sented as Narcottus, was a great Chess-player: and although Caxton's "Game at Chess" is a mere dull morality, having nothing to do with the game strictly so called, yet he would have everything in his library where the word "Chess" was introduced. In the words of the old catch, he would "add the night unto the day" in the prosecution of his darling recreation, and boasted of having once given a signal defeat to the Rev. Mr. Bowdler, after having been defeated himself by Lord Henry Seymour, the renowned chess-champions of the Isle of Wight. He said he once sat upon Phillidor's knee, who patted his cheek, and told him "there was nothing like Chess and English roast beef."

The notice of poor George Faulkner at page 199—one of the more celebrated book-binders of the day, is amplified at page 524 of the second volume of the Decameron; where the painful circumstances attending his death are slightly mentioned. He yet lives, and lives strongly, in my remembrance. Since then, indeed within a very few years, the famous CHARLES LEWIS-of whose bibliopegistic renown the Decameronic pages have expatiated fully-has ceased to be. He was carried off suddenly by an apoplectic seizure. His eldest son-a sort of "spes altera Romæ," in his way-very quickly followed the fate of his father. The name of LEWIS will be always held high in the estimation of bibliopegistic Virtuosi. But the art of Book-binding is not deteriorating and I am not sure whether John Clarke, of Frith Street, Soho, be not as "mighty a man" in his way as any of his predecessors. There is a solidity, strength, and squareness of workmanship about his

books, which seem to convince you that they may be tossed from the summit of Snowdon to that of Cader Idris without detriment or serious injury. His gilding is first rate; both for choice of ornament and splendour of gold. Nor is his coadjutor, WILLIAM Bedford, of less potent renown. He was the great adjunct of the late Charles Lewis-and imbibes the same taste and the same spirit of perseverance. Accident brought me one morning in contact with a set of the New Dugdale's Monasticon, bound in blue morocco, and most gorgeously bound and gilded, lying upon the table of Mr. James Bohn-a mountain of bibliopegistic grandeur! A sort of irrepressible awe kept you back even from turning over the coats or covers! And what a WORK-deserving of pearls and precious stones in its outward garniture! "Who was the happy man to accomplish such a piece of binding?" observed I. "Who BUT John Clarke?"-replied the Bibliopole.

Good binding-even Roger-Payne-binding—is gadding abroad every where. At Oxford, they have "a spirit" of this description who loses a night's rest if he haplessly shave off the sixteenth part of an inch of a rough edge of an uncut Hearne. My friend, Dr. Bliss, has placed volumes before me, from the same mintage, which have staggered belief as an indigenous production of Academic soil. At Reading, also, some splendid leaves are taken from the same Book. Mr. Snare, the publisher, keeps one of the most talented bookbinders in the kingdom-from the school of Clarke; and feeds him upon something more substantial than rose leaves and jessamine blossoms. He is a great man for a harlequin's jacket and would have gone crazy at the sight of some of the specimens at Strawberry Hill. No man can put a varied-coloured morocco coat upon the back of a book with greater care, taste, and success, than our Reading Bibliopegist.

PART V.

THE DRAWING-ROOM.

THIS Part is a copious continuation of the History of Book Collectors and Collections up to the year 1810. There is nothing to add in the way of CHARACTER; and the subject itself is amply continued in the tenth day of the Bibliographical Decameron. In both works will be found, it is presumed, a fund of information and amusement, so that the Reader will scarcely demand an extension of the subject. Indeed, a little volume would hardly suffice to render it the justice which it merits; but I am bound to make special mention of the untameable perseverance, and highly refined taste, of B. G. Windus, Esq., one of my earliest and steadiest supporters: and yet, doth he not rather take up a sitting in the ALCOVE-amongst Illustrators of fine Works?