THE AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING
AND
KINDRED AFFECTIONS
[Illustration: CARICATURE OF TWO GREAT VICTORIANS W. M. THACKERAY AND
CHARLES DICKENS]
THE AMENITIES
OF BOOK-COLLECTING
AND
KINDRED AFFECTIONS
BY
A. EDWARD NEWTON
[Illustration: colophon]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
LONDON MCMXX
Printed in the United States of America
DEDICATION
_If, as Eugene Field suggests, womenfolk are few in that part of
paradise especially reserved for book-lovers I do not care. One woman
will be there, for I shall insist that eight and twenty years probation
entitles her to share my biblio-bliss above as she has shared it here
below. That woman is my wife._
A. EDWARD NEWTON
OCTOBER, 1918
ESSAY INTRODUCTORY
A man (or a woman) is the most interesting thing in the world; and next
is a book, which enables one to get at the heart of the mystery; and
although not many men can say why they are or what they are, any man who
publishes a book can, if he is on good terms with his publisher, secure
the use of a little space to tell how the book came to be what it is.
Some years ago a very learned friend of mine published a book, and in
the introduction warned the "gentle reader" to skip the first chapter,
and, as I have always maintained, by inference suggested that the rest
was easy reading, which was not the case. In point of fact, the book was
not intended for the "gentle reader" at all: it was a book written by a
scholar for the scholar.
Now, I have worked on a different plan. My book is written for the
"tired business man" (there are a goodly number of us), who flatters
himself that he is fond of reading; and as it is my first book, I may be
permitted to tell how it came to be published.
One day in the autumn of 1913, a friend, my partner, with whom it has
been my privilege to be associated for so many years, remarked that it
was time for me to take a holiday, and handed me a copy of the
"Geographical Magazine." The number was devoted to Egypt; and, seduced
by the charm of the illustrations, on the spur of the moment I decided
on a trip up the Nile.
Things moved rapidly. In a few weeks my wife and I were in the
Mediterranean, on a steamer headed for Alexandria. We had touched at
Genoa and were soon to reach Naples, when I discovered a feeling of
homesickness stealing over me. I have spent my happiest holidays in
London. Already I had tired of Egypt. The Nile has been flowing for
centuries and would continue to flow. There were books to be had in
London, books which would not wait. Somewhat shamefacedly I put the
matter up to my wife; and when I discovered that she had no insuperable
objection to a change of plan, we left the steamer at Naples, and after
a few weeks with friends in Rome, started _en grande vitesse_ toward
London.
By this time it will have been discovered that I am not much of a
traveler; but I have always loved London--London with its wealth of
literary and historic association, with its countless miles of streets
lined with inessential shops overflowing with things that I don't want,
and its grimy old book-shops overflowing with things that I do.
One gloomy day I picked up in the Charing Cross Road, for a shilling, a
delightful book by Richard Le Gallienne, "Travels in England." Like
myself, Le Gallienne seems not to have been a great traveler--he seldom
reached the place he started for; and losing his way or changing his
mind, may be said to have arrived at his destination when he has
reached a comfortable inn, where, after a simple meal, he lights his
pipe and proceeds to read a book.
Exactly my idea of travel! The last time I read "Pickwick" was while
making a tour in Northern Italy. It is wonderful how conducive to
reading I found the stuffy smoking-rooms of the little steamers that
dart like water-spiders from one landing to another on the Italian
Lakes.
It was while I was poking about among the old book-shops that it
occurred to me to write a little story about my books--when and where I
had bought them, the prices I had paid, and the men I had bought them
from, many of whom I knew well; and so, when my holiday was done, I
lived over again its pleasant associations in writing a paper that I
called "Book-Collecting Abroad." Subsequently I wrote
another,--"Book-Collecting at Home,"--it being my purpose to print these
papers in a little volume to be called "The Amenities of
Book-Collecting." I intended this for distribution among my friends, who
are very patient with me; and I sent my manuscript to a printer in the
closing days of July, 1914. A few days later something happened in
Europe, the end of which is not yet, and we all became panic-stricken.
For a moment it seemed unlikely that one would care ever to open a book
again. Acting upon impulse, I withdrew the order from my printer, put my
manuscript aside, and devoted myself to my usual task--that of making a
living.
Byron says, "The end of all scribblement is to amuse." For some years I
have been possessed of an itch for "scribblement"; gradually this
feeling reasserted itself, and I came to see that we must become
accustomed to working in a world at war, and to realizing that life must
be permitted to resume, at least to some extent, its regular course; and
the idea of my little book recurred to me.
It had frequently been suggested by friends that my papers be published
in the "Atlantic." What grudge they bore this excellent magazine I do
not know, but they always said the "Atlantic"; and so, when one day I
came across my manuscript, it occurred to me that it would cost only a
few cents to lay it before the editor. At that time I did not know the
editor of the "Atlantic" even by name. My pleasure then can be imagined
when, a week or so later, I received the following letter:--
_Oct. 30, 1914._
DEAR MR. NEWTON:--
The enthusiasm of your pleasant paper is contagious, and I find
myself in odd moments looking at the gaps in my own library with a
feeling of dismay. I believe that very many readers of the
"Atlantic" will feel as I do, and it gives me great pleasure to
accept your paper.
Yours sincerely,
ELLERY SEDGWICK.
Shortly afterward, a check for a substantial sum fluttered down upon my
desk, and it was impossible that I should not remember how much Milton
had received for his "Paradise Lost,"--the receipt for which is in the
British Museum,--and draw conclusions therefrom entirely satisfactory to
my self-esteem. My paper was published, and the magazine, having a hardy
constitution, survived; I even received some praise. There was nothing
important enough to justify criticism, and as a result of this chance
publication I made a number of delightful acquaintances among readers
and collectors, many of whom I might almost call friends although we
have never met.
