BOOK-MAKING
1.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.
2.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.While I was gazing about in this idle way，my attention was attracted to a distant door，at the end of a suit 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.
3.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 tothe 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 moldy manus，and taking copious notes of their contents.
4.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 those 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.
5.While I was looking on，and indulging in 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.
6.I dreamed 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，me-thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fashion，with which they proceeded to equip themselves.I noticed，however，thatno 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.
7.There was a portly，rosy，well-fed parson，whom I observed ogling several moldy 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 common-place 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.
8.Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu，had stuck a nosegay in his bosom，culled from “The Paradise of Danty 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.
9.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 theRegent‘s Park.He had decked himself in wreaths and ribands 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.”
