four-and-twenty hours; imposing upon you the alternative of either dragging him out or locking him in,—of which, should you give him his choice, he will immeasurably prefer the latter. Then again watch him standing at that old bookstall. His fingers are like a chimney-sweep's, his nose like a blackcap pudding, and his very spectacles are obfuscated with a film of venerable dust. See with what a supercilious air he tosses aside all new books,—that is, all under a couple of hundred years old,—and gluts his curiosity exclusively upon the musty, fusty, torn, wormeaten, frowsy, damp, mouldy little squab quarto which bears the date 1490! He asks the price with glistening eyes, watering mouth, and trembling lips. One-and-ninepence. One-and-ninepence! He can tell you the names of great book-collectors, who have given more crowns for such a copy than he is now asked pence. Does he not then eagerly pay the paltry sum, and make the rubbishing gem his own undisputed property? Oh, no! your regular thorough-bred bibliomaniac never pays the price asked. Not that he grudges the money in the least; but he feels huge satisfaction in persuading the unsuspecting seller that it is a piece of trumpery not worth stopping to pick up; and chuckles at what he calls "the absurdity of the thing" whenever he relates the memorable adventure to a brother book-worm. And how your true bibliomaniac pricks up his ears at the magic words editio princeps! How quickly he rushes to the library of any literary friend or stranger whom he may visit! How fondly does he gaze upon some biblical treasure, which has hitherto eluded the anxious search of years, and which he has known only by description, hearsay, or fac-simile! How proud too if he can make that treasure his own! How charily he displays his unique vellum copies; how friendly he becomes to the interested spectator; and what withering glances does he direct against the unhappy culprit, who innocently declares that he sees nothing particular in them! And does not the botanist store up in his hortus siccus, and the geogist in his cabinet, each his little insignificant-looking weeds or pebbles, for the same reason that the book-collector stores up rare volumes in his archives, viz. because they are rare? Yet neither the botanist nor the geologist are considered half such fools as the bibliomaniac! We much question whether the somewhat singular predilection of the antiquary himself, who boasts his collection of antediluvian pots and pans, and cuttings and carvings, is deemed by the generality of mankind quite so desperate a case. Is the ruling passion of the bookcollector a more selfish or senseless gratification than that of any other virtuoso? By no means. Is there then any material difference between collecting curiosities of art and those of nature? It would not appear so. It is simply the extravagant folly of which some are guilty in giving as many pounds for, as there are leaves in, an old book, coupled with the little interest that is generally felt, and the ignorance that prevails, about this particular pursuit, which has brought the book collector into disrepute, and caused him to be regarded by the world as the most infatuated of mortals. There is nothing in itself absurd or unreasonable in the desire of rescuing from certain oblivion, and probable destruction, those noble monuments of ancient ingenuity and enterprise, the earliest printed editions of classical and other authors. It is a desire, at all events, which kings, bishops, and nobles have indulged, and which, therefore, cannot be unworthy of imitation ;-nay, it is a debt of common gratitude to the first practitioners of an art which has literally revolutionised the world, not to let the works of their hands perish in the dust of the bookshop or damp nook of the library, unknown and unappreciated. Why should we grudge a few shillings in rescuing them from their concealment, and a few more in putting a decent leather jacket upon their poor worn-out, superannuated carcases? Yet, in spite of such a plausible plea of antiquarian benevolence, the sanity of oldbook collectors is very generally questioned, and they are themselves held up to ridicule as much greater curiosities than the volumes which they so meritoriously redeem from oblivion. We do not wish, by the above remarks, either to defend that peculiar kind of reckless and unjustifiable prodigality, which has brought so much discredit upon book-collectors in general, and with which the enthusiast has been known to give £903 for one old vellum volume ;* or to recommend our readers to waste much time and money in heaping up books which they cannot read, and never open, merely because they are old. We only deprecate the opposite extreme of illiberality in denying all pleasure or profit in the indulgence of a taste at once harmless and interesting. The labours of the press must undoubtedly be counted among the most astounding monuments of human industry. Not four hundred years have elapsed since the invention of printing;t yet who can enter one of our vast public libraries, without being deeply struck with the ⚫ This sum was actually paid for the Editio Princeps of Livy, 1469. It is singular that the exact date of this invention should be undetermined. Some have placed it as early as 1422. Surely an inscription at the end of the Editio Princeps of Cicero's Offices, 1465, (which we believe is about the earliest printed book extant, and of which there is a fine copy in St. John's College Library,) ought to go far in determining the question: This Book was composed not with pen and ink, but by a beautiful kind of contrivance-"Non plumali calamo neque atramento, sed arte quadam perpulcrâ." We suppose this has not escaped the notice of the learned. |