In the case, however, of more recent books bound in tattered or perished calf, books of which one may obtain duplicates at any time, except they be works of extreme value there is no reason why they should not be re-bound. Even here, however, the collector must tread warily; for should he send his copy of Tim Bobbin's Lancashire dialogue of _Tummus and Meary_ to the binders with brief instruction that it is to be bound in full morocco, it may be returned to him in all the splendour of a sixteenth-century Florentine binding.
With regard to books published in cardboard covers with paper backs and paper labels, what is to be done with these when the backs are dirty or torn off, the labels of some volumes missing? Must they be re-bound in leather or cloth? Not necessarily, and I for my part maintain that the delightful ease which one experiences in handling them when reading the early editions of Byron, Scott, or Irving, and those writers who flourished in the first few decades of the nineteenth century when books were commonly issued in this form, is sufficient excuse for retaining them in their original shape. Such volumes may easily be made presentable at the cost of a little time and trouble, as I shall presently show.
An appearance of antiquity is never a _desideratum_ to the honest book-collector. I say 'honest' advisedly, for there have been--and doubtless are--persons so misguided as to stoop to the fabrication of certain small and excessively valuable books. To such, an appearance of age is no doubt indispensable in their wares. But these are torments which afflict the wealthy only; and for this I at least am sincerely thankful.
There is no doubt, however, that in the collection of many things antiquity in appearance is desirable: witness the modern fabrication of 'antique' furniture and pottery. Our book-hunter was once acquainted with a certain country gentleman, a learned man and most excellent companion, whose passion for rare things once got the better of his judgment. It was not books that he collected, but butterflies; and he was inordinately proud of a rather seedy-looking 'Large Copper' which his cabinet contained. For the benefit of his admiring entomological friends he would recite how his grandfather had caught it with his hat when on a holiday in the Fens. It grew to be quite an exciting tale. One day, however, in the course of a country ramble they fell to discussing the romancer, or man who resorts to fiction that his adventures may be the more interesting. And as (for the sake of argument) the man of books affected to praise him, remarking that any soulless fool can tell the bald truth whereas it requires an artistic temperament to adorn a tale with realistic embellishment (!), his friend turned to him eagerly. Being encouraged, he confessed that his Large Copper was not all that it appeared to be. In short, the bookman discovered that he had secured it himself while on a summer tour in Switzerland, and with the aid of a camel's-hair brush had succeeded in reducing it to a venerable state.