There must be both a judgment and a fervor; a discrimination and a
boyish eagerness; and (with all due humility) something of a point
of contact between authors worth reading and the reader.—LEIGH HUNT,
MY BOOKS.
A truly good book is something as natural and as unexpectedly and
unaccountably fair and perfect as a wild flower discovered on the
prairies of the West or in the jungles of the East.—THOREAU.
A CERTAIN selfish satisfaction I enjoy in reading a fine limited edition
of a classic, or a choice work that is difficult to procure. It is like
possessing a gem of an uncommon color, a piece of old Chinese glaze, or
any rare art object. If the work itself possess intrinsic value I am
sure of my investment, while I rejoice in its attractive guise. Reading
thus becomes more than a pleasure; it is an exquisite luxury. I marvel
who secures all the “number 1’s” of the large-paper editions. Some
bibliotaphe must have a monumental collection, for nobody ever sees one.
“The passion for first editions, the purest of all passions,” some one
remarks. I confess I do not share this passion in its intensity, in all
cases, unless the first edition be superior in letterpress or form, or a
later edition has been altered, condensed, or enlarged to its
disadvantage. The classics in first editions, and the “old melodious
lays” in first folios by all means, if you can afford and procure them;
Gibbon, Macaulay, Scott, Dickens, and the rest of the historians and
novelists in the easiest, most attractive page to read and hold in the
hand, whatever the edition. This with reference to literature proper,
and not to scientific works, of which latter the latest edition is
naturally to be preferred.
I sometimes find myself picturing the author behind the page. Lang and
Dobson, are they as merry as the songs they sing? Phil Robinson, is he
half so pleasant a companion in the flesh as on the printed page?
Bullen, who edits the old poets with such consummate taste, is he as
jolly as the Elizabethan lyrics ever swarming on the tip of his tongue?
Higginson, so tender and musical in his polished prose, I wonder does he
lose his temper when the _sauce piquante_ proves a failure? The
brilliant, entertaining philosopher of A Club of One, is he
philosophical enough to eschew colchicum for his gout; and, I marvel, is
he enrolled among the Brotherhood of the Merry Eye?
Perhaps the author is most charming, for the most part, between the
covers. On paper he is always on his good behavior, his personal facets
shaped so as to catch the most favorable light. Knowing him and meeting
him in every-day life you might find him cold, arrogant, opinionated—an
altogether disagreeable companion. Forgetful of the flight of time, he
might be prone to argument or backbiting. He might be deaf or
color-blind, and always late at his engagements. He might be constantly
straddling a hobby-horse. He might be an incorrigible whistler, or
possess an ungovernable temper. All his petty weaknesses and foibles he
conceals, or tries to conceal, on the printed page.
Thus, Joseph Boulmier:
Oui, les hommes sont laids, mais leurs œuvres sont belles;
Les hommes sont méchants, mais leurs livres sont bons.
Men are unlovely, but their works are fair—
Ay, men are evil, but their books are good.
If, as has been asserted, he is the best author who gives the reader the
most knowledge and takes from him the least time, surely the olive crown
should be awarded the composers of the compilations, the digests, and
the anthologies, often the fruit of decades spent in poring over
manuscripts and print. Little do we consider the pains they have cost.
What an amount of rummaging through faded manuscripts, what ransacking
of musty folios and plodding through by-ways of the past has it not
required to produce Bullen’s smiling volumes from the song-books,
masques, and pageants of the Elizabethan Age, and his other rarer
anthologies, Speculum Amantis and Musa Proterva. The works themselves of
very many of the authors quoted would be a veritable labor to wade
through, with few fragrant flowers of poesy to perfume the way. All this
the compiler spares us, and with catholic taste gathers a blossom here
and a blossom there from the vast fields of little-known song. Equally
does Mr. Bullen deserve the thanks of every lover of lyric poetry for
his collection of Campion’s works, and the Chiswick press the tribute of
all admirers of beautiful printing for the frame in which Campion’s
“golden cadence” has been set.
By reading Hazlitt’s Gleanings in Old Garden Literature I am saved the
fatigue of perusing countless uninteresting tomes on the subject. He has
extracted the honey for me from innumerable flowers. Yet my Parkinson,
my Gerarde, my Evelyn, my Bacon I must read between the lines myself; it
is to the dull books he has been the bee for me. To gather the sweets is
often a difficult and always a laborious task. Not these plodding
compilers, the class who are referred to in the wise old precept, the
source of which I have never been able to trace: “Those who do not
practice what they preach resemble those sign-posts in the country which
point out the weary way to the traveler without taking the trouble of
traversing it themselves.”
