Aulus Gellius desired to live no longer than he was able to exercise the
faculty of writing; he might have decently added--and of finding
readers! This would be a fatal wish for that writer who should spread
the infection of weariness, without himself partaking of the epidemia.
The mere act and habit of writing, without probably even a remote view
of publication, has produced an agreeable delirium; and perhaps some
have escaped from a gentle confinement by having cautiously concealed
those voluminous reveries which remained to startle their heirs; while
others again have left a whole library of manuscripts, out of the mere
ardour of transcription, collecting and copying with peculiar rapture. I
discovered that one of these inscribed this distich on his manuscript
collection:
Plura voluminibus jungenda volumina nostris,
Nec mihi scribendi terminus ullus erit:
which, not to compose better verses than our original, may be
translated,
More volumes with our volumes still shall blend;
And to our writing there shall be no end!
But even great authors have sometimes so much indulged in the seduction
of the pen, that they appear to have found no substitute for the flow of
their ink, and the delight of stamping blank paper with their hints,
sketches, ideas, the shadows of their mind! Petrarch exhibits no
solitary instance of this passion of the pen, "I read and I write night
and day; it is my only consolation. My eyes are heavy with watching, my
hand is weary with writing. On the table where I dine, and by the side
of my bed, I have all the materials for writing; and when I awake in the
dark, I write, although I am unable to read the next morning what I have
written." Petrarch was not always in his perfect senses.
The copiousness and the multiplicity of the writings of many authors
have shown that too many find a pleasure in the act of composition which
they do not communicate to others. Great erudition and every-day
application is the calamity of that voluminous author, who, without good
sense, and, what is more rare, without that exquisite judgment, which we
call good taste, is always prepared to write on any subject, but at the
same time on no one reasonably. At the early period of printing, two of
the most eminent printers were ruined by the volumes of one author; we
have their petition to the pope to be saved from bankruptcy. Nicholas de
Lyra had inveigled them to print his interminable commentary on the
Bible. Their luckless star prevailed, and their warehouse groaned with
eleven hundred ponderous folios, as immovable as the shelves on which
they for ever reposed! We are astonished at the fertility and the size
of our own writers of the seventeenth century, when the theological war
of words raged, spoiling so many pages and brains. They produced folio
after folio, like almanacs; and Dr. Owen and Baxter wrote more than
sixty to seventy volumes, most of them of the most formidable size. The
truth is, however, that it was then easier to write up to a folio, than
in our days to write down to an octavo; for correction, selection, and
rejection were arts as yet unpractised. They went on with their work,
sharply or bluntly, like witless mowers, without stopping to whet their
scythes. They were inspired by the scribbling demon of that rabbin, who,
in his oriental style and mania of volume, exclaimed that were "the
heavens formed of paper, and were the trees of the earth pens, and if
the entire sea run ink, these only could suffice" for the monstrous
genius he was about to discharge on the world. The Spanish Tostatus
wrote three times as many leaves as the number of days he had lived; and
of Lope de Vega it is said this calculation came rather short. We hear
of another who was unhappy that his lady had produced twins, from the
circumstance that hitherto he had contrived to pair his labours with her
own, but that now he was a book behindhand.
I fix on four celebrated _Scribleri_ to give their secret history; our
Prynne, Gaspar Barthius, the Abbé de Marolles, and the Jesuit Theophilus
Raynaud, who will all show that a book might be written on "authors
whose works have ruined their booksellers."