Not wishing to strain the rather precarious friendship with Mr. Sedgwick
which was the outcome of my first venture, it was several years before I
ventured to try him with another paper. This I called "A Ridiculous
Philosopher." I enjoyed writing this paper immensely, and although it
was the reverse of timely, I felt that it might pass editorial scrutiny.
Again I received a letter from Mr. Sedgwick, in which he said:--
Two days ago I took your paper home with me and spent a delightful
half-hour with it. Now, as any editor would tell you, there is no
valid reason for a paper on Godwin at this time, but your essay is
so capitally seasoned that I cannot find it in my heart to part
with it. Indeed I have been gradually making the editorial
discovery that, if a paper is sufficiently readable, it has some
claim upon the public, regardless of what the plans of the editor
are. And so the upshot of my deliberation is that we shall accept
your paper with great pleasure and publish it when the opportunity
occurs.
The paper appeared in due course, and several more followed. The favor
with which these papers were received led the "Atlantic" editors to the
consideration of their reprint in permanent form, together with several
which now appear for the first time. All the illustrations have been
made from items in my own collection. I am thus tying a string, as it
were, around a parcel which contains the result of thirty-six years of
collecting. It may not be much, but, as the Irishman said of his dog,
"It's mine own." My volume might, with propriety, be called "Newton's
Complete Recreations."
I have referred to my enjoyment in writing my "Ridiculous Philosopher."
I might say the same of all my papers. I am aware that my friend, Dr.
Johnson, once remarked that no man but a block-head writes a book except
for money. At some risk, then, I admit that I have done so. I have
written for fun, and my papers should be read, if read at all, for the
same purpose, not that the reader will or is expected to laugh loud. The
loud laugh, in Goldsmith's phrase, it may be remembered, bespeaks the
vacant mind. But I venture to hope that the judicious will pass a not
unpleasant hour in turning my pages.
One final word: I buy, I collect "Presentation Books"; and I trust my
friends will not think me churlish when I say that it is not my
intention to turn a single copy of this, my book, into a presentation
volume. Whatever circulation it may have must be upon its own merits.
Any one who sees this book in the hands of a reader, on the library
table, or on the shelves of the collector, may be sure that some one,
either wise or foolish as the event may prove, has paid a substantial
sum for it, either in the current coin of the realm, or perchance in
thrift stamps. It may, indeed, be that it has been secured from a
lending library, in which case I would suggest that the book be returned
instantly. "Go ye rather to them that sell and buy for yourselves." And
having separated yourself from your money, in the event that you should
feel vexed with your bargain, you are at liberty to communicate your
grievance to the publisher, securing from him what redress you may; and
in the event of failure there yet remains your inalienable right, which
should afford some satisfaction, that of damning
THE AUTHOR.
"OAK KNOLL," DAYLESFORD, PENNSYLVANIA, _April 7, 1918_.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD 1
II. BOOK-COLLECTING AT HOME 36
III. OLD CATALOGUES AND NEW PRICES 65
IV. "ASSOCIATION" BOOKS AND FIRST EDITIONS 107
V. "WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN" 129
VI. JAMES BOSWELL--HIS BOOK 145
VII. A LIGHT-BLUE STOCKING 186
VIII. A RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER 226
IX. A GREAT VICTORIAN 249
X. TEMPLE BAR THEN AND NOW 267
XI. A MACARONI PARSON 292
XII. OSCAR WILDE 318
XIII. A WORD IN MEMORY 343
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
CARICATURE OF TWO GREAT VICTORIANS _Frontispiece in Color_
W. M. Thackeray and Charles Dickens
TITLE OF "PARADISE LOST." First Edition 6
TITLE OF FRANKLIN'S EDITION OF CICERO'S "CATO MAJOR" 9
LETTER OF THOMAS HARDY TO HIS FIRST PUBLISHER,
"OLD TINSLEY" 12
PAGE OF ORIGINAL MS. OF HARDY'S "FAR FROM THE
MADDING CROWD" 14
BERNARD QUARITCH 14