Without doubt, among the most beloved of books are those written for
pure love of the beautiful, distinct from literary ambition or
posthumous fame, especially when to this is added a sympathetic, lucid,
and unconscious style, such as we love to linger over in The Complete
Angler or White’s Selborne. Walton himself has epitomized this charm in
a line introductory to his angling idyl: “I wish the reader also to take
notice that in the writing of it I have made myself a recreation of a
recreation.”
Johnson has said books that you may carry to the fire and hold readily
in your hand are the most useful, after all. Before Johnson, and long
before printing was dreamed of, an old Greek proverb held that a great
book was a great evil, and Martial wrote:
Buy books that but one hand engage,
In parchment bound, with tiny page.
Assuredly, the little book is a delight. It is a joy in the hand when
well bound, and may serve to take the place of fire-arms in a public
conveyance where one otherwise might find himself at the mercy of an
uncongenial or too loquacious passenger. But the life of the library
were dull were it confined to the 18 and 24 mos. Let each book and each
subject have its appropriate setting, and let there be variety of sizes.
The majesty of the shelves were fled without the thick quarto and tall
old folio.
Apart from De Bury, Dibdin, Disraeli, Burton, Didot, Janin, the
bibliophile Jacob, and other universally known bibliographical writers,
there are innumerable pleasant books on books. Of such, in addition to
those previously alluded to, may be specified Lang’s Books and Bookmen
and The Library; The Pleasures of a Bookworm and The Diversions of a
Bookworm, by J. Rogers Rees, delightfully written volumes attractively
printed by Elliott Stock; Alexander Ireland’s Book-Lover’s Enchiridion;
Saunder’s The Story of Some Famous Books; Wheatley’s The Dedication of
Books, and How to form a Library, the latter three volumes likewise
daintily printed by Elliott Stock in the series of The Book-Lovers’
Library.
In A Club Corner, by A. P. Russell, a volume previously mentioned, is
largely devoted to books and authors. A store-house of literary and
bibliographical information exists between the covers of Library Notes,
and Characteristics, by the same author. Books and how to use Them is
the title of an instructive and entertaining small duodecimo by J. C.
Van Dyke, librarian of the Sage Library, New Brunswick, N. J., a writer
deep versed in books, but not shallow in himself. Brander Mathews’s
Ballads of Books, or Lang’s recast of this volume, is a most excellently
chosen collection of poems relating to books. Every one will read with
pleasure Percy Fitzgerald’s The Book Fancier, or the Romance of
Book-Collecting, a work replete with curious information. The French
scholar has a host of kindred works to choose from, all written _de
cœur_; for in France the passion for books, book-collecting, fine
letterpress, and fine bindings exists to a greater degree than anywhere
else. It was a Frenchman, the famed _bouquineur_ Nodier, who worried
through life without a copy of Virgil “because he could not succeed in
finding the ideal Virgil of his dreams.”
What instructive, sparkling volumes are these: L’Enfer du Bibliophile,
Mes Livres, Connaissances Nécessaires à un Bibliophile, Derome’s Le Luxe
des Livres and the two beautifully-printed and entertaining volumes,
Causeries d’un Ami des Livres, Le Petit’s L’Art d’Aimer les Livres,
Peignot’s Manuel du Bibliophile, Octave Uzanne’s Caprices d’un
Bibliophile, Mouravit’s Petite Bibliothèque d’Amateur, Jacob’s Les
Amateurs de Vieux Livres, and how many more!
I know of no more fascinating volume of its class, however, than De
Resbecq’s Voyages Littéraires sur les Quais de Paris, Paris, A. Durand,
1857. The contents are in the form of letters from an indefatigable
hunter of the book-stalls along the Seine to a fellow-bibliophile in the
provinces. Daily, through summer’s sun and winter’s cold, he continues
the chase, scenting the spoils of the stalls like a harrier beating the
ground for game, chatting with the book dealers, and philosophizing as
he scans the volumes. Among the many prizes which persistent foragings
secured was a copy of that rarest of the Elzevirs, the Pastissier
François. The volume had been denuded of its covers, but had the
engraved title-page, the celebrated _scène de cuisine_ with the range,
the tables, the cooks, and the fowls entirely intact. “The box in which
this jewel reposed, its interior in perfect preservation, contained no
price-mark.
