The Private Library. Arthur Lee Humphreys
and found that—
'While the temperature of the floor was 65° Fahr., that of the upper gallery was found to be 142°. Such a temperature dries up the oil of the leather, and burns out its life. Books cannot live where men cannot live.' Similarly, Mr. Blades wrote in his little manual:
'The surest way to preserve your books is to treat them as you would your own children, who are sure to sicken if confined in an atmosphere which is impure, too hot, too cold, too damp, or too dry. It is just the same with the progeny of literature.'
In London particularly dust, smoke, and soot get at books and do great damage. To have the top edges gilded is an excellent way to prevent dust getting into the leaves. Books which have roughly trimmed tops harbour dust much more readily, and it is with great difficulty removed from such. If a book is very dusty, a small brush is perhaps the best means to adopt to remove the offending particles. Books should not be either swung together or beaten together. The carpet in a library should not reach to the wall, or right to the cases, but should fall short so as to be removed when required to be cleaned. A librarian at Bath gives the following advice:—
'Our books are taken down once a year, in the month of August, to be dusted, and, for the last four or five years, I have adopted a simple plan. When the books are well dusted I take about half an ounce of the best horn glue, and, having dissolved it in the usual way, I add to it about a pint of warm water and a teaspoonful of glycerine, and stir it well. Then dipping a soft sponge into the solution, I wash over the backs of the books. If the leather is much perished or decayed, it will unduly absorb the size, and a second touch over may be necessary. The glycerine will have the effect of preventing the glue from drying too hard or stiffening the leather. When dry, the books may be rubbed over with a chamois leather. The above process, I find, helps to nourish the leather, and to restore that property which the heated air has destroyed. It also freshens up and greatly improves the appearance of the volumes upon the shelves. The operation must be repeated once a year at least.'
Bottles of preparation are sold ready made up for this purpose. Mr. Blades warmly echoed the sentiment that housemaids and helps are seldom bibliophiles, and, if, peradventure, one Eve in a family can be indoctrinated with book reverence, there may be salvation for all the books. Mr. Blades himself had a fine library, and goes fully into the subject of the period of dusting and its methods.[9]
'Books must now and then be taken down out of their shelves, but they should be tended lovingly and with judgment. If the dusting can be done just outside the room, so much the better. The books removed, the shelf should be lifted quite out of its bearings, cleansed, and wiped, and then each volume should be taken separately and gently rubbed on back and edges with a soft cloth. In returning the volumes to their places, notice should be taken of the binding, and especially when the books are in whole calf or morocco, care should be taken not to let them rub together. The best-bound books are soonest injured, and generally deteriorate in bad company. Certain volumes, indeed, have evil tempers, and will scratch the faces of all their neighbours who are too familiar with them. Such are books with metal clasps and rivets on their edges; and such, again, are those abominable old rascals, chiefly born in the fifteenth century, who are proud of being dressed in real boards with brass corners, and pass their lives with fearful knobs and metal bosses. … . When your books are being dusted, don't impute too much common sense to your assistants—take their ignorance for granted.'
Mr. Blades then points out certain dangers which beset the inexperienced handler of books. Never lift a book by one of its corners. Do not pile books up too high. Be careful not to rub the dust into instead of off the edges. If mildew or damp is discovered, carefully wipe it away, and let the book stand open for some days in a very dry spot—but not in front of a fire. Be careful that no grit is on the duster, or it will surely mark your books. Do not wedge books in too tightly. Common-sense must dictate what is right, but every volume should fit easily in its place.
Children and servants are not to be classed as friendly to books, but little lapses on their part are much more easily tolerated than the ignorance of the person who ought to know better. Such people insist upon having their books bound in hideous bindings, and mutilated almost beyond recognition by the bookbinder's plough.
I will talk about bookbinding later, but this I will say, that in no way can a book be easier ruined than by being placed unconditionally in the hands of a bookbinder.
It is frequently supposed that the insect, known as the bookworm, is a great enemy to books. 'Tis true where the bookworm exists it does irreparable damage, but fortunately it is not an insect which may be found every day. In America, they have, I believe, greater trouble from these boring insects. They have 'fish bugs,' 'silver fish,' and 'bustle tails,' scientifically known as Lepisma Saccharina. Another is known as 'Buffalo Bug,' or 'Carpet Bug,' or the Anthrenus varius of scientists. A third is Blatta Australasia, a species of cockroach.
The following maxims may be learned by heart, or if preferred, they can be bought by experience:
Do not bite your paper knife until it has the edge of a saw.
Do not cut books except with a proper ivory paper knife.
It is ruination to a good book not to cut it right through into the corners.
Do not turn the leaves of books down. Particularly, do not turn down the leaves of books printed on plate paper.
If you are in the habit of lending books, do not mark them. These two habits together constitute an act of indiscretion.
It is better to give a book than to lend it.
Never write upon a title-page or half-title. The blank fly-leaf is the right place.
Books are neither card-racks, crumb-baskets, or receptacles for dead leaves.
Books were not meant as cushions, nor were they meant to be toasted before a fire.
Valets and maids appear to take kindly to the packing of everything except books. I will therefore say that only small quantities (twelve volumes to twenty) should be packed in a parcel. Boxes, either wine-cases, or boxes specially made, should be used. Books being very solid and heavy should be packed in strong cases, and the method of packing them should be to place them upright alternately on back and edge in layers. By this means they can be fitted tightly to the case they are meant to travel in. Leather bound volumes should be wrapped up singly before being packed, and the box should be carefully lined with paper so that any roughness on the wood of the box may not damage the volumes.
Book and parcel post volumes should have three or four thicknesses of paper, and if bound volumes a strawboard on either side as well as paper.
The Art of Reading.
First, how to read. The reason why so many people who read much know so little, is because they read isolated books instead of reading one book in connexion with another. The memory is trained by association, and if you read two books in succession on one subject you know more than twice as much as if you had read one book only. A good memory is a memory which assimilates. Every one has a good memory for something. A good memory rejects and sifts, and does not accept everything offered to it like a pillar-box. Do not join reading societies, because they kill individuality. Choose your subject, and work all round it. There is an extensive literature on the subject of 'The Art of Reading,' 'The Best Hundred Books,' &c. Most of it is useless and bewildering. The best advice I have ever seen in print about reading was by Sir Herbert Maxwell, and it appeared some years ago at the end of a Nineteenth Century article. It is as follows:
'If any young person of leisure were so much at a loss as to ask advice as to what he should read, mine should be exceedingly simple—Read anything bearing on a definite object. Let him take up any imaginable subject to which he feels attracted, be it the precession of the equinoxes or postage stamps, the Athenian drama or London street cries; let him follow it from book to book, and unconsciously his knowledge, not of that subject