Prynne seldom dined: every three or four hours he munched a manchet, and
refreshed his exhausted spirits with ale brought to him by his servant;
and when "he was put into this road of writing," as crabbed Anthony
telleth, he fixed on "a long quilted cap, which came an inch over his
eyes, serving as an umbrella to defend them from too much light;" and
then hunger nor thirst did he experience, save that of his voluminous
pages. Prynne has written a library amounting, I think, to nearly two
hundred books. Our unlucky author, whose life was involved in
authorship, and his happiness, no doubt, in the habitual exuberance of
his pen, seems to have considered the being debarred from pen, ink, and
books, during his imprisonment, as an act more barbarous than the loss
of his ears.[349] The extraordinary perseverance of Prynne in this
fever of the pen appears in the following title of one of his
extraordinary volumes. "Comfortable Cordials against discomfortable
Fears of Imprisonment; containing some Latin Verses, Sentences, and
Texts of Scripture, _written by Mr. Wm. Prynne, on his Chamber Walls_,
in the Tower of London, during his imprisonment there; translated by him
into English Verse, 1641." Prynne literally verified Pope's description:
Is there, who locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls.
We have also a catalogue of printed books, written by Wm. Prynne, Esq.,
of Lincoln's Inn, in these classes,
BEFORE }
DURING }
and } _his imprisonment_.
SINCE }
with this motto, "Jucundi acti labores," 1643. The secret history of
this voluminous author concludes with a characteristic event: a
contemporary who saw Prynne in the pillory at Cheapside, informs us that
while he stood there they "burnt his huge volumes under his nose, which
had almost suffocated him." Yet such was the spirit of party, that a
puritanic sister bequeathed a legacy to purchase all the works of Prynne
for Sion College, where many still repose; for, by an odd fatality, in
the fire which happened in that library these volumes were saved, from
the idea that folios were the most valuable![350]
The pleasure which authors of this stamp experience is of a nature
which, whenever certain unlucky circumstances combine, positively
debarring them from publication, will not abate their ardour one jot;
and their pen will still luxuriate in the forbidden page which even
booksellers refuse to publish. Many instances might be recorded, but a
very striking one is the case of Gaspar Barthius, whose "Adversaria,"
in two volumes folio, are in the collections of the curious.
Barthius was born to literature, for Baillet has placed him among his
"Enfans Célèbres." At nine years of age he recited by heart all the
comedies of Terence, without missing a line. The learned admired the
puerile prodigy, while the prodigy was writing books before he had a
beard. He became, unquestionably, a student of very extensive
literature, modern as well as ancient. Such was his devotion to a
literary life, that he retreated from the busy world. It appears that
his early productions were composed more carefully and judiciously than
his latter ones, when the passion for voluminous writing broke out,
which showed itself by the usual prognostic of this dangerous
disease--extreme facility of composition, and a pride and exultation in
this unhappy faculty. He studied without using collections or
references, trusting to his memory, which was probably an extraordinary
one, though it necessarily led him into many errors in that delicate
task of animadverting on other authors. Writing a very neat hand, his
first copy required no transcript; and he boasts that he rarely made a
correction: everything was sent to the press in its first state. He
laughs at Statius, who congratulated himself that he employed only two
days in composing the epithalamium upon Stella, containing two hundred
and seventy-eight hexameters. "This," says Barthius, "did not quite lay
him open to Horace's censure of the man who made two hundred verses in
an hour, 'stans pede in uno.' Not," adds Barthius, "but that I think the
censure of Horace too hyperbolical, for I am not ignorant what it is to
make a great number of verses in a short time, and in three days I
translated into Latin the three first books of the Iliad, which amount
to above two thousand verses." Thus rapidity and volume were the great
enjoyments of this learned man's pen, and now we must look to the
fruits.
Barthius, on the system he had adopted, seems to have written a whole
library; a circumstance which we discover by the continual references he
makes in his printed works to his manuscript productions. In the _Index
Authorum_ to his Statius, he inserts his own name, to which is appended
a long list of unprinted works, which Bayle thinks, by their titles and
extracts, conveys a very advantageous notion of them. All these, and
many such as these, he generously offered the world, would any
bookseller be intrepid or courteous enough to usher them from his press;
but their cowardice or incivility was intractable. The truth is now to
be revealed, and seems not to have been known to Bayle; the booksellers
had been formerly so cajoled and complimented by our learned author, and
had heard so much of the celebrated Barthius, that they had caught at
the bait, and that the two folio volumes of the much referred-to
"Adversaria" of Barthius had thus been published--but from that day no
bookseller ever offered himself to publish again!
