of New York. In external appearance they are in general not very attractive or inviting, but the man or woman of literary taste or antiquarian sympathies who visits New York, will find few institutions in this great metropolis that will more amply repay a visit, than those quiet and unpretentious depositories of antique literature. Nowhere in the city, indeed, can a literary man spend a few hours more delightfully than in these out-of-the-way nooks and corners. There is a learned atmosphere about them as serene and attractive as that which broods about a great library. And instead of that painful neatness and order so characteristic of a library, these resorts have a desultory, careless aspect that tempts one to a discursive tour among the shelves. And however careless and ill appearing these may look, there is yet sufficient method in their arrangement to enable one to find his way without much difficulty through their

contents.

And what a treat it is to roam at will among the varied treasures of an old book store. You may hold in your hand and dip into a little tome so rare that but a few copies are known to be in existence. Now you come across some curious book that you may have heard of, but which you have never seen before. Here on another shelf is a literary curiosity, a first edition of some great classic, or a volume that contains the marginal annotations of a celebrated author. And here, sure enough, is the very book you have been looking for for more than a year; the search for which you had almost given up as hopeless. How joyful you feel over your good fortune, and as you turn the leaves over fondly, your eye catches a few cabalistic letters on the fly leaf, and as you look at them again and again, you begin to fear that when translated the coveted tome may be far beyond your means. You will find no "hard eye" here, such as Charles Lamb speaks of, "casting envious looks you, and calculating mentally when you will have done.

at

The old book stores of New York have a peculiarly distinctive character of their own which marks them from those of any other of our great cities. They are absolutely sui generis; those of Philadelphia are insignificant in comparison, and even Boston has but one or two that make any approach to those of New York.

It is here-twenty years ago, however, it was not so that the most ardent bibliomaniacs are to be found; it is here that the libraries of deceased collectors are mostly brought from all parts of the country to be dispersed under the hammer of the auctioneer, it is in New York that the largest libraries of the country are centred, and it is here that the choicest and rarest books come by every steamer from the great book centres on the other side of the Atlantic.

All the various libraries, colleges and historical societies of the country, send their representatives here once or twice a year to gather books. Bibliomaniacs come here from all parts of the country to attend the fall book sales (not the trade sales), and to browse among the literary pastures of the metropolis and pick up choice volumes to fill vacant niches in their collections. Here, as nowhere else, they have an opportunity to meet and converse with the famous book-men of the country, and are thus able to keep themselves thoroughly posted on bibliographical mat

ters.

All book-lovers, however, are not so fortunate as to be able to make these annual or semi-annual visits.. There are thousands of them all over the Union who, though in constant communication with our metropolitan bibliopoles, yet know little concerning them or their characteristics, and less of their places of business and their customers. We propose in these letters to make a bibliographical tour of the city, and if any of our readers are interested enough to accompany us we shall endeavor to act the part of a faithful guide.

In New York, as in the large cities of Europe, the old book trade generally congregates in a particular locality. In Paris and in Dublin it is principally to be found on the quays, and in London chiefly in the vicinity of Covent Garden, Booksellers' Row and Piccadilly. Here in New York the trade has seldom or never ventured beyond the confines of what is probably our most cosmopolitan highway, Nassau street. It is very doubtful indeed if a store of this character would flourish anywhere in the city except in Nassau street or in its immediate neighborhood. Nassau street is one of the main arteries of the lower part of the city. Through it there comes from morning to night as varied a stream of humanity as can be found in any street in any city. It leads to the General Post Office and crosses the streets where abide the money changers. Regiments of boys and men pass through it almost hourly to the mails. Bankers and brokers and merchants are traversing it all day long. Clerks saunter through it at the noon-day hour. And so old Nassau street is always. kept in excitement and activity. (To be continued.)

history is the most wonderful in all the history of industry. Senefelder had been trying various methods of etching, and had finally concluded that stone would come within his means, for poverty had precluded him from purchasing copper. One day after polishing a stone, his mother desired him to make out a list in haste for the family laundress. "I happened," he says, "" not to have even the smallest slip of paper at hand, as my little stock had been entirely exhausted by taking proof impressions from the stones, nor was there even a drop of ink in the inkstand. As the matter would not admit of delay "for the washerwoman was waiting!“ and as we had no one in the house to send for a supply of the deficient material, I resolved to write the list with my ink-prepared with wax, soap and lampblack-on the stone I had just polished, and from which I could copy it at leisure." Soon after, when going to wipe the writing from the stone, a thought crossed his mind that the lines thus written could be raised from the surface by the action of aquafortis upon the intervening spaces, and the design be printed from, like a wood-engraving. He built round the stone a border of wax, covered the face of the stone with diluted acid, and found that his lines were distinctly elevated above the level of the stone. He practised and improved his process until he was able to print music by it on a copper-plate press.

