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nor theological folios and classic quartos, that the modern amateur

desires.  He is content with but a few books of distinction and

elegance, masterpieces of printing and binding, or relics of famous

old collectors, of statesmen, philosophers, beautiful dead ladies;

or, again, he buys illustrated books, or first editions of the

modern classics.  No one, not the Duc d'Aumale, or M. James

Rothschild himself, with his 100 books worth 40,000 pounds, can

possess very many copies of books which are inevitably rare.  Thus

the adviser who would offer suggestions to the amateur, need

scarcely write, like Naude and the old authorities, about the size

and due position of the library.  He need hardly warn the builder to

make the salle face the east, "because the eastern winds, being warm

and dry of their nature, greatly temper the air, fortify the senses,

make subtle the humours, purify the spirits, preserve a healthy

disposition of the whole body, and, to say all in one word, are most

wholesome and salubrious."  The east wind, like the fashion of book-

collecting, has altered in character a good deal since the days when

Naude was librarian to Cardinal Mazarin.  One might as well repeat

the learned Isidorus his counsels about the panels of green marble

(that refreshes the eye), and Boethius his censures on library walls

of ivory and glass, as fall back on the ancient ideas of librarians

dead and gone.

The amateur, then, is the person we have in our eye, and especially

the bibliophile who has but lately been bitten with this pleasant

mania of collecting.  We would teach him how to arrange and keep his

books orderly and in good case, and would tell him what to buy and

what to avoid.  By the LIBRARY we do not understand a study where no

one goes, and where the master of the house keeps his boots, an

assortment of walking-sticks, the "Waverley Novels," "Pearson on the

Creed," "Hume's Essays," and a collection of sermons.  In, alas! too

many English homes, the Library is no more than this, and each

generation passes without adding a book, except now and then a

Bradshaw or a railway novel, to the collection on the shelves.  The

success, perhaps, of circulating libraries, or, it may be, the Aryan

tendencies of our race, "which does not read, and lives in the open

air," have made books the rarest of possessions in many houses.

There are relics of the age before circulating libraries, there are

fragments of the lettered store of some scholarly great-grandfather,

and these, with a few odd numbers of magazines, a few primers and

manuals, some sermons and novels, make up the ordinary library of an

English household.  But the amateur, whom we have in our thoughts,

can never be satisfied with these commonplace supplies.  He has a

taste for books more or less rare, and for books neatly bound; in

short, for books, in the fabrication of which ART has not been

absent.  He loves to have his study, like Montaigne's, remote from

the interruption of servants, wife, and children; a kind of shrine,

where he may be at home with himself, with the illustrious dead, and

with the genius of literature.  The room may look east, west, or

south, provided that it be dry, warm, light, and airy.  Among the

many enemies of books the first great foe is DAMP, and we must

describe the necessary precautions to be taken against this peril.

We will suppose that the amateur keeps his ordinary working books,

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