The "Adversaria" is a collection of critical notes and quotations from
ancient authors, with illustrations of their manners, customs, laws, and
ceremonies; all these were to be classed into one hundred and eighty
books; sixty of which we possess in two volumes folio, with eleven
indexes. The plan is vast, as the rapidity with which it was pursued:
Bayle finely characterises it by a single stroke--"Its immensity tires
even the imagination." But the truth is, this mighty labour turned out
to be a complete failure: there was neither order nor judgment in these
masses of learning; crude, obscure, and contradictory; such as we might
expect from a man who trusted to his memory, and would not throw away
his time on any correction. His contradictions are flagrant; but one of
his friends would apologise for these by telling us that "He wrote
everything which offered itself to his imagination; to-day one thing,
to-morrow another, in order that when he should revise it again, this
contrariety of opinion might induce him to examine the subject more
accurately." The notions of the friends of authors are as extravagant as
those of their enemies. Barthius evidently wrote so much, that often he
forgot what he had written, as happened to another great book-man, one
Didymus, of whom Quintilian records, that on hearing a certain history,
he treated it as utterly unworthy of credit; on which the teller called
for one of Didymus's own books, and showed where he might read it at
full length! That the work failed, we have the evidence of Clement in
his "Bibliothèque curieuse de Livres difficiles à trouver," under the
article _Barthius_, where we discover the winding up of the history of
this book. Clement mentions more than one edition of the Adversaria; but
on a more careful inspection he detected that the old title-pages had
been removed for others of a fresher date; the booksellers not being
able to sell the book practised this deception. It availed little; they
remained with their unsold edition of the two first volumes of the
Adversaria, and the author with three thousand folio sheets in
manuscript--while both parties complained together, and their heirs
could acquire nothing from the works of an author, of whom Bayle says
that "his writings rise to such a prodigious bulk, that one can scarce
conceive a single man could be capable of executing so great a variety;
perhaps no copying clerk, who lived to grow old amidst the dust of an
office, ever transcribed as much as this author has written." This was
the memorable fate of one of that race of writers who imagine that their
capacity extends with their volume. Their land seems covered with
fertility, but in shaking their wheat no ears fall.
Another memorable brother of this family of the Scribleri is the Abbé de
Marolles, who with great ardour as a man of letters, and in the
enjoyment of the leisure and opulence so necessary to carry on his
pursuits, from an entire absence of judgment, closed his life with the
bitter regrets of a voluminous author; and yet it cannot be denied that
he has contributed one precious volume to the public stock of
literature; a compliment which cannot be paid to some who have enjoyed a
higher reputation than our author. He has left us his very curious
"Memoirs." A poor writer indeed, but the frankness and intrepidity of
his character enable him, while he is painting himself, to paint man.
Gibbon was struck by the honesty of his pen, for he says in his life,
"The dulness of Michael de Marolles and Anthony Wood[351] acquires some
value from the faithful representation of men and manners."
