PAPER.

It is a serious question whether the art of printing has been improved except in facility. Is not the first printed book still the finest ever printed? But in one point I am certain that the moderns have fallen away, at least in the production of cheap books, and that is in the quality and finish of the paper. Not to speak of injurious devices to make the book heavy, the custom of calendering the paper, or making it smooth and shiny, practised by some important publishers, is bad for the eyes, and the result is not pleasant to look at. It is like the glare of the glass over the framed print. It is said to be necessary to the production of the modern “process” pictures. Even here however there is a just mean, for some of the modern paper is absurdly rough, and very difficult for a good impression of the types. Modern paper however has one advantage: Mr. Blades, in his pleasant “Enemies of Books,” tells us “that the worm will not touch it,” it is so adulterated. One hint I would give the publishers—allow us a few more fly leaves, so that we may paste in newspaper cuttings, and make memoranda and suggestions

It is predicted by some that our nineteenth century books—at least those of the last third—will not last; that the paper and ink are far inferior to those of preceding centuries, and that the destroying tooth of time will work havoc with them. No doubt the modern paper and the modern ink are inferior to those of the earlier ages of printing, when making a book was a fine art and a work of conscience, but whether the modern productions of the press will ultimately fade and crumble is a question to be determined only by a considerable lapse of time, which probably no one living will be qualified to pronounce upon. Take for what they are worth my sentiments respecting

THE FAILING BOOKS.

They say our books will disappear,
That ink will fade and paper rot—
I sha’n’t be here,
So I don’t care a jot.
The best of them I know by heart,
As for the rest they make me tired;
The viler part
May well be fired.
Oh, what a hypocritic show
Will be the bibliomaniac’s hoard!
Cheat as hollow
As a backgammon board.
Just think of Lamb without his stuffing,
And the iconoclastic Howells,
Who spite of puffing
Is destitute of bowels.

’Twould make me laugh to see the stare
Of mousing bibliomaniac fond
At pages bare
As Overreach’s bond.
Those empty titles will displease
The earnest student seeking knowledge,—
Barren degrees,
Like these of Western College.
That common stuff, “Excelsior,”
In poetry so lacking,
I care not for—
’Tis only fit for packing.