_The Countryman_. “You know how much, for some time past, the editions
of the Elzevirs have been in demand. The fancy for them has even
penetrated into the country. I am acquainted with a man there who denies
himself necessaries, for the sake of collecting into a library (where
other books are scarce enough) as many little Elzevirs as he can lay his
hands upon. He is dying of hunger, and his consolation is to be able to
say, ‘I have all the poets whom the Elzevirs printed. I have ten
examples of each of them, all with red letters, and all of the right
date.’ This, no doubt, is a craze, for, good as the books are, if he
kept them to read them, one example of each would be enough.”
_The Parisian_. “If he had wanted to read them, I would not have advised
him to buy Elzevirs. The editions of minor authors which these
booksellers published, even editions ‘of the right date,’ as you say, are
not too correct. Nothing is good in the books but the type and the
paper. Your friend would have done better to use the editions of
Gryphius or Estienne.”
This fragment of a literary dialogue I translate from ‘Entretiens sur les
Contes de Fées,’ a book which contains more of old talk about books and
booksellers than about fairies and folk-lore. The ‘Entretiens’ were
published in 1699, about sixteen years after the Elzevirs ceased to be
publishers. The fragment is valuable: first, because it shows us how
early the taste for collecting Elzevirs was fully developed, and,
secondly, because it contains very sound criticism of the mania.
Already, in the seventeenth century, lovers of the tiny Elzevirian books
waxed pathetic over dates, already they knew that a ‘Cæsar’ of 1635 was
the right ‘Cæsar,’ already they were fond of the red-lettered passages,
as in the first edition of the ‘Virgil’ of 1636. As early as 1699, too,
the Parisian critic knew that the editions were not very correct, and
that the paper, type, ornaments, and _format_ were their main
attractions. To these we must now add the rarity of really good
Elzevirs.
Though Elzevirs have been more fashionable than at present, they are
still regarded by novelists as the great prize of the book collector.
You read in novels about “priceless little Elzevirs,” about books “as
rare as an old Elzevir.” I have met, in the works of a lady novelist
(but not elsewhere), with an Elzevir ‘Theocritus.’ The late Mr. Hepworth
Dixon introduced into one of his romances a romantic Elzevir Greek
Testament, “worth its weight in gold.” Casual remarks of this kind
encourage a popular delusion that all Elzevirs are pearls of considerable
price. When a man is first smitten with the pleasant fever of
book-collecting, it is for Elzevirs that he searches. At first he thinks
himself in amazing luck. In Booksellers’ Row and in Castle Street he
“picks up,” for a shilling or two, Elzevirs, real or supposed. To the
beginner, any book with a sphere on the title-page is an Elzevir. For
the beginner’s instruction, two copies of spheres are printed here. The
second is a sphere, an ill-cut, ill-drawn sphere, which is not Elzevirian
at all. The mark was used in the seventeenth century by many other
booksellers and printers. The first, on the other hand, is a true
Elzevirian sphere, from a play of Molière’s, printed in 1675. Observe
the comparatively neat drawing of the first sphere, and be not led away
after spurious imitations.
[Picture: Elzevir Spheres]
Beware, too, of the vulgar error of fancying that little duodecimos with
the mark of the fox and the bee’s nest, and the motto “Quaerendo,” come
from the press of the Elzevirs. The mark is that of Abraham Wolfgang,
which name is not a pseudonym for Elzevir. There are three sorts of
Elzevir pseudonyms. First, they occasionally reprinted the full
title-page, publisher’s name and all, of the book they pirated.
Secondly, when they printed books of a “dangerous” sort, Jansenist
pamphlets and so forth, they used pseudonyms like “Nic. Schouter,” on the
‘Lettres Provinciales’ of Pascal. Thirdly, there are real pseudonyms
employed by the Elzevirs. John and Daniel, printing at Leyden
(1652–1655), used the false name “Jean Sambix.” The Elzevirs of
Amsterdam often placed the name “Jacques le Jeune” on their title-pages.
The collector who remembers these things must also see that his purchases
have the right ornaments at the heads of chapters, the right tail-pieces
at the ends. Two of the most frequently recurring ornaments are the
so-called “Tête de Buffle” and the “Sirène.” More or less clumsy copies
of these and the other Elzevirian ornaments are common enough in books of
the period, even among those printed out of the Low Countries; for
example, in books published in Paris.