TITLE OF MS. OF "LYFORD REDIVIVUS" 16
BERNARD ALFRED QUARITCH 16
SAMUEL JOHNSON 20
Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds about 1770, for Johnson's Step-Daughter,
Lucy Porter. Engraved by Watson
PAGE OF PRAYER IN DR. JOHNSON'S AUTOGRAPH 23
TITLE OF KEATS'S COPY OF SPENSER'S WORKS 24
PORTRAIT OF TENNYSON READING "MAUD" TO THE BROWNINGS,
BY ROSSETTI 26
DR. JOHNSON'S CHURCH, ST. CLEMENT DANES 31
From a pen-and-ink sketch by Charles G. Osgood
INSCRIPTION TO MRS. THRALE IN DR. JOHNSON'S HAND 32
INSCRIPTION TO GENERAL SIR A. GORDON IN QUEEN VICTORIA'S
HAND 35
GEORGE D. SMITH 36
Photographed by Genthe
AUTOGRAPH MS. OF LAMB'S POEM, "ELEGY ON A QUID OF
TOBACCO" 40
DR. A. S. W. ROSENBACH 42
Photographed by Genthe
TITLE OF "ROBINSON CRUSOE." First Edition 45
TITLE OF "OLIVER TWIST" 47
Presentation Copy to W. C. Macready
ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATION FOR "VANITY FAIR" 48
Becky Sharp throwing Dr. Johnson's "Dixonary" out of the
carriage window, as she leaves Miss Pinkerton's School
From the first pen-and-ink sketch, by Thackeray, afterwards
elaborated
SPECIMEN PROOF-SHEET OF GEORGE MOORE'S "MEMOIRS
OF MY DEAD LIFE" 50
TITLE OF GEORGE MOORE'S "PAGAN POEMS" 51
Presentation Copy to Oscar Wilde
TITLE OF BLAKE'S "MARRIAGE OF HEAVEN AND HELL" 52
CHARLES LAMB'S HOUSE AT ENFIELD 54
INSCRIPTION BY JOSEPH CONRAD IN A COPY OF "THE NIGGER
OF THE 'NARCISSUS'" 56
THE AUTHOR'S BOOK-PLATE 60
HENRY E. HUNTINGTON 72
STOKE POGES CHURCH 74
A fine example of fore-edge painting
TITLE OF BLAKE'S "SONGS OF INNOCENCE AND EXPERIENCE" 80
"A LEAF FROM AN UNOPENED VOLUME" 82
Specimen page of an unpublished manuscript of Charlotte Brontë
TITLE OF THE KILMARNOCK EDITION OF BURNS'S POEMS 85
FIFTEENTH-CENTURY ENGLISH MS. ON VELLUM:
BOËTHIUS'S "DE CONSOLATIONE PHILOSOPHIÆ" 90
TITLE OF GEORGE HERBERT'S "THE TEMPLE." First Edition 97
FIRST PAGE OF A RARE EDITION OF "ROBINSON CRUSOE" 102
AUTOGRAPH MS. OF A POEM BY KEATS--"TO THE MISSES
M---- AT HASTINGS" 105
INSCRIPTION TO SWINBURNE FROM DANTE ROSSETTI 106
AUTOGRAPH INSCRIPTION BY STEVENSON, IN A COPY OF HIS
"INLAND VOYAGE" 109
TITLE OF A UNIQUE COPY OF STEVENSON'S "CHILD'S GARDEN
OF VERSES" 110
NEW BUILDING OF THE GROLIER CLUB 114
INSCRIPTION TO CHARLES DICKENS, JUNIOR, FROM CHARLES
DICKENS 116
ILLUSTRATION, "THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS," BY JOHN LEECH
FOR DICKENS'S "CHRISTMAS CAROL" 116
From the original water-color drawing
AUTOGRAPH DEDICATION TO DICKENS'S "THE VILLAGE
COQUETTES" 118
TITLE OF MEREDITH'S "MODERN LOVE," WITH AUTOGRAPH
INSCRIPTION TO SWINBURNE 121
INSCRIPTION BY DR. JOHNSON IN A COPY OF "RASSELAS" 125
INSCRIPTION BY WOODROW WILSON, IN A COPY OF HIS "CONSTITUTIONAL
GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES" 126
INSCRIPTION BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 128
CHARLES LAMB 130
FRANCES MARIA KELLY 132
MISS KELLY IN VARIOUS CHARACTERS 136
MS. DEDICATION OF LAMB'S WORKS TO MISS KELLY 137
AUTOGRAPH LETTER OF LAMB TO MISS KELLY 139
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 144
JAMES BOSWELL OF AUCHINLECK, ESQR. 146
Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engraved by John Jones
SAMUEL JOHNSON IN A TIE-WIG 150
Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engraved by Zobel
INSCRIPTION TO REV. WILLIAM J. TEMPLE, FROM JAMES
BOSWELL 159
TITLE OF MASON'S "ELFRIDA." First Edition 163
MS. OF BOSWELL'S AGREEMENT WITH MR. DILLY, RECITING
THE TERMS AGREED ON FOR THE PUBLICATION OF
"CORSICA" 167
MS. INDORSEMENT BY BOSWELL ON THE FIRST PAPER DRAWN
BY HIM AS AN ADVOCATE 168
DR. JOHNSON IN TRAVELING DRESS, AS DESCRIBED IN
BOSWELL'S "TOUR" 174
Engraved by Trotter
INSCRIPTION TO JAMES BOSWELL, JUNIOR, FROM JAMES
BOSWELL 176
SAMUEL JOHNSON 184
Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engraved by Heath
INSCRIPTION TO EDMUND BURKE, BY JAMES BOSWELL 185
MRS. PIOZZI 186
Engraved by Ridley from a miniature
EXTRACT FROM MS. LETTER OF MRS. THRALE 191
TITLE OF MISS BURNEY'S "EVELINA." First Edition 199
MRS. THRALE'S BREAKFAST-TABLE 200
SAMUEL JOHNSON. THE "STREATHAM PORTRAIT" 204
Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Engraved by Doughty
MS. INSCRIPTIONS BY MRS. THRALE 206
TITLE OF "THE PRINCE OF ABISSINIA" ("RASSELAS").