I have elsewhere shortly noticed the Abbé de Marolles in the character
of "a literary sinner;" but the extent of his sins never struck me so
forcibly as when I observed his delinquencies counted up in
chronological order in Niceron's "Hommes Illustres." It is extremely
amusing to detect the swarming fecundity of his pen; from year to year,
with author after author, was this translator wearying others, but
remained himself unwearied. Sometimes two or three classical victims in
a season were dragged into his slaughter-house. Of about seventy works,
fifty were versions of the classical writers of antiquity, accompanied
with notes. But some odd circumstances happened to our extraordinary
translator in the course of his life. De l'Etang, a critic of that day,
in his "Règles de bien traduire," drew all his examples of bad
translation from our abbé, who was more angry than usual, and among his
circle the cries of our Marsyas resounded. De l'Etang, who had done this
not out of malice, but from urgent necessity to illustrate his
principles, seemed very sorry, and was desirous of appeasing the angried
translator. One day in Easter, finding the abbé in church at prayers,
the critic fell on his knees by the side of the translator: it was an
extraordinary moment, and a singular situation to terminate a literary
quarrel. "You are angry with me," said De l'Etang, "and I think you have
reason; but this is a season of mercy, and I now ask your pardon."--"In
the manner," replied the abbé, "which you have chosen, I can no longer
defend myself. Go, sir! I pardon you." Some days after, the abbé again
meeting De l'Etang, reproached him with duping him out of a pardon,
which he had no desire to have bestowed on him. The last reply of the
critic was caustic: "Do not be so difficult; when one stands in need of
a general pardon, one ought surely to grant a particular one." De
Marolles was subject to encounter critics who were never so kind as to
kneel by him on an Easter Sunday. Besides these fifty translations, of
which the notes are often curious, and even the sense may be useful to
consult, his love of writing produced many odd works. His volumes were
richly bound, and freely distributed, but they found no readers! In a
"Discours pour servir de Préface sur les Poëtes, traduits par Michel de
Marolles," he has given an imposing list of "illustrious persons and
contemporary authors who were his friends," and has preserved many
singular facts concerning them. He was indeed for so long a time
convinced that he had struck off the true spirit of his fine originals,
that I find he at several times printed some critical treatise to back
his last, or usher in his new version; giving the world reasons why the
versions which had been given of that particular author, "soit en prose,
soit en vers, ont été si pen approuvées jusqu'ici." Among these numerous
translations he was the first who ventured on the Deipnosophists of
Athenæus, which still bears an excessive price. He entitles his work,
"Les quinze Livres de Deipnosophists d'Athenée, Ouvrage delicieux,
agréablement diversifié et rempli de Narrations, sçavantes sur toutes
Sortes de Matières et de Sujets." He has prefixed various preliminary
dissertations; yet, not satisfied with having performed this great
labour, it was followed by a small quarto of forty pages, which might
now be considered curious; "Analyse, en Déscription succincte des Choses
conténues dans les quinzes Livres de Deipnosophistes." He wrote,
"Quatrains sur les Personnes de la Cour et les Gens de Lettres," which
the curious would now be glad to find. After having plundered the
classical geniuses of antiquity by his barbarous style, when he had
nothing more left to do, he committed sacrilege in translating the
Bible; but, in the midst of printing, he was suddenly stopped by
authority, for having inserted in his notes the reveries of the
Pre-Adamite Isaac Peyrère. He had already revelled on the New Testament,
to his version of which he had prefixed so sensible an introduction,
that it was afterwards translated into Latin. Translation was the mania
of the Abbé de Marolles. I doubt whether he ever fairly awoke out of the
heavy dream of the felicity of his translations; for late in life I find
him observing, "I have employed much time in study, and I have
translated many books; considering this rather as an innocent amusement
which I have chosen for my private life, than as things very necessary,
although they are not entirely useless. Some have valued them, and
others have cared little about them; but however it may be, I see
nothing which _obliges me to believe that they contain not at least as
much good as bad_, both for their own matter and the form which I have
given to them." The notion he entertained of his translations was their
closeness; he was not aware of his own spiritless style; and he imagined
that poetry only consisted in the thoughts, not in grace and harmony of
verse. He insisted that by giving the public his numerous translations,
he was not vainly multiplying books, because he neither diminished nor
increased their ideas in his faithful versions. He had a curious notion
that some were more scrupulous than they ought to be respecting
translations of authors who, living so many ages past, are rarely read
from the difficulty of understanding them; and why should they imagine
that a translation is injurious to them, or would occasion the utter
neglect of the originals? "We do not think so highly of our own works,"
says the indefatigable and modest abbé; "but neither do I despair that
they may he useful even to these scrupulous persons. I will not suppress
the truth, while I am noticing these ungrateful labours; if they have
given me much pain by my assiduity, they have repaid me by the fine
things they have taught me, and by the opinion which I have conceived
that posterity, more just than the present times, will award a more
favourable judgment." Thus a miserable translator terminates his long
labours, by drawing his bill of fame on posterity, which his
contemporaries will not pay; but in these cases, as the bill is
certainly lost before it reaches acceptance, why should we deprive the
drawers of pleasing themselves with the ideal capital?