A brief sketch of the history of the Elzevirs may here be useful. The
founder of the family, a Flemish bookbinder, Louis, left Louvain and
settled in Leyden in 1580. He bought a house opposite the University,
and opened a book-shop. Another shop, on college ground, was opened in
1587. Louis was a good bookseller, a very ordinary publisher. It was
not till shortly before his death, in 1617, that his grandson Isaac
bought a set of types and other material. Louis left six sons. Two of
these, Matthew and Bonaventure, kept on the business, dating _ex officina
Elzeviriana_. In 1625 Bonaventure and Abraham (son of Matthew) became
partners. The “good dates” of Elzevirian books begin from 1626. The two
Elzevirs chose excellent types, and after nine years’ endeavours turned
out the beautiful ‘Cæsar’ of 1635.
Their classical series in _petit format_ was opened with ‘Horace’ and
‘Ovid’ in 1629. In 1641 they began their elegant piracies of French
plays and poetry with ‘Le Cid.’ It was worth while being pirated by the
Elzevirs, who turned you out like a gentleman, with _fleurons_ and red
letters, and a pretty frontispiece. The modern pirate dresses you in
rags, prints you murderously, and binds you, if he binds you at all, in
some hideous example of “cloth extra,” all gilt, like archaic
gingerbread. Bonaventure and Abraham both died in 1652. They did not
depart before publishing (1628), in _grand format_, a desirable work on
fencing, Thibault’s ‘Académie de l’Espée.’ This Tibbald also killed by
the book. John and Daniel Elzevir came next. They brought out the
‘Imitation’ (Thomæ a Kempis canonici regularis ord. S. Augustini De
Imitatione Christi, libri iv.); I wish by taking thought I could add
eight millimetres to the stature of my copy. In 1655 Daniel joined a
cousin, Louis, in Amsterdam, and John stayed in Leyden. John died in
1661; his widow struggled on, but her son Abraham (1681) let all fall
into ruins. Abraham died 1712. The Elzevirs of Amsterdam lasted till
1680, when Daniel died, and the business was wound up. The type, by
Christopher Van Dyck, was sold in 1681, by Daniel’s widow. _Sic transit
gloria_.
[Picture: Elzevir title-page of the ‘Imitation’ of Thomas à Kempis]
After he has learned all these matters the amateur has still a great deal
to acquire. He may now know a real Elzevir from a book which is not an
Elzevir at all. But there are enormous differences of value, rarity, and
excellence among the productions of the Elzevirian press. The bookstalls
teem with small, “cropped,” dingy, dirty, battered Elzevirian editions of
the classics, _not_ “of the good date.” On these it is not worth while
to expend a couple of shillings, especially as Elzevirian type is too
small to be read with comfort by most modern eyes. No, let the collector
save his money; avoid littering his shelves with what he will soon find
to be rubbish, and let him wait the chance of acquiring a really
beautiful and rare Elzevir.
Meantime, and before we come to describe Elzevirs of the first flight,
let it be remembered that the “taller” the copy, the less harmed and
nipped by the binder’s shears, the better. “Men scarcely know how
beautiful fire is,” says Shelley; and we may say that most men hardly
know how beautiful an Elzevir was in its uncut and original form. The
Elzevirs we have may be “dear,” but they are certainly “dumpy twelves.”
Their fair proportions have been docked by the binder. At the Beckford
sale there was a pearl of a book, a ‘Marot;’ not an Elzevir, indeed, but
a book published by Wetstein, a follower of the Elzevirs. This exquisite
pair of volumes, bound in blue morocco, was absolutely unimpaired, and
was a sight to bring happy tears into the eyes of the amateur of
Elzevirs. There was a gracious _svelte_ elegance about these tomes, an
appealing and exquisite delicacy of proportion, that linger like sweet
music in the memory. I have a copy of the Wetstein ‘Marot’ myself, not a
bad copy, though murderously bound in that ecclesiastical sort of brown
calf antique, which goes well with hymn books, and reminds one of cakes
of chocolate. But my copy is only some 128 millimetres in height,
whereas the uncut Beckford copy (it had belonged to the great
Pixérécourt) was at least 130 millimetres high. Beside the uncut example
mine looks like Cinderella’s plain sister beside the beauty of the
family.