First Edition 207
MS. OF THE LAST PAGE OF MRS. THRALE'S "JOURNAL OF A
TOUR IN WALES" 219
MISS AMY LOWELL, OF BOSTON 222
SAMUEL JOHNSON 225
WILLIAM GODWIN, THE RIDICULOUS PHILOSOPHER 227
CHARLES LAMB'S PLAY-BILL OF GODWIN'S "ANTONIO" 236
MS. LETTER FROM WILLIAM GODWIN 241
ANTHONY TROLLOPE 250
From a photograph by Elliot and Fry
TEMPLE BAR AS IT IS TO-DAY 268
OLD TEMPLE BAR: DEMOLISHED IN 1666 276
TEMPLE BAR IN DR. JOHNSON'S TIME 280
TEMPLE BAR 291
FIRST PAGE OF DR. JOHNSON'S PETITION TO THE KING ON
BEHALF OF DR. DODD 306
MR. ALLEN'S COPY OF THE LAST LETTER DR. DODD SENT
DR. JOHNSON 312
CARICATURE OF OSCAR WILDE 319
From an original drawing by Aubrey Beardsley
"OUR OSCAR" AS HE WAS WHEN WE LOANED HIM TO
AMERICA 326
From a contemporary English caricature
MS. INSCRIPTION TO J. E. DICKINSON, FROM OSCAR WILDE 342
HARRY ELKINS WIDENER 344
TITLE OF STEVENSON'S "MEMOIRS OF HIMSELF" 349
Printed for private distribution only, by Mr. Widener
BEVERLY CHEW 350
HENRY E. HUNTINGTON AMONG HIS BOOKS 352
Photographed by Genthe
HARRY ELKINS WIDENER'S BOOK-PLATE 355
THE AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING
AND
KINDRED AFFECTIONS
I
BOOK-COLLECTING ABROAD
If my early training has been correct, which I am much inclined to
doubt, we were not designed to be happy in this world. We were simply
placed here to be tried, and doubtless we are--it is a trying place. It
is, however, the only world we are sure of; so, in spite of our
training, we endeavor to make the best of it, and have invented a lot of
little tricks with which to beguile the time.
The approved time-killer is work, and we do a lot of it. When it is
quite unnecessary, we say it is in the interest of civilization; and
occasionally work is done on so high a plane that it becomes sport, and
we call these sportsmen, "Captains of Industry." One of them once told
me that making money was the finest sport in the world. This was before
the rules of the game were changed.
But for the relaxation of those whose life is spent in a persistent
effort to make ends meet, games of skill, games of chance, and kissing
games have been invented, and indoor and outdoor sports. These are all
very well for those who can play them; but I am like the little boy who
declined to play Old Maid because he was always "it." Having early
discovered that I was always "it" in every game, I decided to take my
recreation in another way. I read occasionally and have always been a
collector.
Many years ago, in an effort to make conversation on a train,--a foolish
thing to do,--I asked a man what he did with his leisure, and his reply
was, "I play cards. I used to read a good deal but I wanted something to
occupy my mind, so I took to cards." It was a disconcerting answer.
It may be admitted that not all of us can read all the time. For those
who cannot and for those to whom sport in any form is a burden not to be
endured, there is one remaining form of exercise, the riding of a
hobby--collecting, it is called; and the world is so full of such
wonderful things that we collectors should be as happy as kings. Horace
Greeley once said, "Young man, go West." I give advice as valuable and
more easily followed: I say, Young man, get a hobby; preferably get two,
one for indoors and one for out; get a pair of hobby-horses that can
safely be ridden in opposite directions.
We collectors strive to make converts; we want others to enjoy what we
enjoy; and I may as well confess that the envy shown by our fellow
collectors when we display our treasures is not annoying to us. But,
speaking generally, we are a bearable lot, our hobbies are usually
harmless, and if we loathe the subject of automobiles, and especially
discussion relative to parts thereof, we try to show an intelligent
interest in another's hobby, even if it happen to be a collection of
postage-stamps. Our own hobby may be, probably is, ridiculous to some
one else, but in all the wide range of human interest, from
postage-stamps to paintings,--the sport of the millionaire,--there is
nothing that begins so easily and takes us so far as the collecting of
books.
And hear me. If you would know the delight of book-collecting, begin
with something else, I care not what. Book-collecting has all the
advantages of other hobbies without their drawbacks. The pleasure of
acquisition is common to all--that's where the sport lies; but the
strain of the possession of books is almost nothing; a tight, dry closet
will serve to house them, if need be.
It is not so with flowers. They are a constant care. Some one once wrote
a poem about "old books and fresh flowers." It lilted along very nicely;
but I remark that books stay old, indeed get older, and flowers do not
stay fresh: a little too much rain, a little too much sun, and it is all
over.
Pets die too, in spite of constant care--perhaps by reason of it. To
quiet a teething dog I once took him, her, it, to my room for the night
and slept soundly. Next morning I found that the dog had committed
suicide by jumping out of the window.
The joys of rugs are a delusion and a snare. They cannot be picked up
here and there, tucked in a traveling-bag, and smuggled into the house;
they are hard to transport, there are no auction records against them,
and the rug market knows no bottom. I never yet heard a man admit paying
a fair price for a rug, much less a high one. "Look at this Scherazak,"
a friend remarks; "I paid only nine dollars for it and it's worth five
hundred if it's worth a penny." When he is compelled to sell his
collection, owing to an unlucky turn in the market, it brings
seventeen-fifty. And rugs are ever a loafing place for moths--But that's
a chapter by itself.
Worst of all, there is no literature about them. I know very well that
there are books about rugs; I own some. But as all books are not
literature, so all literature is not in books. Can a rug-collector enjoy
a catalogue? I sometimes think that for the over-worked business man a
book-catalogue is the best reading there is. Did you ever see a
rug-collector, pencil in hand, poring over a rug-catalogue?
Print-catalogues there are; and now I warm a little. They give
descriptions that mean something; a scene may have a reminiscent value,
a portrait suggests a study in biography. Then there are dimensions for
those who are fond of figures and states and margins, and the most
ignorant banker will tell you that a wide margin is always better than a
narrow one. Prices, too, can be looked up and compared, and results,
satisfactory or otherwise, recorded. Prints, too, can be snugly housed
in portfolios. But for a lasting hobby give me books.
Book-collectors are constantly being ridiculed by scholars for the pains
they take and the money they spend on first editions of their favorite
authors; and it must be that they smart under the criticism, for they
are always explaining, and attempting rather foolishly to justify their
position. Would it not be better to say, as Leslie Stephen did of Dr.
Johnson's rough sayings, that "it is quite useless to defend them to any
one who cannot enjoy them without defense"?
