A father, tend-er to his offspring. money he earns by his labor, and destroy the rest he earns by his weariness. Ned Tes. He has to cry "by, by," literally, to them all night, and they cry "buy, buy," figuratively, to him all day. Sen. I say, hurrah for the bachelor! "Long may he wave," as they say of the star-spangled banner-i. e., waive all claims to untried privileges. And with that sentiment we'll close, if you have got through with your budget, as I have with mine. Tes. Well, I should hope we had come to the end! THE CUP IS FULL!" Library troubles. The handsomer a book is, the more it seems open to in-speck-tion. CHAPTER VI. Library troubles. The handsomer a book is, the more it seems open to in-specktion.-A book bound to be an annoyance in some way.-Magazine literature. A magazine of litter at your disposal.-Sealing miseries which ought to "make the very walls cry out."-The "cacoëthes scribendi" must have been among the "Jesta Romanorum."-Most authors write an infamous short-hand. Sin-copy personified. The printer is author-ized to offer the incredulous convincing proofs. Sen. We have no subject booked for to-day. Tes. Let us subject books, themselves, to our miseries. They have often enough subjected us to theirs. Sen. Well, here we are, in the library, the very dominions of our theme, and these shelves are the very palace of the realm. Ned Tes. There are a great many pages weight on the palace. Sen. We should not have to look far for miseries if their services could be transferred to us, and each page author-ized to set down its own. 1. Reading over a passage in an author, for the hundredth time, without coming an inch nearer to the meaning of it at the last reading than at the first; then passing over it in despair, but without being able to enjoy the rest of the book, from the painful consciousness of your own real or supposed stupidity. 2. As you are reading drowsily by the fire, letting your book fall into the ashes, so as to lose your place, rumple and grime the leaves, and throw out your papers of reference; then, on rousing and recollecting yourself, finding that you do not know a syllable of what you have been winking over for the last hour. A book bound to be an annoyance in some way. 3. In reading a new and interesting book, being reduced to make a paper-knife of your finger. 4. Unfolding a very complicated map in a borrowed book of value, and, notwithstanding all your care, enlarging the small rent you originally made in it, every time you open it. Sen. Apropos of maps :— 5. Hunting on a cold scent, in a map for a place-in a book for a passage—in a variety of dictionaries for a word—thrown out at last quite at fault. 6. Reading a comedy aloud, "by particular desire," when you are half asleep, and quite stupid. 7. In attempting, at a strange house, to take down a large book from a high, crowded shelf, bringing half the library upon your nose. 8. Mining through a subject, or science, "invità (or rather exosá) Minerva," purely from the shame of ignorance. 9. Receiving, "from the author," a book equally heavy in the literal and the figurative sense; accompanied with entreaties that you would candidly set down in writing your detailed opinions of it in all its parts. 10. Reading a borrowed book so terribly well bound, that you are obliged to peep your way through it, for fear of breaking the stitches, or the leather, if you fairly open it; and which, consequently, shuts with a spring, if left a moment to itself. 11. Yes; or, after you have long been reading the said book close by the fire, (which is not quite so ceremonious, as you are about opening it,) attempting in vain to shut it, the covers violently flapping back in a warped curve-in counteracting which you crack the leather irreparably in a dozen places. Ned Tes. There is one way I wish some borrowed books I know of were bound. Magazine literature. A magazine of litter at your disposal. Sen. How is that, Ned? Ned Tes. Homeward bound. Sen. Ha, ha! That would be a time to keep carnival indeed. Ned Tes. Which would not be appropriate while the books were keeping Lent. Sen. That brings us by no violent transition to the next misery on the file. 12. On taking a general survey of your disordered library, for the purpose of re-arranging it-finding a variety of broken sets, and odd volumes, of valuable works, which you had supposed to be complete ;and then, after screwing up your brows upon it for an hour, finding yourself wholly unable to recollect to whom any one of the missing books has been lent, or even to guess what has become of them; and, at the same time, without having the smallest hope of ever being able to replace them. -Likewise, 13. Your pamphlets and loose printed sheets daily getting ahead, and running mountain high upon your shelves, before you have summoned courage to tame them, by sorting and sending them to the binder 14. As an author-those moments during which you are relieved from the fatigues of composition by finding that your memory, your intellects, your imagination, your spirits, and even the love of your subject, have all, as if with one consent, left you in the lurch. 15. In coming to that paragraph of a newspaper, for the sake of which you have bought it, finding, in that only spot, the paper blurred, or left white by the press. 16. Reading newspaper poetry, which, by a sort of fatality which you can neither explain nor resist, you occasionally slave through, in the midst of the utmost repugnance and disgust. 17. As you are eagerly taking up a newspaper, being yawningly told by one who has just laid it down, that "there is nothing in it," or the said Sealing miseries which ought to "make the very walls cry out." paper sent for by the lender, at the moment when you are beginning to read it. 18. Having your ears invaded all the morning long, close at your study window, by the quack of ducks, and the cackle of hens, with an occasional bass accompaniment by an ass. 19. Writing a long letter, with a very hard pen, on very thin and very greasy paper, with very pale ink, to one whom you wish-I needn't say where. 20. On arriving at that part of the last volume of an enchanting novel, in which the interest is wrought up to the highest pitch-suddenly finding the remaining leaves, catastrophe and all, torn out. 21. Burning your fingers with an inch of sealing-wax; and then dropping away the dime to which you are reduced by the want of a seal. 22. In writing-neither sand, blotting paper, nor a fire, to dry your paper; so that, though in violent haste, you sit with your hands before you, at the end of every other page, till the ink thinks proper to dry of itself; or toiling your wrist, for ten minutes together, with a sand-glass that throws out two or three damp grains at a time, and, in consequence of such delay (but this calamity deserves a separate commemoration)— 23. Losing the post; and this, when you would about as willingly lose your life. 24. Emptying the ink-glass, (by mistake for the sand-glass,) on a paper which you have just written out fairly, and then widening the mischief by applying restive blotting-paper. 25. Putting a wafer, of the size of a half-dollar piece, into a letter with so narrow a fold, that one half of the circle stands out in sight, and is presently smeared over the paper by your fingers in stamping the concealed half. 26. Writing on the creases of paper that has been sharply folded. |