Let us not, however, imagine that the Abbé de Marolles was nothing but
the man he appears in the character of a voluminous translator; though
occupied all his life on these miserable labours, he was evidently an
ingenious and nobly-minded man, whose days were consecrated to literary
pursuits, and who was among the primitive collectors in Europe of fine
and curious prints. One of his works is a "Catalogue des Livres
d'Estampes et de Figures en Taille-douce." Paris, 1666, in 8vo. In the
preface our author declares, that he had collected one hundred and
twenty-three thousand four hundred prints, of six thousand masters, in
four hundred large volumes, and one hundred and twenty small ones. This
magnificent collection, formed by so much care and skill, he presented
to the king; whether gratuitously given or otherwise, it was an
acquisition which a monarch might have thankfully accepted. Such was the
habitual ardour of our author, that afterwards he set about forming
another collection, of which he has also given a catalogue in 1672, in
12mo. Both these catalogues of prints are of extreme rarity, and are yet
so highly valued by the connoisseurs, that when in France I could never
obtain a copy. A long life may be passed without even a sight of the
"Catalogue des Livres d'Estampes" of the Abbé de Marolles.[352]
Such are the lessons drawn from this secret history of voluminous
writers. We see one venting his mania in scrawling on his prison walls;
another persisting in writing folios, while the booksellers, who were
once caught, like Reynard who had lost his tail, and whom no arts could
any longer practise on, turn away from the new trap; and a third, who
can acquire no readers but by giving his books away, growing grey in
scourging the sacred genius of antiquity by his meagre versions, and
dying without having made up his mind, whether he were as woful a
translator as some of his contemporaries had assured him.
Among these worthies of the Scribleri we may rank the Jesuit, Theophilus
Raynaud, once a celebrated name, eulogised by Bayle and Patin. His
collected works fill twenty folios; an edition, indeed, which finally
sent the bookseller to the poor-house. This enterprising bibliopolist
had heard much of the prodigious erudition of the writer; but he had not
the sagacity to discover that other literary qualities were also
required to make twenty folios at all saleable. Of these "Opera omnia"
perhaps not a single copy can be found in England; but they may be a
pennyworth on the continent. Raynaud's works are theological; but a
system of grace maintained by one work and pulled down by another, has
ceased to interest mankind: the literature of the divine is of a less
perishable nature. Beading and writing through a life of eighty years,
and giving only a quarter of an hour to his dinner, with a vigorous
memory, and a whimsical taste for some singular subjects, he could not
fail to accumulate a mass of knowledge which may still be useful for the
curious; and besides, Raynaud had the Ritsonian characteristic. He was
one of those who, exemplary in their own conduct, with a bitter zeal
condemn whatever does not agree with their own notions; and, however
gentle in their nature, yet will set no limits to the ferocity of their
pen. Raynaud was often in trouble with the censors of his books, and
much more with his adversaries; so that he frequently had recourse to
publishing under a fictitious name. A remarkable evidence of this is the
entire twentieth volume of his works. It consists of the numerous
writings published anonymously, or to which were prefixed _noms de
guerre_. This volume is described by the whimsical title of
_Apopompæus_; explained to us as the name given by the Jews to the
scape-goat, which, when loaded with all their maledictions on its head,
was driven away into the desert. These contain all Raynaud's numerous
_diatribes_; for whenever he was refuted, he was always refuting; he did
not spare his best friends. The title of a work against Arnauld will
show how he treated his adversaries. "Arnauldus redivivus natus Brixiæ
seculo xii. renatus in Galliæ ætate nostra." He dexterously applies the
name of Arnauld by comparing him with one of the same name in the
twelfth century, a scholar of Abelard's, and a turbulent enthusiast, say
the Romish writers, who was burnt alive for having written against the
luxury and the power of the priesthood, and for having raised a
rebellion against the pope. When the learned De Launoi had successfully
attacked the legends of saints, and was called the _Denicheur de
Saints_,--the "Unnicher of Saints," every parish priest trembled for his
favourite. Raynaud entitled a libel on this new iconoclast, "Hercules
Commodianus Joannes Launoius repulsus," &c.; he compares Launoi to the
Emperor Commodus, who, though the most cowardly of men, conceived
himself formidable when he dressed himself as Hercules. Another of these
maledictions is a tract against Calvinism, described as a "religio
bestiarum," a religion of beasts, because the Calvinists deny free will;
but as he always fired with a double-barrelled gun, under the cloak of
attacking Calvinism, he aimed a deadly shot at the Thomists, and
particularly at a Dominican friar, whom he considered as bad as Calvin.