Now the moral is that only tall Elzevirs are beautiful, only tall
Elzevirs preserve their ancient proportions, only tall Elzevirs are worth
collecting. Dr. Lemuel Gulliver remarks that the King of Lilliput was
taller than any of his court by almost the breadth of a nail, and that
his altitude filled the minds of all with awe. Well, the Philistine may
think a few millimetres, more or less, in the height of an Elzevir are of
little importance. When he comes to sell, he will discover the
difference. An uncut, or almost uncut, copy of a good Elzevir may be
worth fifty or sixty pounds or more; an ordinary copy may bring fewer
pence. The binders usually pare down the top and bottom more than the
sides. I have a ‘Rabelais’ of the good date, with the red title (1663),
and some of the pages have never been opened, at the sides. But the
height is only some 122 millimetres, a mere dwarf. Anything over 130
millimetres is very rare. Therefore the collector of Elzevirs should
have one of those useful ivory-handled knives on which the French
measures are marked, and thus he will at once be able to satisfy himself
as to the exact height of any example which he encounters.
Let us now assume that the amateur quite understands what a proper
Elzevir should be: tall, clean, well bound if possible, and of the good
date. But we have still to learn what the good dates are, and this is
matter for the study and practice of a well-spent life. We may gossip
about a few of the more famous Elzevirs, those without which no
collection is complete. Of all Elzevirs the most famous and the most
expensive is an old cookery book, “‘Le Pastissier François.’ Wherein is
taught the way to make all sorts of pastry, useful to all sorts of
persons. Also the manner of preparing all manner of eggs, for fast-days,
and other days, in more than sixty fashions. Amsterdam, Louys, and
Daniel Elsevier. 1665.” The mark is not the old “Sage,” but the
“Minerva” with her owl. Now this book has no intrinsic value any more
than a Tauchnitz reprint of any modern volume on cooking. The
‘Pastissier’ is cherished because it is so very rare. The tract passed
into the hands of cooks, and the hands of cooks are detrimental to
literature. Just as nursery books, fairy tales, and the like are
destroyed from generation to generation, so it happens with books used in
the kitchen. The ‘Pastissier,’ to be sure, has a good frontispiece, a
scene in a Low Country kitchen, among the dead game and the dainties.
The buxom cook is making a game pie; a pheasant pie, decorated with the
bird’s head and tail-feathers, is already made. {12}
[Picture: Elzevir ‘Sage’]
Not for these charms, but for its rarity, is the ‘Pastissier’ coveted.
In an early edition of the ‘Manuel’ (1821) Brunet says, with a feigned
brutality (for he dearly loved an Elzevir), “Till now I have disdained to
admit this book into my work, but I have yielded to the prayers of
amateurs. Besides, how could I keep out a volume which was sold for one
hundred and one francs in 1819?” One hundred and one francs! If I could
only get a ‘Pastissier’ for one hundred and one francs! But our
grandfathers lived in the Bookman’s Paradise. “Il n’est pas jusqu’aux
Anglais,” adds Brunet—“the very English themselves—have a taste for the
‘Pastissier.’” The Duke of Marlborough’s copy was actually sold for £1
4s. It would have been money in the ducal pockets of the house of
Marlborough to have kept this volume till the general sale of all their
portable property at which our generation is privileged to assist. No
wonder the ‘Pastissier’ was thought rare. Bérard only knew two copies.
Pietiers, writing on the Elzevirs in 1843, could cite only five
‘Pastissiers,’ and in his ‘Annales’ he had found out but five more.
Willems, on the other hand, enumerates some thirty, not including
Motteley’s. Motteley was an uncultivated, untaught enthusiast. He knew
no Latin, but he had a _flair_ for uncut Elzevirs. “Incomptis capillis,”
he would cry (it was all his lore) as he gloated over his treasures.
They were all burnt by the Commune in the Louvre Library.