“‘How much?’ said I to the merchant.
“‘Well, for you, six sous; is it too dear?’”
I recall few more delightful books for the bibliophile than Jules
Richard’s beautifully-printed small volume L’Art de Former une
Bibliothèque, published by Edouard Rouveyre, Paris, 1883. His advice to
the collector, which terminates the preface, is well worth transcribing:
“Always distrust your enthusiasm.
“Distrust the enormous prices at which certain original editions of
secondary authors are quoted. For acknowledged genius one can afford to
pay generously, but for the others, how many disappointments the future
has in store!
“Never pay a high price for a book you do not know.
“Verify the titles, the pagination, the tables, and count the plates, if
it is an illustrated book.
“The same observation holds good for editions on extraordinary paper of
books absolutely ordinary. Whatman and vellum require to be well placed
in order to sustain their value.
“One knows when he begins to collect, one never knows when he will
cease; therein consists the pleasure.”
A work of much interest is that of Philomeste Junior (Gustave Brunet),
published in four small _brochure_ volumes severally entitled La
Bibliomanie en 1878, 1880, 1881, 1883, ou Bibliographie Rétrospective
des Adjudications les Plus Remarquables faites cette Année, et de la
Valeur primitive de ces Ouvrages. It is in France that bibliomania seems
to have reached its apotheosis. La Bibliomanie furnishes some
interesting facts with regard to the steady advance in the prices of
certain classes of French books. “Fashion dictates her laws for the
choice of books as for the toilet of fashionable ladies; they are
without appeal.” To be the happy possessor of a cabinet in which are
enshrined a dozen tomes of unexceptional condition, illustrated by
celebrated eighteenth-century artists like Eisen, Gravelot, Moreau,
Marillier, and bound by Du Seuil, Padeloup, Derome, or Trautz, calls for
an elastic portemonnaie.
To cite a few examples of the advance in French books, paralleled also
in English books, a copy of Manon Lescaut (1753) sold in 1839 for 109
frs., in 1870 for 355 frs., in 1875 for 1,335 frs. The edition of
Montaigne’s Essays: Bourdens, S. Millanges, 1580, two parts in one
octavo vol., sold for 24 frs., in 1784. The same copy recently sold for
2,060 frs. Another edition of the Essays, 1725, 3 vols. 4to, with the
arms of the Maréchal de Luxembourg, brought 2,900 frs. for the “arms.”
Still another edition, Paris, 1669, 3 vols., 12mo, a poor edition,
brought 1,960 frs. at the Cormon sale, Paris, 1883. It had the stamp of
the golden fleece, the insignia of Longpierre, a mediocre poet, and the
purchaser paid for the fleece. The edition of 1595, Paris, chez A.
l’Angelier, 1 vol., infol. veau, brought 1,100 frs., in 1881. A “clean
and sound copy” of this edition in the original calf was quoted in a
recent London catalogue at £12 12_s._, another London dealer pricing a
copy of the same edition soon afterward at £60.
The edition of 1588, Paris, Abel l’Angelier, in 4, mar., Du Seuil, was
recently quoted by Morgand who is termed _la bourse des livres_, at
4,000 frs. This was the last edition published during the author’s
lifetime, and the first to contain the third book. It was marked on the
frontispiece “fifth edition,” though only three are known to have
preceded it. The library of Bordeaux possesses an example of this
edition filled with annotations and corrections by the hand of
Montaigne. Up to the present time, no editor of the Essais has availed
himself of these resources, of inestimable value from the point of view
of the study of the text of Montaigne. It would be of more than passing
interest to know whether in these corrections the author mitigated his
observation with regard to authors correcting their work.
A copy of the Pastissier François, bound by Trautz, was purchased not
long since by a French amateur for 4,100 frs. In 1883 a copy sold for
3,100 frs., at the sale of M. Delestre-Cormon, Paris. “This _broché_
copy, uncut (extremely rare in this condition), cost its owner 10,000
frs.; it has suffered a justifiable reduction. Despite the entire
absence of interest it presents, this volume being the least known of
the Elzevir collection, it has often obtained enormous prices, but they
are not sustained; it has been recognized that its rarity has been
exaggerated.”