Raynaud exults that he had driven one of his adversaries to take flight
into Scotland, _ad pultes Scoticas transgressus_--to a Scotch pottage;
an expression which Saint Jerome used in speaking of Pelagius. He always
rendered an adversary odious by coupling him with some odious name. On
one of these controversial books where Casalas refuted Raynaud, Monnoye
wrote, "Raynaudus et Casalas inepti; Raynaudo tamen Casalas ineptior."
The usual termination of what then passed for sense, and now is the
reverse!
I will not quit Raynaud without pointing out some of his more remarkable
treatises, as so many curiosities of literature.
In a treatise on the attributes of Christ, he entitles a chapter,
_Christus, bonus, bona, bonum_: in another on the seven-branched
candlestick in the Jewish temple, by an allegorical interpretation, he
explains the eucharist; and adds an alphabetical list of names and
epithets which have been given to this mystery.
The seventh volume bears the title of _Mariolia_: all the treatises
have for their theme the perfections and the worship of the Virgin. Many
extraordinary things are here. One is a dictionary of names given to the
Virgin, with observations on these names. Another on the devotion of the
scapulary, and its wonderful effects, written against De Launoi, and for
which the order of the Carmes, when he died, bestowed a solemn service
and obsequies on him. Another of these "Mariolia" is mentioned by
Gallois in the Journal des Sçavans, 1667, as a proof of his fertility;
having to preach on the seven solemn anthems which the Church sings
before Christmas, and which begin by an O! he made this _letter only_
the subject of his sermons, and barren as the letter appears, he has
struck out "a multitude of beautiful particulars." This literary folly
invites our curiosity.
In the eighth volume is a table of saints, classed by their station,
condition, employment, and trades: a list of titles and prerogatives,
which the councils and the fathers have attributed to the sovereign
pontiff.
The thirteenth volume has a subject which seems much in the taste of the
sermons on the letter O! it is entitled _Laus Brevitatis!_ in praise of
brevity. The maxims are brief, but the commentary long. One of the
_natural_ subjects treated on is that of _Noses_: he reviews a great
number of noses, and, as usual, does not forget the Holy Virgin's.
According to Raynaud, the nose of the Virgin Mary was long and aquiline,
the mark of goodness and dignity; and as Jesus perfectly resembled his
mother, he infers that he must have had such a nose.
A treatise entitled _Heteroclita spiritualia et anomala Pietatis
Cælestium, Terrestrium, et Infernorum_, contains many singular practices
introduced into devotion, which superstition, ignorance, and remissness,
have made a part of religion.
A treatise directed against the new custom of hiring chairs in churches,
and being seated during the sacrifice of the mass. Another on the
Cæsarean operation, which he stigmatises as an act against nature.
