I love old books. The paper is thicker and has a certain feel to it. They have a scent and a weight in the hands, a feeling of substance. The covers may be leather or cloth, and they impart a dignity to the volume. Somehow old books just seem to have a significance that the newer volumes, however beautiful the cover or dust jacket may be, just don’t match.
The picture above is the cover of a copy of Marmion by Sir Walter Scott. It is difficult to say for sure, but I think it must have been originally white, with gilding in the tooled designs surrounding the center illustration of the young woman in the garden. There is no page giving printing or publishing information. It is a small book, of a size to slip easily into a small purse (or even a reticule) or pocket. It was obviously a dainty item, I think intended to be a gift for a special young lady.
It did not surface until after she had passed away, so I could not ask my grandmother how she came by it. There may be a reason why the page with publication data is missing-might there have been an inscription that was too sensitive to keep? Possibly a romantic gift from someone, kept after the romance had ended? It was hidden away so I suspect it was a keepsake from long ago. I can picture her taking it out occasionally, turning it over in her hands, reading a passage here and there. I hope it brought a smile. I treasure this little book because, as battered and worn as it is, it still has a faded loveliness, and because it was obviously important to my grandmother. It’s inspiring to think what might have been…
