Tag Archives: The Art of Book-Making

In the Archives: Washington Irving, “The Art of Book-Making” (1819)

Tracy Wuster

Having recently emerged from a long-winter’s haze (which, here in Texas, involves lounging around in seventy-degree weather), I am now ready to resume the full duties of editor of this humor publication.  Granted, I never really left per se, but I have been absent to a degree, owing to various events both personal and professional, both grand and tragic.  Never mind the details.

One detail: I sent my book off to the publisher.  And while the satisfying thud of a 400-page manuscript in a mailbox would have been nice, the click of the mouse and the electronic thud of the manuscript landing in the publisher’s inbox was rewarding, if a bit anti-climactic.  Now that I have written the definitive tome on the reputation of Mark Twain as a humorist (1865-1882)–or at least a tome that hopefully will come out sometime in 2014–I can resume my full duties as editor of this fine publication, which I had already been doing, but in something of a distracted manner.

So, I apologize for the lack of a post this past Monday.  April Fool’s Day would either require a hoax post or something equally worthwhile of the day.  I thought of writing about the imminent closure of this site but did not get around to it.  See above re: book being due.

Washington Irving sketch book geoffrey crayon

Washington Irving

So, for today, April 3, we have a selection from Washington Irving, born on this day in 1783.  The piece is from his Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, published serially in 1819 and 1820.  The subject is fittingly the making of books, the natural predatory nature (and flatulence) of the author, and the inappropriateness of napping and/or laughing in the archive. Here is “The Art of Book-Making”:

If that severe doom of Synesius be true,–“It is a greater offence to steal dead men’s labor, than their clothes,”–what shall become of most writers?


I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature seems 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.

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 some times trying, with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suite 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. 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 all that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the 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 mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, and occasionally the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio; doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned research.

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