Another on eunuchs. Another entitled _Hipparchus de Religioso
Negotiatore_, is an attack on those of his own company; the monk turned
merchant; the Jesuits were then accused of commercial traffic with the
revenues of their establishment. The rector of a college at Avignon,
who thought he was portrayed in this honest work, confined Raynaud in
prison for five months.
The most curious work of Raynaud connected with literature, I possess;
it is entitled _Erotemata de malis ac bonis Libris, deque justa aut
injusta eorundem confixione. Lugduni_, 1653, 4to, with necessary
indexes. One of his works having been condemned at Rome, he drew up
these inquiries concerning good and bad books, addressed to the grand
inquisitor. He divides his treatise into "bad and nocent books; bad
books but not nocent; books not bad, but nocent; books neither bad nor
nocent." His immense reading appears here to advantage, and his
Ritsonian feature is prominent; for he asserts, that when writing
against heretics all mordacity is innoxious; and an alphabetical list of
abusive names, which the fathers have given to the heterodox is entitled
_Alphabetum bestialitatis Hæretici, ex Patrum Symbolis_.
After all, Raynaud was a man of vast acquirement, with a great flow of
ideas, but tasteless, and void of all judgment. An anecdote may be
recorded of him, which puts in a clear light the state of these literary
men. Raynaud was one day pressing hard a reluctant bookseller to publish
one of his works, who replied--"Write a book like Father Barri's, and I
shall be glad to print it." It happened that the work of Barri was
pillaged from Raynaud, and was much liked, while the original lay on the
shelf. However, this only served to provoke a fresh attack from our
redoubtable hero, who vindicated his rights, and emptied his quiver on
him who had been ploughing with his heifer.
Such are the writers who, enjoying all the pleasures without the pains
of composition, have often apologised for their repeated productions, by
declaring that they write only for their own amusement; but such private
theatricals should not be brought on the public stage. One Catherinot
all his life was printing a countless number of _feuilles volantes_ in
history and on antiquities, each consisting of about three or four
leaves in quarto: Lenglet du Fresnoy calls him "grand auteur des petits
livres." This gentleman liked to live among antiquaries and historians;
but with a crooked headpiece, stuck with whims, and hard with knotty
combinations, all overloaded with prodigious erudition, he could not
ease it at a less rate than by an occasional dissertation of three or
four quarto pages. He appears to have published about two hundred
pieces of this sort, much sought after by the curious for their rarity:
Brunet complains he could never discover a complete collection. But
Catherinot may escape "the pains and penalties" of our voluminous
writers, for De Bure thinks he generously printed them to distribute
among his friends. Such endless writers, provided they do not print
themselves into an alms-house, may be allowed to print themselves out;
and we would accept the apology which Monsieur Catherinot has framed for
himself, which I find preserved in _Beyeri Memoriæ Librorum Rariorum_.
"I must be allowed my freedom in my studies, for I substitute my
writings for a game at the tennis-court, or a club at the tavern; I
never counted among my honours these _opuscula_ of mine, but merely as
harmless amusements. It is my partridge, as with St. John the
Evangelist; my cat, as with Pope St. Gregory; my little dog, as with St.
Dominick; my lamb, as with St. Francis; my great black mastiff, as with
Cornelius Agrippa; and my tame hare, as with Justus Lipsius." I have
since discovered in Niceron that this Catherinot could never get a
printer, and was rather compelled to study economy in his two hundred
quartos of four or eight pages: his paper was of inferior quality; and
when he could not get his dissertations into his prescribed number of
pages, he used to promise the end at another time, which did not always
happen. But his greatest anxiety was to publish and spread his works; in
despair he adopted an odd expedient. Whenever Monsieur Catherinot came
to Paris, he used to haunt the _quaies_ where books are sold, and while
he appeared to be looking over them, he adroitly slided one of his own
dissertations among these old books. He began this mode of publication
early, and continued it to his last days. He died with a perfect
conviction that he had secured his immortality; and in this manner had
disposed of more than one edition of his unsaleable works. Niceron has
given the titles of 118 of his things, which he had looked over.