This may fairly be claimed as a popular subject. It is one in which
nearly everybody--perhaps everybody--is interested. There can surely be
few, if any, who do not care about the outside of a book. Even if a man
never opens a volume, he likes its exterior to be pleasing. Nay, there
are books which may be said to be produced and utilized only for their
outward garb. How often does one find a volume described as a charming
one 'for the table'! It is for the table that certain publications are
destined. Enter a drawing-room, and you will find a few books scattered
here and there 'with artful care.' I do not say they are intended never
to be opened, but their primary function is to look nice--to 'set off'
the table-cloth, and, generally, to give a bright appearance to the
room. And their adaptability for this purpose is so widely recognised
that you can scarcely go anywhere without coming across books of this
complexion. You find them exposed to view in your doctor's or your
dentist's ante-chamber; you find them placed before you, usually very
much the worse for wear, in hotel waiting-rooms. And the instinct which
prompts all this display is genuine enough. It is perfectly true--there
is no furniture so agreeable to the eye as books. Nothing makes a room
look at once so picturesque and home-like, if the volumes be but
sufficiently varied in size and hue.
And that brings us in presence of a point of controversy. Ought there to
be so much variety in the exteriors of books? Ought they to be 'got up'
in so many different styles? Some people would answer these questions
with a decided negative. These are the persons who like uniformity in
their libraries, who would have one shelf look for all the world like
the facsimile of the other. These are the persons who, almost as soon as
they buy a book, are desirous to have it rebound after some fantastic
notion of their own. There is a class of purchaser which revels in long
lines of volumes in 'full calf gilt.' You see that sort of thing in most
old-fashioned collections. And the effect is not bad in some respects.
The rows look handsome enough. They have solidity and richness. Nor do I
say that for a certain species of publication 'full calf gilt' is not a
very judicious form of binding. One likes to see the quarterlies and
higher-class monthlies done up in that style. It befits the seriousness
of their contents. But do not let everything be put into 'full calf
gilt,' solid and rich though it appears. Let us give full play to the
element of variety. Let every book have an individuality, a character,
of its own. Let us be able to identify it easily. Let it retain its
original garb, so that we may always be able to distinguish it. Surely
it is one of the greatest charms of a row of volumes that each has its
special features, and can readily be found when wanted.
It may be laid down as a general rule that the binding of a book should
have a distinct reference to the nature of its contents. It should be
appropriate to the author and to the subject. One sympathizes with
Posthumus in the play, when, apostrophizing the volume in his prison, he
says:
'O rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise.'
Juliet, when she hears that Romeo has slain Tybalt, asks:
'Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound?'
And in a like spirit Charles Lamb, in his well-known essay, complains of
the 'things in books' clothing' which, by reason of their inappropriate
exteriors, afford so much disappointment to the reader. 'To reach down a
well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope it is some kind-hearted
play-book, then, opening what "seem its leaves," to come bolt upon a
withering population essay'--'to expect a Steele or a Farquhar, and
find--Adam Smith'--those, indeed, are doleful and dispiriting
experiences, to which the unsuspecting student ought not in enlightened
times to be subjected. If Mr. Gilbert's Mikado be right in the view that
the punishment ought to 'fit the crime,' so assuredly ought a book's
binding to fit the matter that is contained within it. It should be the
outward sign of the inward grace.
I am ready to admit that, as a rule, this is so. In general, it is quite
easy to tell the nature of a volume from its cover. And for this the
publishers are greatly to be thanked. An amateur, publishing for
himself, may every now and then insist upon dressing up the product of
his brains incongruously; but, for the most part, the booksellers of
to-day have a very excellent sense of what is fitting. The result is
that those who care about books can differentiate them at a glance. They
know what is the approved style and line for biography and history, for
poetry and fiction, for sermons, for gift-books, and so _ad infinitum_.
The 'Life' of So-and-so, and the 'Annals' of Such-and-such, are
unmistakeable; they have respectability written on every corner and
angle of them. The dull brown or the dull green is sufficiently obvious
to everyone. And so with poetry. You know minor verse directly you see
it. It has a _cachet_ concerning which there can be no possible error.
Happily, a Tennyson, a Browning, or a Swinburne is equally recognisable.
A novel, of course, bears its character on its face. The three-volume
form is notorious. But it scarcely matters what shape fiction may take.
It can be identified by instinct, whether it be in yellow boards or in
some more quiet habit. Sermons cannot be misapprehended; there is no
fear of their being taken on a railway journey instead of the latest
book of memoirs. As for gift-books, whether for boy or girl, adult or
juvenile, they have their destination marked upon them in all the
colours of the rainbow. Some complain of this, and call it vulgar. No
doubt it often is so. But a gift-book is produced for a definite
purpose, and the public would be surprised, and probably annoyed, if it
were not as gorgeous in gold and colours as it was expected to be. Gold
and colours are what are wanted, and the publishers do well to supply
them.
One thing, perhaps, is too little considered--that a book is, in most
cases, intended to be read and to be preserved. Certain books are not
issued for that purpose, but are deliberately manufactured to be thrown
away when read. The shilling novel, one may presume, is not designed for
a permanent existence. If it is, why is it so frequently brought out in
a paper cover, which either comes off altogether, or else curls up at
the edges in the most irritating fashion? It must be confessed that a
paper cover is an infliction, demanding the eventual destruction of the
book or its prompt rebinding in more durable style. But it is not
sufficient only that a volume should be bound. It should be bound so
that it can be opened and perused with comfort. It should not be in too
stiff a cover, or it will be awkward to hold. And the cover should not
be in white or in too delicate a colour, or one will not care to handle
it. Nor should a book be bound too limply, for the cover will soon begin
to look shapeless. A parchment binding is charming to gaze at for a
time, but how quickly its glory fades! I should say to the ordinary
bookbuyer, in metaphoric language, Avoid the kickshaws and stick to the
solids! In other words, leave the delicacies to the connoisseur, and
give your attention to the books so clothed that you can read and keep
them as you will.