I am not partial to the "books which no gentleman's library should be
without," fashionable a generation or two ago. The works of Thomas
Frognall Dibdin do not greatly interest me, and where will one find room
to-day for Audubon's "Birds" or Roberts's "Holy Land" except on a
billiard-table or under a bed?
The very great books of the past have become so rare, so high-priced,
that it is almost useless for the ordinary collector to hope ever to own
them, and fashion changes in book-collecting as in everything else.
Aldines and Elzevirs are no longer sought. Our interest in the Classics
being somewhat abated, we pass them over in favor of books which, we
tell ourselves, we expect some day to read, the books written by men of
whose lives we know something. I would rather have a "Paradise Lost"
with the first title-page,[1] in contemporary binding, or an "Angler,"
than all the Aldines and Elzevirs ever printed.
[Illustration:
Paradise lost.
A
POEM
Written in
TEN BOOKS
By _JOHN MILTON_.
Licensed and Entred according
to Order.
_LONDON_
Printed, and are to be sold by _Peter Parker_
under _Creed,_ Church neer _Aldgate_; And by
_Robert Boulter_ at the _Turks Head_ in _Bishopsgate-Street_;
And _Matthias Walker_, under _St. Dunstons_ Church
in _Fleet-Street_, 1667.
]
That this feeling is general, accounts, I take it, for the excessively
high prices now being paid for first editions of modern authors like
Shelley, Keats, Lamb, and, to come right down to our own day, Stevenson.
Would not these authors be amazed could they know in what esteem they
are held, and what fabulous prices are paid for volumes which, when they
were published, fell almost stillborn from the press? We all know the
story of Fitzgerald's "Rubaiyat": how a "remainder" was sold by Quaritch
at a penny the copy. It is now worth its weight in gold, and Keats's
"Endymion," once a "remainder" bought by a London bookseller at
fourpence, now commands several hundred dollars. I paid three hundred
and sixty dollars for mine--but it was once Wordsworth's and has his
name on the title-page.
But it is well in book-collecting, while not omitting the present, never
to neglect the past. "Old books are best," says Beverly Chew, beloved of
all collectors; and I recall Lowell's remark: "There is a sense of
security in an old book which time has criticized for us." It was a
recollection of these sayings that prompted me, if prompting was
necessary, to pay a fabulous price the other day for a copy of
"Hesperides, or the Works both Humane and Divine of Robert Herrick,
Esq.," a beautiful copy of the first edition in the original sheep.
We collectors know the saying of Bacon: "Some books are to be tasted,
others to be swallowed and some few to be chewed and digested"; but the
revised version is, Some books are to be read, others are to be
collected. Mere reading books, the five-foot shelf, or the hundred best,
every one knows at least by name. But at the moment I am concerned with
collectors' books and the amenities of book-collecting; for, frankly,--
I am one of those who seek
What Bibliomaniacs love.
Some subjects are not for me. Sydney Smith's question, "Who reads an
American book?" has, I am sure, been answered; and I am equally sure
that I do not know what the answer is. "Americana"--which was not what
Sydney Smith meant--have never caught me, nor has "black letter." It is
not necessary for me to study how to tell a Caxton. Caxtons do not fall
in my way, except single leaves now and then, and these I take as
Goldsmith took his religion, on faith.
Nor am I the rival of the man who buys all his books from Quaritch.
Buying from Quaritch is rather too much like the German idea of hunting:
namely, sitting in an easy chair near a breach in the wall through which
game, big or little, is shooed within easy reach of your gun. No, my
idea of collecting is "watchful waiting," in season and out, in places
likely and unlikely, most of all in London. But one need not begin in
London: one can begin wherever one has pitched one's tent.
I have long wanted Franklin's "Cato Major." A copy was found not long
ago in a farmhouse garret in my own county; but, unluckily, I did not
hear of it until its price, through successive hands, had reached three
hundred dollars. But if one does not begin in London, one ends there. It
is the great market of the world for collectors' books--the best market,
not necessarily the cheapest.
[Illustration:
M. T. CICERO's
_CATO MAJOR_
OR HIS
DISCOURSE
OF
OLD-AGE:
With Explanatory NOTES.
_PHILADELPHIA_:
Printed and sold by B. FRANKLIN,
MDCCXLIV.
]
My first purchase was a Bohn edition of Pope's Homer, the Iliad and the
Odyssey in two volumes--not a bad start for a boy; and under my youthful
signature, with a fine flourish, is the date, 1882.
I read them with delight, and was sorry when I learned that Pope is by
no means Homer. I have been a little chary about reading ever since. We
collectors might just as well wait until scholars settle these
questions.
I have always liked Pope. In reading him one has the sense of progress
from idea to idea, not a mere floundering about in Arcady amid
star-stuff. When Dr. Johnson was asked what poetry is, he replied, "It
is much easier to say what it is not." He was sparring for time and
finally remarked, "If Pope is not poetry it is useless to look for it."
Years later, when I learned from Oscar Wilde that there are two ways of
disliking poetry,--one is to dislike it, and the other, to like Pope,--I
found that I was not entirely prepared to change my mind about Pope.
In 1884 I went to London for the first time, and there I fell under the
lure of Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb. After that, the deluge!
The London of 1884 was the London of Dickens. There have been greater
changes since I first wandered in the purlieus of the Strand and Holborn
than there were in the hundred years before. Dickens's London has
vanished almost as completely as the London of Johnson. One landmark
after another disappeared, until finally the County Council made one
grand sweep with Aldwych and Kingsway. But never to be forgotten are the
rambles I enjoyed with my first bookseller, Fred Hutt of Clement's Inn
Passage, subsequently of Red Lion Passage, now no more. Poor fellow!
when, early in 1914, I went to look him up, I found that he had passed
away, and his shop was being dismantled. He was the last of three
brothers, all booksellers.
