class="stanza">Hoh Maister John Murray of Sacomb,
The Works of old Time to collect was his pride,
Till Oblivion dreaded his Care:
Regardless of Friends, intestate he dy'd,
So the Rooks and the Crows were his Heir.

Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole, President of The Bibliophile Society, aptly describes a miserly bibliomaniac as a

while in characterizing the natural impulses of true bibliophilism, he says that

Peignot says a bibliomaniac is one who has "a passion for possessing books; not so much to be instructed by them as to gratify the eye by looking on them." This presumption is about as reasonable as it would be to say that a man is a monomaniac because he gets married when he is in no special need of a house-servant, or body-guard.

In his Bibliomania Dibdin enumerates eight symptoms of this "darling passion or insanity," in the following order: "A passion for large-paper copies, uncut copies, extra-illustrated copies, unique copies, copies printed on vellum, first editions, true editions, and black-letter copies."

The first of these should be omitted from the symptomatic category: it would be fallacy to assume that one is a maniac because one admires the ample margins and paramount qualities of these large-paper copies, which Dibdin himself says are "printed upon paper of a larger dimension and superior quality than the ordinary copies. The presswork and ink are always proportionately better in these copies, and the price of them is enhanced according to their beauty and rarity. . . . That a volume so published has a more pleasing aspect cannot be denied." He adds that "this symptom of the bibliomania is at the present day both general and violent." No wonder! And yet the charming Dr. Ferriar dips his pen in gall and writes the following satirical lines upon this highly commendable "weakness:"—

Dibdin ventures to further assert that "the day is not far distant when females will begin to have as high a relish for large-paper copies of every work as their male rivals." If he could return to this sphere and behold the enormously increased number of women bibliophiles in our country at the present time, the subject would doubtless furnish him with a congenial theme for another of his rambling discourses, this time perhaps under the caption of Bibliowomania. He was far in advance of the age in which he lived; for although he had very little upon which to base the prediction, he yet prophesied that not many years would lapse before women would invade the fields of book-collecting and prove themselves valiant competitors in the market. This, in fact, is now common enough, and I myself have known of many instances in auction-rooms where a small army of rampant bibliomaniacs have been obliged to retreat and to abandon their pursuit of some coveted treasure, on finding it boldly covered by a carte-blanche order from a feminine competitor. Women rarely appear in the book auction-room, but leave their orders to be executed through a trusted broker, and many a collector has found himself suddenly obliged to soar aloft to dizzy heights in quest of some prize, on being thus lifted and pursued by one of the representatives of an unseen and unknown member of the gentler sex.

Many people suppose the term "uncut," characteristic of Dibdin's second "symptom," to signify that the leaves of such volume as may be concerned have never been severed, whether for convenience of reading or otherwise. "Uncut," however, in its technical sense does not imply that the sheets are folded and bound just as they came from the press. The leaves may all be cut, and the tops trimmed, and even gilded, without striking terror to the heart of the bibliomaniac. Dibdin, indeed, treats this last mentioned symptom in merely a superficial way and dismisses it with a few cursory remarks, viz: "It may be defined a passion to possess books of which the edges have never been sheared by the binder's tools." This definition is vague and unsatisfactory. Mr. Adrian H. Joline (Diversions of a Booklover, Harper & Bros., New York, 1903,—a charming book that should be read by every book-fancier) discourses upon the subject more intelligently; he observes that the word uncut appears to be a stumbling-block to the unwary, and says: "The casual purchaser is sometimes deceived by it, for he thinks that it means that the leaves have not been severed by the paper-knife. I have read with much glee divers indignant letters in the very interesting 'Saturday Review' of one of our best New York journals, in which the barbarian writers have denounced the uncut, and have assailed in vigorous but misguided phrases those who prefer to have their books in that condition. Henry Stevens tells us that even such a famous collector as James Lenox, founder of the splendid library into whose magnificent mysteries so few of us dare to penetrate, was misled by the word uncut, and chided Stevens for buying an uncut book whose pages were all open. He says: 'Again when his tastes had grown into the mysteries of uncut leaves, he returned a very rare, early New England tract, expensively bound, because it did not answer the description of uncut in the invoice, for the leaves had manifestly been cut open and read.' When it was explained to him that in England the term uncut signified only that the edges were not trimmed, he shelved the rarity with the remark that he 'learned something every day.' . . . Perhaps the Caxton Club of Chicago is wise in describing its productions as 'with edges untrimmed.' Even a Philistine ought to be able to comprehend that description, although I once knew a man who supposed that a book 'bound in boards' had sides composed of planking."

Dr. Ferriar's satirical lines in his Second Maxim will find sympathizers among admirers of uncuts:—