There is a variation of this story which may be placed here in apposition, because it has obtained currency, although we do not find anything to confirm it in Senefelder's own book, which may be seen in the British Museum. The piece of stone aforesaid, containing the memorandum of the "clothes for the wash," was dropped, others say, into a tubful of greasy water. Hastily withdrawing it, lest the writing should become effaced, it is said that Senefelder to his astonishment found that every letter had become coated with grease contained in the water, while the other parts of the stone were unaffected. Repetition of the experiment gave a like result. The idea was suggested to him of taking advantage of the phenomenon. He applied himself to the discovery of suitable ingredients to form a greasy crayon, and the proper acid for reducing the stone. According to Senefelder's account, having got his design in relievo, he applied ink to it with a common printer's ball, but after some unsuccessful trials found that a thin piece of board, covered with fine cloth, answered the purpose perfectly, and communicated the ink in a more equal manner than any other material. Thus was the art discovered.

There is a special interest associated with the portrait of Senefelder, owing to the following curious incident. He had a presentiment that if any one took his portrait his decease would soon follow. Consequently he could never be persuaded to have that

done.

He was in the habit of visiting Mr. Haupstaengl and reading the newspaper aloud while the latter was at work drawing on the lithographic stone. On one of these occasions Mr. Haupstaengl took Senefelder's portrait on a prepared stone, which he had previously concealed in the drawer of his worktable, distracting his attention by frequently referring to a portrait of one of their mutual friends hanging near. This caused Senefelder to look up from time to time, and the artist was enabled so to catch the natural and life-like expression which this portrait possesses. On subsequently showing the portrait on the stone to some friends, he was recommended to ask Senefelder to give him a sitting, which afterwards, with the greatest reluctance, he consented to do. He had not sat longer than half an hour before he complained of feeling unwell and cold, and began to button his coat about him, saying that he must go home at once. He left, went to bed, and died three days afterwards, thus strangely fulfilling his own presentiment. The Lithographer.

AN EXPENSIVE ENGRAVING.

If there ever lived a man of whom the world, when he descended there from, was well rid, yet whose wonderful impudence secured him everlasting fame, that man was Pietro Aretino. His monstrous works, says a writer in the London Telegraph, are familiar enough to book-worms, and fetch large prices, sub rosâ, when the facetice of booksellers are brought to the hammer; but the publication of even the mildest translation of his "Sonnets," or of his

Dubbij Amorosi," would very soon attract the attention of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. Yet Are:ino's poetry is only an infinitesimal part of his wickedness. He lived by writing libels on kings. and princes, bishops and noble ladies, and then suppressing his effusions on the payment of large sums as hush money; and was wont to boast that there was not a sovereign in Europe, including the Pope and the Grand Turk, from whom he had not extorted blackmail.

Infinitely strange are the caprices of Time and Fortune. At the sale of the Howard collection of engravings in London, a portrait of the detestable celebrity, and who, as a man of letters, must be classed with the editors of the defunct Satirist and Paul Pry and Peter Spy, was knocked down to Messrs. Colnaghi

was

As for

for the amazing sum of seven hundred and eighty pounds, the largest sum ever ob. tained for an engraving, with the exception of the famous "" Hundred Guilder " print by Rembrandt, which, at the sale of Sir Charles Price's collection, brought eleven hundred and eighty pounds. After all, Messrs. Colnaghi may be considered to have made an excellent bargain. Only one other impression of the engraving in the same "state is known to exist, and that is in the British Museum. It is the work of the famous engraver, Marc Antonio Raimondi, the gifted vagabond who robbed Albert Durer; and the picture from which the print was taken painted by Titian. Messer Tiziano Vecellio was a frequent correspondent of Aretino, and possibly painted his likeness in order to conciliate he libeller. Marc Antonio he was a magnificent engraver, and was quite as consummate an outcast as the caitiff his burin has immor. talized. It was he who engraved, after pictures by Giulio Romano, that scandalous series of prints, with appropriate legends from Aretino's poems, for the publication of which both painter and engraver were forced to fly from Rome, and very narrowly escaped being excommunicated by the Pope. Still, so beautiful were the plates that the Papal Government forbore to order their destruction; and so late as the beginning of the last century, when the President De Brossis visited Italy, a particular family in Rome continued to possess and to exercise the singular privilege of striking off and publicly vending, during the three last days of the Carnival, impressions from Marc Antonio Raimondi's most exquisite and most disgraceful productions. The printing press was set up in the midst of the Piazza Navona, and the plates, although nearly two hundred years old, were still, when the French traveller saw them, in excellent preservation.-Evening Post.

