Entries from March 2006 ↓

In torrid heats of late July,
In March, beneath the bitter bise,
He book-hunts while the loungers fly–
He book-hunts, though December freeze;
In breeches baggy at the knees,
And heedless of the public jeers,
For these, for these, he hoards his fees–
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!

No dismal stall escapes his eye,
He turns o’er tomes of low degrees,
There soiled romanticists may lie,
Or Restoration comedies;
Each tract that flutters in the breeze
For him is charged with hopes and fears,
In mouldy novels fancy sees
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.

With restless eyes that peer and spy,
Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,
In dismal nooks he loves to pry,
Whose motto ever more is Spes!
But ah! the fabled treaure flees;
Grown rarer with the fleeting years,
In rich men’s shelves they take their ease,–
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!

ENVOY

Prince, all the things that tease and please,–
Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears,
What are they but such toys as these–
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?

Andrew Lang, in “Ballades and Verses Vain.”

The Boston Terrier and All About It, by Edward Axtell. 1910.

I post-processed this one, and because I did, I’m going to share a picture with you:

Bookp(h)ile

Wits and Beaux of Society, by Grace Wharton and Phillip Wharton.

Thanks to Patricia A. Benoy for post-processing this book.

Bookp(h)ile

A curious incident occurred at Ascot. While a large number of pleasant luncheon parties were enjoying the delights of an open-air repast in the gardens behind the grand stand a great swam of bees settled down on the guests around a table in a corner, says London Telegraph. They buzzed and buzzed everywhere. Ladies had bees in their bonnets and gentlemen found their hats turned into striking likenesses of “Catch-’em-alive-oh’s.” Some of the swarm settled on the cold salmon, and other members of it tumbled into the champagne cup. In fact, the bees created the greatest consternation among the ladies and gentlemen in that portion of the grounds. They were gradually drawn off the luncheon party by a gentlemen, to whom occurred the happy idea of treating them to a little music on a metal tray under a tree. After the tapping or tinkling on the article had continued for two or three moments the queen bee settled on the branches above to listen to it, and was at once followed by all the swarm. It was an extraordinary sight to see hundreds of the insects hanging like great black and gold clusters on the tree while the tinklink continued. It ceased with the luncheon, and the bees did no more harm. In the earlier part of the performance a lady was pretty severely stung.

Among the products of the country around Pare, in Brazil, are vampire bats, which are so dangerous that the natives are obliged to guard carefully against their intrusion into their dwellings. A letter says that a party of Americans recently had an unpleasant experience with them. They were on an excursion up the Amazon, and at night one of them was bled so badly by a vampire as to awake, in a state of exhaustion, with a face like a corpse. The foot of his hammock and the floor beneath it was saturated with blood, the flow of which was checked with much difficulty. It is this difficulty of staunching the blood which makes the vampire so dreaded–the quantity which the creature requires to satisfy its appetite being comparatively trifling. Some persons seem to be especially liable to their attacks, while others can sleep in a room infested by them nightly with impunity. They only make their attacks in darkness, and a light kept burning in a sleeping-room is an effectual safeguard.

Warlord of Kor, by Terry Carr. This science fiction novella is quite a bit younger than my normal Project Gutenberg fare, having been published in 1963. The project manager has been working very diligently to identify mid-20th century science fiction works that have not had their copyrights renewed. This is one of them.

I post-processed it — practically jumping up and down in my message to the project manager requesting it as a project — and did something I seldom do: recorded every (putative) typo that I changed. I’m not exactly sure why I did that. Let me know if you find it interesting or inane, please. As a post-processor, I’m often caught trying to decide if I want to make a “Project Gutenberg” edition based on a particular published item, or if I want to preserve an edition as printed, including all of its faults. Some things get changed anyway, such as removing page headers and footers. Is that wrong? At what point does it become a new thing?

An entire family of seven were taken into custody at Cleveland charged with insanity. The family consists of Henry Buchwold, the father; Charlotte Buchwold, his wife, and two grown daughters, Eva and Emma, and three small children. All of the members of the family are strong believers in the spiritualistic faith and have been locked in their home over a week holding wildly insane seances. One daughter believed that she was a spirit and the others believed that she must die. The spirit was willing to be sacrificed, but the officers arrived in time to prevent it.

A singular phenomenon was observed in the sixth ward, of this city, on the evening of the 7th inst. the day of the election. About half past seven o’clock in the evening, as the inspectors of the election were sealing up the ballots at Mr. McDonald’s store, a peculiar light was seen near the horizon in the south. For some minutes it was stationary and seemed to expand to the size of a large ham, and then contract almost to a point; then suddenly it shot like a rocket into the heavens at an angle of about 37-½ degrees. As it approached the sixth ward it passed directly over the street east of McDonald’s store, lighting up the entire neighborhood so brilliantly that a newspaper could have been read any where within three and a half blocks. As it passed by with a strange, whirling, buzzing sound, the inspectors of the election, Harry Hill at thei[r] head, rushed ed [sic] to the door and ex-alderman Woodruff says that he clearly detected a sharp sulphurous stench, reminding him of that cheerful theology in which he takes so much spiritual delight. The speed of this rollicking meteor appeared to slacken as it passed by McDonald’s store. Its form seemed to be angular, jagged and grotesque–a witty, laughing rhonibus [sic]. Suddenly the light expanded and in a moment after the aerolite struck the earth with a hiss and a thud. The next morning, as some medical students were going down town, they discovered the exact spot where it struck the ground near the south east corner of Alderman Peebles’ house in the middle of the the street crossing. News of the discovery soon spread in the neighborhood and by 8 a. m. several of the leading men of the ward gathered to “view the remains.” Mr. J. A. Scott, A. Wood, Charles Mc’Omber, Brother Woodruff, Prof. D’Ooge, Prof. Adams, Israel Hall and others were present and were much interested in examining the fragments of this strange visitor from another world, as they lay scattered upon the crossing. Alderman Martin seemed to be much affected, and as he reflected upon the crooked course of the strange fragment and the narrow escape of his friend Peebles from its fall, various and conflicting emotions struggled in his manly breast, and he “grinned a ghastly smile.” Supervisor Brown was there, and as he heard his distinguished constituents discussing the question whence came this remarkable projectile, a charming blush, like unto a maiden’s flush, spread over his benign face and crept beneath the auburn locks of his hair, while those who watched him closely could see a curious twinkle of the eye as he stirred the fragments of this busted aerolite with his cane. As the crowd was about to disperse, Mayor Smith drove furiously to the spot, and mounting the seat of his carriage, cried out, “Were did the lightning strike?” Upon hearing the impertinent inquiry Alderman Peebles, who had been a silent spectator of the gathering, suddenly returned to his virtuous cottage and closed its door upon the scene.