From Hutt I received my first lesson in bibliography; from him I bought
my first "Christmas Carol," with "Stave 1," not "Stave One," and with
the green end-papers. I winced at the price: it was thirty shillings. I
saw one marked twenty guineas not long ago. From Hutt, too, I got a copy
of Swinburne's "Poems and Ballads," 1866, with the Moxon imprint, and
had pointed out to me the curious eccentricity of type on page 222. I
did not then take his advice and pay something over two pounds for a
copy of "Desperate Remedies." It seemed wiser to wait until the price
reached forty pounds, which I subsequently paid for it. But I did buy
from him for five shillings an autograph letter of Thomas Hardy to his
first publisher, "old Tinsley." As the details throw some light on the
subject of Hardy's first book, I reproduce the letter, from which it
will be seen that Hardy financed the publication himself.
When, thirty years ago, I picked up my Hardy letter for a few shillings,
I never supposed that the time would come when I would own the complete
manuscript of one of his most famous novels. Yet so it is. Not long
since, quite unexpectedly, the original draft of "Far from the Madding
Crowd" turned up in London. Its author, when informed of its discovery,
wrote saying that he had "supposed the manuscript had been pulped ages
ago." One page only was missing; Mr. Hardy supplied it. Then arose the
question of ownership, which was gracefully settled by sending it to the
auction-room, the proceeds of the sale to go to the British Red Cross. I
cannot say that the bookseller who bought it gave it to me exactly, but
we both agree that it is an item which does honor to any collection.
Although it is the original draft, there are very few corrections or
interlineations, the page reproduced (see next page) being fairly
representative.
[Illustration: LETTER OF THOMAS HARDY TO HIS FIRST PUBLISHER, "OLD
TINSLEY"
I paid five shillings for this letter many years ago, in London. Maggs,
in his last catalogue, prices at fifteen guineas a much less interesting
letter from Hardy to Arthur Symons, dated December 4, 1915, on the same
subject.]
Only those who are trying to complete their sets of Hardy know how
difficult it is to find "Desperate Remedies" and "Under the Greenwood
Tree" "in cloth as issued."
My love for book-collecting and my love for London have gone hand in
hand. From the first, London with its wealth of literary and historic
interest has held me; there has never been a time, not even on that
gloomy December day twenty years ago, when, with injuries subsequently
diagnosed as a "compound comminuted tibia and fibula," I was picked out
of an overturned cab and taken to St. Bartholomew's Hospital for
repairs, that I could not say with Boswell, "There is a city called
London for which I have as violent an affection as the most romantic
lover ever had for his mistress."
The book-shops of London have been the subject of many a song in prose
and verse. Every taste and pocket can be satisfied, I have ransacked the
wretched little shops to be found in the by-streets of Holborn one day,
and the next have browsed in the artificially stimulated pastures of
Grafton Street and Bond Street, and with as much delight in one as in
the other.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A PAGE OF HARDY'S "FAR FROM THE MADDING
CROWD," MUCH REDUCED IN SIZE]
[Illustration: BERNARD QUARITCH
"The extensive literature of catalogues is probably little known to most
readers. I do not pretend to claim a thorough acquaintance with it but I
know the luxury of reading good catalogues and such are those of Bernard
Quaritch."--OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.]
I cannot say that "I was 'broke' in London in the fall of '89," for the
simple reason that I was not in London that year; but I am never
long in London without finding myself as light in heart and pocket as
Eugene Field--the result of yielding to the same temptations.
I knew the elder Quaritch well, and over a cup of tea one winter
afternoon years ago, in a cold, dingy little room filled with priceless
volumes in the old shop in Piccadilly, he confided to me his fears for
his son Alfred. This remarkable old man, who has well been called the
Napoleon of booksellers, was certain that Alfred would never be able to
carry on the business when he was gone. "He has no interest in books, he
is not willing to work hard as he will have to, to maintain the standing
I have secured as the greatest bookseller in the world." Quaritch was
very proud, and justly, of his eminence.
How little the old man knew that this son, when the time came, would
step into his father's shoes and stretch them. Alfred, when he inherited
the business, assumed his father's first name and showed all his
father's enthusiasm and shrewdness. He probably surprised himself, as he
surprised the world, by adding lustre to the name of Bernard Quaritch,
so that, when he died, the newspapers of the English-speaking world gave
the details of his life and death as matters of general interest.
The book-lovers' happy hunting-ground is the Charing Cross Road. It is a
dirty and sordid street, too new to be picturesque; but almost every
other shop on both sides of the street is a bookshop, and the patient
man is frequently rewarded by a find of peculiar interest.
One day, a few years ago, I picked up two square folio volumes of
manuscript bound in old, soft morocco, grown shabby from knocking about.
The title was "Lyford Redivivus, or A Grandame's Garrulity."
[Illustration: Title of MS. of "Lyford Redivivus"]
Examination showed me that it was a sort of dictionary of proper names.
In one volume there were countless changes and erasures; the other was
evidently a fair copy. Although there was no name in either volume to
suggest the author, it needed no second glance to see that both were
written in the clear, bold hand of Mrs. Piozzi. The price was but
trifling, and I promptly paid it and carried the volumes home. Some
months later, I was reading a little volume, "Piozziana," by Edward
Mangin,--the first book about Mrs. Thrale-Piozzi,--when, to my surprise,
my eye met the following:--
[Illustration: BERNARD ALFRED QUARITCH
"He probably surprised himself as he surprised the world by adding
lustre to the name of Bernard Quaritch."]