The collection of engravings and drawings formed by Hugh Howard at the commencement of the last century contained examples of the works of most of the old masters, but was especially rich in those of Marc Antonio Raimondi. This series included a remarkably fine impression of the portrait of Aretino, after Titian, as above

mentioned, a proof before the monogram, the ornaments in the cap, and the concluding lines of the inscription. £780 is the largest price ever obtained for an engraving, except the celebrated "Hundred Guilder" print, by Rembrandt, which was sold in the sale of the late Sir Charles Price's collections by the same auctioneers for £1,180, and is now in the possession of M., Detuit, the French collector. Among the other works of Marc Antonio were the "Adam and Eve," which sold for £69; and "The Last Supper" was purchased by M. Danlos, of Paris, for £105; the "Massacre of the Innocents," £77; "The Madonna Seated in the Clouds, with the Infant Saviour in her Arms," from a study by Raphael, £180 (Colnaghi); Christ seated on the Clouds between the Madonna and St. John, called "La Pièce des Cinq Saint," £59; Brand's Cupid with Three Children," £60 (Colnaghi); "Apollo and Hyacinthus," £38 (Addington). Of the works of Albert Durer were the "Adam and Eve,” which sold at £59 (Noseda), and "The Melancholy," £40 (Danlos). A fine impression of the "St. John the Baptist," by Giulio Campagnola, realised £131 (Holloway); "The Angels of the Sistine Chapel," representing the Prophets and Sybils, £80 (M. Clement, of Paris); "Lot and his Daughters," by Lucas van Leyden, a bri!liant impression, £161 (Noseda); "The Virgin with the Infant Christ," £69 (Colnaghi); "Mars and Venus," £;6;

Hercules Fighting the Serpent," Andrea Mantegna, £30. 10s. (Holloway). A remarkable print, undescribed by Bartsch, by Benedetto Montagna,-an Oriental seated in a Landscape, £51 (Holloway); a rare print, called by Bartsch "La Puissance de l'Amour," by the master of the monogram "P. P.." £91 (Holloway); "The Great Executioner," by Prince Rupert, £51; "The Three Trees," by Rembrandt, £67. Ios. (Noseda); "The Virgin Receiving the Annunciation," by Martin Schongauer, £71 (Danlos).

Singular Frauds in Old Maps.-At a recent meeting of the Society of Antiquaries, Mr. W. H. Overall, F.S.A., read a paper entitled "The Early Views and Maps of London and their Authors." He

reviewed each map in chronological order, and pointed out the merits and demerits of each, giving, in passing a short account of the different authors. In examining the map done by Ralph Agas, the surveyor who surveyed London, in or about the 30th year of Queen Elizabeth, Mr. Overall proved the dates when the now known copies were published. Mr. Overall next showed most clearly the deceit practised by Mr. George Vertue, the eminent engraver, in 1737, not only upon the society, but also upon his antiquarian friends, and upon hundreds of inquirers since. On the date mentioned, Mr. Vertue brought to the notice of the society a plan of London, which he stated he had re-engraved from a copy of Agas's old map of 1560, then in the possession of Sir Hans Sloane; but unfortunately for his reputation there are still in existence two maps bearing the author's name, and which at first sight appear to be Vertue's, but Mr. Overall demonstrated from the internal evidence of the maps themselves that they were the production of some Dutch Artist in the reign of William III., and that the identical plates had in some manner found their way into the possession of Mr. Vertue, who after tinkering them up in several places with a dry point, in order to assimilate them to the genuine Agas, then added his name, and issued them as his own. The society purchased the pewter plates, which they still have in their possession; upon the back of one of these plates Mr. Overall discovered a spoilt plate, the section being St. Paul's, Blackfriars, Bridewell, &c., and he pointed out the strange differences existing upon this with the one subsequently engraved.

THACKERAY.

Continued from page 137, Vol. 5.

The first characteristic which strikes the reader of Thackeray is unquestionably his humor. It does not gleam forth as flashes of lightning, rare and vivid, but is more like the ever-bubbling fountain, the perennial spring. It is a kind of permeating force throughout all his works, now lashed into sarcasm and anon dissolved in pathos. It is one of the great mistakes regarding

