s, 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 Romae," 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 o