Early in the year 1815, I called on her [Mrs. Piozzi] then resident
in Bath, to examine a manuscript which she informed me she was
preparing for the press. After a short conversation, we sat down to
a table on which lay two manuscript volumes, one of them, the fair
copy of her work, in her own incomparably fine hand-writing. The
title was "Lyford Redivivus"; the idea being taken from a
diminutive old volume, printed in 1657, and professing to be an
alphabetical account of the names of men and women, and their
derivations. Her work was somewhat on this plan: the Christian or
first name given, Charity, for instance, followed by its etymology;
anecdotes of the eminent or obscure, who have borne the
appellation; applicable epigrams, biographical sketches, short
poetical illustrations, &c.
I read over twelve or fourteen articles and found them exceedingly
interesting; abounding in spirit, and novelty; and all supported by
quotations in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, Celtic, and
Saxon. There was a learned air over all, and in every page, much
information, ably compressed, and forming what I should have
supposed, an excellent popular volume. She was now seventy-five;
and I naturally complimented her, not only on the work in question,
but on the amazing beauty and variety of her hand-writing. She
seemed gratified and desired me to mention the MS. to some London
publisher. This I afterwards did, and sent the work to one alike
distinguished for discernment and liberality, but with whom we
could not come to an agreement. I have heard no more of "Lyford
Redivivus" since, and know not in whose hands the MS. may now be.
A moment later it was in mine, and I was examining it with renewed
interest.
My secret is out. I collect, as I can, human-interest books--books with
a _provenance_, as they are called; but as I object to foreign words, I
once asked a Bryn Mawr professor, Dr. Holbrook, to give me an English
equivalent. "I should have to make one," he said. "You know the word
_whereabouts_, I suppose." I admitted that I did. "How would
_whenceabouts_ do?" I thought it good.
In recent years, presentation, or association, books have become the
rage, and the reason is plain. Every one is unique, though some are
uniquer than others. My advice to any one who may be tempted by some
volume with an inscription of the author on its fly-leaf or title-page
is, "Yield with coy submission"--and at once. While such books make
frightful inroads on one's bank account, I have regretted only my
economies, never my extravagances.
I was glancing the other day over Arnold's "Record of Books and
Letters." He paid in 1895 seventy-one dollars for a presentation Keats's
"Poems," 1817, and sold it at auction in 1901 for five hundred.[2] A few
years later I was offered a presentation copy of the work, with an
inscription to Keats's intimate friends, Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke,
for a thousand dollars, and while I was doing some preliminary financing
the book disappeared, and forever; and I have never ceased regretting
that the dedication copy of Boswell's "Life of Johnson," to Sir Joshua
Reynolds, passed into the collection of my lamented friend, Harry
Widener, rather than into my own. "I shall not pass this way again"
seems written in these volumes.
But my record is not all of defeats. The "whenceabouts" of my
presentation "Vanity Fair" is not without interest--its story is told in
Wilson's "Thackeray in the United States."
The great man took particular delight in schoolboys. When, during
his lecturing tour, he visited Philadelphia, he presented one of
these boys with a five-dollar gold-piece. The boy's mother objected
to his pocketing the coin, and Thackeray vainly endeavored to
convince her that this species of beneficence was a thing of course
in England. After a discussion the coin was returned, but three
months later the lad was made happy by the receipt of a copy of
"Vanity Fair," across the title-page of which he saw written, in a
curiously small and delicate hand, his name, Henry Reed, with W. M.
Thackeray's kind regards, April, 1856.
One day, some years ago, while strolling through Piccadilly, my
attention was attracted by a newspaper clipping posted on the window of
a bookshop, which called attention to a holograph volume of Johnson-Dodd
letters on exhibition within. I spent several hours in careful
examination of it, and, although the price asked was not inconsiderable,
it was not high in view of the unusual interest of the volume. I felt
that I must own it.
When I am going to be extravagant I always like the encouragement of my
wife, and I usually get it. I determined to talk over with her my
proposed purchase. Her prophetic instinct in this instance was against
it. She reminded me that the business outlook was not good when we left
home, and that the reports received since were anything but encouraging.
"That amount of money," she said, "may be very useful when you get
home." The advice was good; indeed, her arguments were so unanswerable
that I determined not to discuss it further, but to buy it anyhow and
say nothing. Early the next morning I went back, and to my great
disappointment found that some one more forehanded than I had secured
the treasure. My regrets for a time were keen, but on my return to this
country I found myself in the height of the 1907 panic. Securities
seemed almost worthless and actual money unobtainable; then I
congratulated my wife on her wisdom, and pointed out what a fine fellow
I had been to follow her advice.
Six months later, to my great surprise, the collection was again offered
me by a bookseller in New York at a price just fifty per cent in advance
of the price I had been asked for it in London. The man who showed it to
me was amazed when I told him just when he had bought it and where, and
the price he had paid for it. I made a guess that it was ten per cent
below the figure at which it had been offered to me. "I am prepared," I
said, "to pay you the same price I was originally asked for it in
London. You have doubtless shown it to many of your customers and have
not found them as foolish in their enthusiasm over Johnson as I am. You
have had your chance to make a big profit; why not accept a small
one?" There was some discussion; but as I saw my man weakening, my
firmness increased, and it finally ended by my handing him a check and
carrying off the treasure.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF DR. JOHNSON BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. PAINTED
ABOUT 1770 FOR JOHNSON'S STEPDAUGHTER, LUCY PORTER
_Engraved by Watson_]
The collection consists of original manuscripts relating to the forgery
of Dodd, twelve pieces being in Dr. Johnson's handwriting. In 1778 Dr.