this author that he is satirical and nothing else. No critic who thus represents him can have either studied his works or caught the spirit and purpose of the man. He is one of the best of English humorists simply because his nature is sensitive at all points. What Carlyle has said of Jean Paul may be said of him. "In his smile itself a touching pathos may lie hidden, a pity too deep for tears. He is a man of feeling in the noblest sense of that word: for he loves all living with the heart of a brother; his soul rushes forth, in sympathy with gladress and sorrow, with goodness or grandeur, over all creation. Every gentle and generous affection, every thrill of mercy, every glow of nobleness, awakens in his bosom a response; nay, strikes his spirit into har mony." It must ever be so. But when the first satirical papers of Thackeray were published the world had only seen one side of his humor. The Snob papers and burlesques, and the memoirs of Mr. Yellowplush, gave place in due time to a richer vein in more important works. The sparkling Champagne was followed, as it were, by the deep rich Burgundy. As Dickens was his superior in the faculty of invention, so was the former eclipsed by the greater depth of Thackeray's penetration. Truth to life distinguishes nearly all the characters of Dickens, those at least which belong to the lower classes; but this truth is the surface truth of caricature rather than of reality. Thackeray takes us below the surface; we travel through the dark scenes of the human comedy with him; he makes his notes and comments without flattery and with astounding realism, and when we part company from his side we wish human nature were somewhat nobler than it is. But his wit does not preclude him from being fair and just. He is ever scrupulously so, and to the erring kind and tender. used to be said occasionally of his works as they appeared, "Ah, there's the same old sneer," so ready is the world to follow the course in which its attention is directed. Speaking of the maligners of society, he says: "You who have ever listened to yillage bells, or have walked to church as children on sunny Sabbath mornings; you who have ever seen the parson's wife tending the poor man's bedside; or the town clergyman threading the dirty stairs of noxious alleys upon his sacred business-do not

It

raise a shout when one of these fall away, or yell with the mob that howls after him." Surely these are noble words to come from one whose intellectural current was set in the direction of contempt! With all his keen sense of the ridiculous and his scathing powers of invective, there is no one instance where for the sake of the brilliance of his satire he ever cast a slur upon truly philanthropic labor, or perilled his reputation for the worship of the pure and the good.

If ever man's humor were useful to instruct as to delight, it is that of Michael Angelo Titmarsh. When he laughs we know he will do it fairly-his eye wanders round all, and neither friend nor foe, if vulnerable, can keep out the arrows of his wit. His position, as a humorist, is certainly that of the equal of most of the wits of whom he has written, and one scarcely inferior to even Swift or Sterne.

A second quality that is observable in him is his fidelity. And to this we do not attach the restricted meaning that the persons of his novels are faithful to naturethough that they incontestably are-but the wide import of being true to the results of life as we see them daily. He does not allow the development of a story to destroy the unities of character, and in this respect he resembles the greatest of all writers. Take an example. At the close of "The Newcomes," instead of preserving alive the noble colonel to witness the happiness of the family in its resuscitated fortunes, Thackeray causes him to die, and that in the humblest manner. With most novelists we could predict a very different ending, but one not so true as Thackeray has had the courage to adopt. Sorrow we may indulge that the death should thus occur, but we must acknowledge that it is more consonant with our daily experience than any other conclusion would have been, however pleasant as matter of fiction. The same thing is noticed in the character of Beatrix Esmond; we are first interested in her; then our faith is gradually shattered; and, finally, we are thoroughly disappointed by the catastrophe. The result is contrary to that which we expected; it is other than would have been given by most writers, but it is none the less true. Take the whole of his creations, let the test of fidelity be applied to each, and it will be found

that the writers are very few indeed who have been so thoroughly able to disentangle themselves from the common method of adapting character to plot, or who have made their individualities so distinct, and kept them so to the end. To place him in comparison with other authors who are distinguished for their delineation of character as character-as witnessed at certain points or stages-is unfair both to him and to them. Conversations, with one, stamp individualities, and the test of their fidelity is the absence of contradiction in the outward forms of speech and action whenever the individuals are introduced—this was the life-painting of Dickens, for instance. With Thackeray the case is different. He does not depend so much on the conversational or descriptive recognition of character. He gives us more of their mind or heart than of their person. He does not tell us what they look like, but what they are; and through all his novels they answer to the bent and the natural instincts we have been led to associate with them. It is this elevated form of fidelity that we would insist upon as preeminently to be noticed in Thackeray; and were it on this ground alone we should not hesitate to place him in the very first rank of novelists. In this essential particular, in truth, he has no rival. Others may excel him in various arts of fiction, but with this passport, even his superiors in minor detail will accord to him a perfect equality, if not a superiority, in the manifestation of the cardinal principle of novel-writing.

The subjectiveness of Thackeray is another quality which has greatly enhanced the value of his works. It is generally admitted that subjective writers have a more powerful influence over humanity than those of the class styled objective. It is natural, perhaps, that the external descriptions of circumstances or scenery should not move us nearly so much as the liferecord of a breathing, suffering, rejoicing human being. Be his station what it may, we are interested in every individual of the species whose career is faithfully pictured. The author of "Vanity Fair" is one of the few men who have been able to endue their characters with being and motion. When there were few writers who had either the courage or the gifts to be natural, Thackeray gave a new impetus to the world of