BOOKS AND BOOK-CASES.

HOW different are the tests by which we try our friends' characters! What different standards do we form, and how variously do we apply them! A man's taste in pictures, in tobacco, in wine, and in society, all serve as touchstones, to be applied to him by one or another of his friends. Mere acquaintances judge you by your gait, your clothes, the sound of your voice, the tie of your cravat, and the smoothness of your hair. And even in this they do not seem to be consistent, often applying the test in an exactly opposite manner to different persons. But however that may be, believe me, there is not one of your pet oddities that does not go a great way in the estimate that some one forms of your character. I have here an excellent opportunity for boring my reader with a disquisition on prejudices, and for giving him several awful warnings on the sin of hating a man because he wears a peculiar-shaped hat. Alas! I am afraid that in this respect the human race is incorrigible, so I will give the reader, instead of a tirade, some estimates of their character that I have formed from men's books. I do not mean literary character; for to tell the readers of the Crimson that I have discovered a man's literary tastes by examining the books that he owns would be rather superfluous. But oftentimes one displays more of his character in his book-case than he has any idea of. First there is the book-case itself, by which we can estimate his sense of the aesthetic, the amount of his allowance, and by a careful examination of the corners, for the dents left by Indian clubs, we can tell whether he is kindly disposed towards athletics. We can even go beyond himself, and by taking the depth of the dust on the top, we can make a pretty fair estimate of his goody. Then there are the books themselves, their condition, number, and bindings. And here let me warn you to beware of him who allows his books to stand upside down. One who will do this will do anything. What a shock it gives you, in looking along an otherwise orderly shelf, to come upon a book looking piteously at you with its title at the bottom and the publisher's name at the top. A man may turn me upside down, but not my books.

And now let me ask the reader to go with me to several rooms and examine the book-cases that we shall find there. The first room that we enter presents us with a small hanging book-case which displays nothing but a dreary waste of text-books. Such a collection can belong to either of two men, and to which, the books before us belong, can easily be decided by a glance at the rest of the furniture. If the pictures are racing prints and ballet-dancers, if a string of champagne corks adorns the chandelier, and a rifle occupies a conspicuous place, we may quickly conclude that the occupant would buy no books at all if not obliged to, and is a bummer; what particular line he pursues can be easily discovered by all his furniture except his book-case; and as we are more particularly concerned with this, we leave his species for the present, and shall describe the only other man who can be the possessor of text-books and nothing else. This is a grind of the narrow-minded sort, who studies all the time on the lessons which are set him, but whose mind is chained down to the recitations that he goes to from day to day. He studies French or German perhaps, and takes the highest place on the rank-list in those studies; but to read anything in either language besides what is read in class, is an idea that never enters his mind. For him, the finest library has no more attractions than his own collection of well-thumbed text-books. He works hard and conscientiously, we cannot blame him for the smallness of his brain, but only wonder why he came to Harvard.

We speedily leave this soulless being and enter a room in which the book-case shows us a row or two of text-books in admirable condition, and a shelf of nicely bound standard works, such as Shakspere, Milton, Macaulay, and so forth. The books all stand exactly upright, each one is in its proper place, and not a speck of dust can be seen on any of them. On seeing such a book-case in a room, I immediately look to see if my boots have left any mud on the carpet, I feel uncomfortable about my umbrella, and wish that I had left it on the door-mat outside. And when we leave, I am sure that if I listened at the door, I should hear my late host straightening my chair, and in like manner obliterating the other traces of our call.

In another room, we find a handsome set of shelves of the "Eastlake pattern," filled with well-bound books. The whole affair adds a great deal to the general effect of the room. In fact, it harmonizes perfectly with everything else there. It is neither too large nor too small, too wide nor too high. The books are not too brightly gilt, nor are they too sombre. But this is the very thing that leads me to doubt. I cannot believe that, however sincere in construction the book-case may be, the owner's heart is in his books. I fear that the book-case is only there because it does harmonize with the room. I am afraid that the books, if not bought by the cubic foot, were purchased more for the sake of the gilded leather than the printed paper. Let us leave this man who, I cannot help thinking, notwithstanding his taste, to be a bit of a snob, and let us pass the evening with the friend whose book-case does not harmonize with his room, but is full of the best English books and a few from the "pleasant land of France."

M.