Among the numerous causes, especially in France, which operate in the
value of a volume are previous distinguished ownership, and the garb of
an illustrious binder. In books the habit frequently makes the “monk.”
It is sufficient for a mediocre work to be emblazoned with the crest of
Pompadour or to have been fingered by Du Barry to make it worth its
weight in gold. All their _légèretés_ are freely forgiven by the
bibliophile in view of the lovely bindings with which they clothed their
books. Of recent years, as is well known, the Greek and Latin classics
have found far less favor than they did a few years since. In France,
and equally in England, the craze is for first editions of standard
works, for rare works, for works formerly belonging to some
distinguished personage, for rare or beautiful bindings, and for special
beauty of letterpress or illustration.
A late illustrated catalogue, issued by Bouton, the New York bookseller,
furnishes some interesting facts with regard to the increase in the
price of books in this country. If we consider the rapidly advancing
taste for literature in America, it is safe to predict that it will not
be long before rare and valuable books will be as generally sought for
here as they are in France and England, and become as well distributed
as are the choice treasures of the world of art which find the highest
competition in the metropolis of the New World.
Reviewing the book trade of the past thirty years, a retrospect shows
that year by year the competition for rare and standard books has become
more keen and the older ones necessarily more and more difficult to
procure. “In the English book-centers,” says the reviewer, “besides a
large home demand, the purchases for the United States and the English
colonies keep up a steady stream outward, and first editions must sooner
or later become unattainable, as they will ultimately find a place in
public institutions.” Comparing the prices quoted in early catalogues
with those of to-day, for instance, a copy of the Abbotsford edition of
Scott’s works, 17 vols., handsomely whole-bound, priced twenty-five
years since at $125, is now priced at $225. The Pickering Chaucer, then
priced at $10, is now held at $30. Major Walpole’s Anecdotes, priced
$22.50, is in the present catalogue at $75. Rowlandson’s Dance of Death
at $6.50 and the Dance of Life at $1.75 have advanced to $75, for the
three volumes. In catalogue No. 2 a fine copy of Purchas’s Pilgrims is
quoted at $175. A similar copy would now command $500. In Catalogue No.
3 a fine copy of the Nuremberg Chronicle is priced at $35; in the
present catalogue a copy is priced $150. Based upon an experience of
over thirty years, the reviewer asserts that, however fashion may change
and this or that class of books come into or pass out of vogue, good
sterling books of real merit will always be in demand, while the first
editions of the works of great writers will continue to rise steadily in
value, and will be prized as long as the English language is spoken.
_La chasse aux bouquins_ is not without its disappointments and
surprises. Time and again one misses the mark, finally to secure a rare
prize. A captivating title is not always a safe target. Appearances are
deceitful in book-titles, and the old book catalogues have very winning
ways. The two bound volumes of Les Trois Mousquetaires, which I picked
up in a book-stall along the quay at Paris years ago, contained a pencil
drawing of Porthos inserted between the fly-leaf and title-page of
Volume I, worth a hundred times their cost. Fortunately, they had
escaped De Resbecq. Whether Edouard Olin, the artist whose name figures
below, ever exhibited a picture in the _Salon_ subsequently, I do not
know. But his Porthos is a marvel of conception and execution that would
have delighted Dumas and that would honor Détaille.
A German catalogue was the means of procuring me, at half the original
cost of the volume, a clean and perfect copy of Joseph Boulmier’s Rimes
Loyales. Paris: Poulet-Malassis et De Brosse, 1857. The copy contains on
the false title the author’s _ex dono_ to Mademoiselle Andréa Bourgeois,
and on the reverse of the title-page, in the same singularly neat
handwriting, signed “J. B.,” is a poem of six stanzas, scarcely exceeded
in beauty and finish by any from the pen of the author of Rimes Loyales
or Les Villanelles. The lines are entitled Du Haut de Montmartre, the
first and sixth stanzas being identical, and reading as follows:
L’aigle n’habite pas au fond de la vallée
Il choisit pour son aire une cime isolée,
Et c’est de là qu’il part, libre et capricieux.
Le poète est semblable à l’aigle magnanime:
Il aime les hauteurs où l’air vif le ranime,
Où, plus loin de la terre, il est plus près des cieux.