William Dodd, the "unfortunate" clergyman, as he came to be called, was
condemned to death for forging the name of his pupil, Lord Chesterfield,
to a bond for forty-two hundred pounds. Through their common friend
Edmund Allen, Johnson worked hard to secure Dodd's pardon, writing
letters, petitions, and addresses, to be presented by Dodd, in his own
or his wife's name, to the King, the Queen, and other important persons,
Johnson taking every care to conceal his own part in the matter. In all
there are thirty-two manuscripts relating to the affair. They were
evidently used by Sir John Hawkins in his "Life of Johnson," but it is
doubtful whether Boswell, although he quotes them in part, ever saw the
collection.[3]
Pearson, from his shop in Pall Mall Place, issues catalogues which for
size, style, and beauty are unexcelled--they remind one more of
publications _deluxe_ than of a bookseller's catalogue. It is almost
vain to look for any item under a hundred pounds, and not infrequently
they run to several thousand. A catalogue now on my writing table tells
me of a Caxton: "Tully, His Treatises of Old Age and Friendship," one of
four known copies, at twenty-five hundred pounds; and I'd gladly pay it
did my means allow.
From Pearson I secured my holograph prayer of Dr. Johnson, of which
Birkbeck Hill says: "Having passed into the cabinet of a collector it
remains as yet unpublished." It is dated Ashbourne, September 5, 1784
(Johnson died on December 13 of that year), and reads:--
Almighty Lord and Merciful Father, to Thee be thanks, and praise
for all thy mercies, for the awakening of my mind, the continuance
of my life, the amendment of my health, and the opportunity now
granted of commemorating the death of thy Son Jesus Christ, our
Mediator and Redeemer. Enable me O Lord to repent truly of my
sins--enable me by thy Holy Spirit to lead hereafter a better life.
Strengthen my mind against useless perplexities, teach me to form
good resolutions and assist me that I may bring them to effect, and
when Thou shalt finally call me to another state, receive me to
everlasting happiness, for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen.
Prayers in Dr. Johnson's hand are excessively rare. He wrote a large
number, modeled evidently upon the beautiful Collects--prose sonnets--of
the Church of England Prayer Book; but after publication by their first
editor, Dr. George Strahan, in 1785, most of the originals were
deposited in the Library of Pembroke College, Oxford; hence their
scarcity.
[Illustration Page of Prayer in Dr. Johnson's Autograph]
From Pearson, too, came my beautiful uncut copy of "A Journey to the
Western Islands of Scotland," with a receipt for one hundred pounds in
Johnson's handwriting on account of the copyright of the book, and, more
interesting still, a brief note to Mrs. Horneck (the mother of
Goldsmith's "Jessamy Bride"), reading: "Mr. Johnson sends Mrs. Horneck
and the young ladies his best wishes for their health and pleasure in
their journey, and hopes his Wife [Johnson's pet name for the young
lady] will keep him in her mind. Wednesday, June 13." The date completes
the story. Forster states that Goldsmith, in company with the Hornecks,
started for Paris in the middle of July, 1770. This was the dear old
Doctor's good-bye as the party was setting out.
To spend a morning with Mr. Sabin, the elder, in his shop in Bond Street
is a delight never to be forgotten. The richest and rarest volumes are
spread out before you as unaffectedly as if they were the last
best-sellers. You are never importuned to buy; on the contrary, even
when his treasures are within your reach, it is difficult to get him to
part with them. One item which you particularly want is a part of a set
held at a king's ransom; some one has the refusal of another. It is
possible to do business, but not easy.
[Illustration: JOHN KEATS'S COPY OF SPENSER'S WORKS]
His son, Frank, occasionally takes advantage of his father's absence to
part with a volume or two. He admits the necessity of selling a book
sometimes in order that he may buy another. This, I take it, accounts
for the fact that he consented to part with a copy of "The Works of
that Famous English Poet, Mr. Edmond Spenser"--the fine old folio of
1679, with the beautiful title-page. A "name on title" ordinarily does
not add to a book's value; but when that name is "John Keats" in the
poet's hand, and in addition, "Severn's gift, 1818," one is justified in
feeling elated.
John Keats! who in the realm of poetry stands next to the great
Elizabethans. It was Spenser's "Fairy Queen" which first fired his
ambition to write poetry, and his lines in imitation of Spenser are
among the first he wrote. At the time of the presentation of this
volume, Severn had recently made his acquaintance, and Keats and his
friends were steeped in Elizabethan literature. The finest edition of
the works of Spenser procurable was no doubt selected by Severn as a
gift more likely than any other to be appreciated by the poet.
Remember that books from Keats's library, which was comparatively a
small one, are at the present time practically non-existent; that among
them there could hardly have been one with a more interesting
association than this volume of Spenser. Remember too that Keats's
poem,--
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song,--
was addressed to my great-great-uncle, George Felton Mathew; and let me
refer to the fact that on my first visit to England I had spent several
days with his sister, who as a young girl had known Keats well, and it
will be realized that the possession of this treasure made my heart
thump.
Stimulated and encouraged by this purchase, I successfully angled for
one of the rarest items of the recent Browning sale, the portrait of
Tennyson reading "Maud," a drawing in pen and ink by Rossetti, with a
signed inscription on the drawing in the artist's handwriting:--
I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood.
Browning's inscription is as follows:--
Tennyson read his poem of Maud to E.B.B., R.B., Arabel and
Rossetti, on the evening of Thursday, Septr. 27, 1855, at 13 Dorset
St., Manchester Square. Rossetti made this sketch of Tennyson as he
sat reading to E.B.B., who occupied the other end of the sofa.
R.B. March 6, '74.
19 Warwick Crescent.
W. M. Rossetti and Miss Browning were also present on this famous
evening, which is vivaciously described by Mrs. Browning in an autograph
letter to Mrs. Martin inserted in the album.