clothe their works on theology in purple, astronomy in azure, and travels in marine blue, presumably in accordance with the good and very appropriate metaphor of the inscription on a King of Egypt’s bookcase: “Treasure of the Remedies of the Soul,” books being, like drugs, to be taken with discretion and in various doses, and their outward appearance to denote the nature of the remedy they contain, in order that those that are poison be not mistaken for their antidotes.
In his attractive little book on “The Home Library,” Mr. Arthur Penn says justly that “it is well also not to begrudge money for a fine piece of work;” but how very few appreciate the fact who are otherwise prodigal in their admiration of the fine arts. It would be interesting to look into the comparative value of fine binding in different centuries.
The work of the ancients was painstaking in the extreme; the time that it took scarcely less than the writing and illuminating of a missal; but their forwarding was not as good as is that of modern bookbinders. This desideratum is noticeably appreciated by the artists of the United States, wherefore the American bibliophiles entrust to them the work that