A friend and Tom Folio, who devours the old book catalogues, saw this
advertisement a short time since in an English pamphlet: “Machiavelli
(Nicolo). Opere, 11 vols., 4to, whole-bound russia extra, gilt edges,
with portrait, _printed throughout on blue paper_ (only eight copies so
made), a most superb set. Milan, 1810.... £4.” He cabled for it and
secured it. It proved a blue diamond. Within a week after receiving it
he was offered two hundred dollars for the work. Within a fortnight he
disposed of it for three hundred dollars, a sufficient advance to make a
large addition to his library.
Many tempting and deceptive titles occur under the heading of “Curious”
and “Facetiæ,” but experience will cause one to fight shy of catching
titles and annotations unless one knows the work to be meritorious.
Frequently the gold is in the tooling, and the pure ore concealed
beneath an unattractive cover. Perhaps the windfalls are more than
offset by the disappointments. Inviting volume after inviting volume
will present itself when one is not in the humor, thrusting itself
before you in the book-stalls and auction sales, mutely appealing to you
to become its possessor, only to elude you when you earnestly desire it.
But auction sales are dangerous, and are apt to lead to lapses and
excesses that one would not commit in calmer moments. There it is
difficult to decide dispassionately, while the lots invariably bring far
higher prices than if obtained in the ordinary way. Even those of stern
judgment are led into purchases they afterward regret, carried away by
the excitement of the moment. The seductive voice of the auctioneer, the
passion for possession, the rivalry of the bidders, and the excitement
of the hour, all exert their influence and combine to weaken even the
most stoical and wary. The fly is placed temptingly upon the current,
and instantly it is seized.
Again, you dive into the foreign book pamphlets, where a coveted
treasure is catalogued, almost inevitably upon application to find it
“sold,” the prize is so far out of reach. But how elated you are when
you do secure a long-sought prize, and after repeated attempts a tall
old copy in perfect condition and in lovely first letterpress rewards
your endeavors!
Sainte-Beuve speaks of “the smiling and sensible grace of Charles Lamb.”
I am inclined to think the latter’s characteristic good humor was in
part due to the facility with which he procured the rare old editions he
loved. They were easier to lift from the shelves in Lamb’s days than
now, and the old book-dealer possessed far less “Imperfect Sympathies”
than the hardened modern Autolycus.
My interpretation of Montaigne by Florio, “thick folio, large copy, old
calf, neat, scarce, 1632,” and its predecessor of 1613 that lend such
dignity to their companions in old calf, were not obtained without
persistent efforts. Sometimes I think many of my old books are not
unlike Sir Roger de Coverley’s fox, whose brush cost him fifteen hours’
riding, carried him through half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of
geldings, and lost above half his dogs. But one’s rare editions need no
brass nails to record their bewitching title-pages or mark their place
amid the vistas of the shelves.
Preferable to the editions of 1613 and 1603 is the later edition, the
former lacking the index, though containing the fine portrait of the
translator by Hole. Florio’s strong and masterly English has well
reflected the original. I regard his translation as far superior to the
more generally accepted version by Cotton. Cotton is frequently more
literal; but Florio, despite not unfrequent interpolations and slight
departures, comes nearer to the coloring and picturesqueness of the
text. Take the spirited passage of the hare and the harrier, for
instance:
Ce liéure qu’ vn leurier imagine en songe: apres lequel nous le
voyons haleter en dormant, allonger la queuë, secoüer les
jarrets, & representer parfaitement les mouuemens de sa course:
c’est vn liéure sans poil & sans os.—Book II, chap. xii.
* * * * *
The _Hare_ that a _Grey-Hound_ imagines in his sleep, after
which we see him pant so whilst he sleeps, stretch out his Tail,
shake his Legs, and perfectly represent all the motions of a
Course, is a _Hare_ without Furr and without Bones.—Cotton’s
translation.
* * * * *
That Hare, which a grey-hound imagineth in his dreame, after
whom as he sleepeth we see him bay, quest, yelp, and snort,
stretch out his taile, shake his legs, and perfectly represent
the motions of his course; the same is a Hare without bones,
without haire.—Florio’s translation.
Equally well rendered, and an excellent specimen of the translator’s
style, is the passage of Volumnius referring to the election of certain
Roman citizens as consuls: “They are men borne unto warre, of high
spirits, of great performance, and able to effect anything; but rude,
simple, and unarted in the combat of talking; minds truly consulare.
They only are good Pretors, to do justice in the Citie that are subtile,
cautelous, well-spoken, wily, and lip-wise.” Florid and redundant,
Florio nevertheless employed his words as Walton did his frog; and in
numerous passages he out-Montaignes Montaigne, his vocabulary, as
Montaigne says of the Italian cook’s, being “stuffed with rich,
magnificent words and well-couched phrases; yea, such as learned men use
and employ in speaking of the Government of an Empire.”
Speaking of Florio’s rendition, the sonnet Concerning the Honour of
Bookes—
Since honour from the honorer proceeds,
etc.—is well known. Not so familiar, however, the preceding lines,
likewise prefixed to the editions of 1613 and 1632, and relating equally
to books. The sonnet, which has no name attached and which was naturally
attributed to the translator, is now generally thought by critics to be
by his friend Daniel, “of whom it is abundantly worthy, and, indeed,
most characteristic in sentiment and diction,” observes David Main. The
somewhat extended eulogium of author and translator is worth
transcribing for those who may not be familiar with it. It corroborates,
withal, a view regarding the increasing multitude of books, a multitude
increased a thousand-fold since Daniel’s time, that I have previously
touched upon. Relating as it does to the French philosopher, it may well
be diffusive.
But no extended transcription of an old author can stand out upon a
modern page with the vividness it does in a well-preserved old edition.
Apart from the charm of antiquity, the old edition has an added virtue
which the new edition lacks—the odor that clings to a venerable tome, a
fragrance as of the everlasting or _immortelle_ of the autumn fields,
lingering amid its ancient leaves. Nor is this altogether fancy; the
faded pages recall the ashen hue of the flower, and like it they survive
to preach the sermon of immortality.
Daniel’s lines are thus inscribed: “To my deare brother and friend M.
John Florio, one of the Gentlemen of her Majesties most Royall Privie
Chamber”:
Books, like superfluous humors bred with ease,
So stuffe the world, as it becomes opprest
With taking more than it can well digest;
And now are turnd to be a great disease.
For by this overcharging we confound
The appetite of skill they had before:
There be’ng no end of words, nor any bound
Set to conceit the Ocean without shore.
As if man laboured with himselfe to be
As infinite in writing, as intents;
And draw his manifold uncertaintie
In any shape that passion represents:
That these innumerable images
And figures of opinion and discourse
Draw’n out in leaves, may be the witnesses
Of our defects much rather than our force.
———————
But yet although wee labour with this store
And with the presse of writings seeme opprest,
And have too many bookes, yet want wee more,
Feeling great dearth and scarcenesse of the best;
Which cast in choicer shapes have been produc’d,
To give the best proportions to the minde
Of our confusion, and have introduc’d
The likeliest images frailtie can finde,
And wherein most the skill-desiring soule
Takes her delight, the best of all delight,
And where her motions evenest come to rowle
About this doubtful _center of the right_.
———————
Wrap _Excellencie_ up never so much
In Hierogliphicques, Ciphers, Caracters,
And let her speake never so strange a speech,
Her _Genius_ yet findes apt discipherers:
And never was she borne to dye obscure,
But guided by the Starres of her owne grace,
Makes her owne fortune, and is ever sure
In mans best hold to hold the strongest place.
And let the _Critick_ say the worst he can,
He cannot say but that _Montaigne_ yet
Yeelds most rich peeces and extracts of man;
Though in a troubled frame confus’dly set,
Which yet h’is blest that he hath ever seene,
And therefore as a guest in gratefulnesse,
For the great good the house yeelds him within
Might spare to tax th’ unapt convoyances.
But this breath hurts not, for both work and frame,
Whilst England English speakes, is of that store
And that choice stuffe as that without the same
The richest librarie can be but poore
And they unblest who letters doe professe
And have him not: whose owne fate beats their want
With more sound blowes than _Alcibiades_
Did his Pedante that did _Homer_ want.
My 1603 folio Florio bound by Roger Payne, my Foppens’s Elzevir with
autograph and annotations of Molière, my 1580 Bourdens edition placed in
its robe of honor by Derome—all these my ship contained among her
precious stores.
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