A few examples may be given of the prices brought by ‘Le Pastissier’ in
later days. Sensier’s copy was but 128 millimetres in height, and had
the old ordinary vellum binding,—in fact, it closely resembled a copy
which Messrs. Ellis and White had for sale in Bond Street in 1883. The
English booksellers asked, I think, about 1,500 francs for their copy.
Sensier’s was sold for 128 francs in April, 1828; for 201 francs in 1837.
Then the book was gloriously bound by Trautz-Bauzonnet, and was sold with
Potier’s books in 1870, when it fetched 2,910 francs. At the Benzon sale
(1875) it fetched 3,255 francs, and, falling dreadfully in price, was
sold again in 1877 for 2,200 francs. M. Dutuit, at Rouen, has a taller
copy, bound by Bauzonnet. Last time it was sold (1851) it brought 251
francs. The Duc de Chartres has now the copy of Pieters, the historian
of the Elzevirs, valued at 3,000 francs.
About thirty years ago no fewer than three copies were sold at Brighton,
of all places. M. Quentin Bauchart had a copy only 127 millimetres in
height, which he swopped to M. Paillet. M. Chartener, of Metz, had a
copy now bound by Bauzonnet which was sold for four francs in 1780. We
call this the age of cheap books, but before the Revolution books were
cheaper. It is fair to say, however, that this example of the
‘Pastissier’ was then bound up with another book, Vlacq’s edition of ‘Le
Cuisinier François,’ and so went cheaper than it would otherwise have
done. M. de Fontaine de Resbecq declares that a friend of his bought six
original pieces of Molière’s bound up with an old French translation of
Garth’s ‘Dispensary.’ The one faint hope left to the poor book collector
is that he may find a valuable tract lurking in the leaves of some bound
collection of trash. I have an original copy of Molière’s ‘Les Fascheux’
bound up with a treatise on precious stones, but the bookseller from whom
I bought it knew it was there! That made all the difference.
But, to return to our ‘Pastissier,’ here is M. de Fontaine de Resbecq’s
account of how he wooed and won his own copy of this illustrious Elzevir.
“I began my walk to-day,” says this haunter of ancient stalls, “by the
Pont Marie and the Quai de la Grève, the pillars of Hercules of the
book-hunting world. After having viewed and reviewed these remote books,
I was going away, when my attention was caught by a small naked volume,
without a stitch of binding. I seized it, and what was my delight when I
recognised one of the rarest of that famed Elzevir collection whose
height is measured as minutely as the carats of the diamond. There was
no indication of price on the box where this jewel was lying; the book,
though unbound, was perfectly clean within. ‘How much?’ said I to the
bookseller. ‘You can have it for six sous,’ he answered; ‘is it too
much?’ ‘No,’ said I, and, trembling a little, I handed him the thirty
centimes he asked for the ‘Pastissier François.’ You may believe, my
friend, that after such a piece of luck at the start, one goes home
fondly embracing the beloved object of one’s search. That is exactly
what I did.”
Can this tale be true? Is such luck given by the jealous fates
_mortalibus ægris_? M. de Resbecq’s find was made apparently in 1856,
when trout were plenty in the streams, and rare books not so very rare.
To my own knowledge an English collector has bought an original play of
Molière’s, in the original vellum, for eighteenpence. But no one has
such luck any longer. Not, at least, in London. A more expensive
‘Pastissier’ than that which brought six sous was priced in
Bachelin-Deflorenne’s catalogue at £240. A curious thing occurred when
two uncut ‘Pastissiers’ turned up simultaneously in Paris. One of them
Morgand and Fatout sold for £400. Clever people argued that one of the
twin uncut ‘Pastissiers’ must be an imitation, a facsimile by means of
photogravure, or some other process. But it was triumphantly established
that both were genuine; they had minute points of difference in the
ornaments.
M. Willems, the learned historian of the Elzevirs, is indignant at the
successes of a book which, as Brunet declares, is badly printed. There
must be at least forty known ‘Pastissiers’ in the world. Yes; but there
are at least 4,000 people who would greatly rejoice to possess a
‘Pastissier,’ and some of these desirous ones are very wealthy. While
this state of the market endures, the ‘Pastissier’ will fetch higher
prices than the other varieties. Another extremely rare Elzevir is
‘L’Illustre Théâtre de Mons. Corneille’ (Leyden, 1644). This contains
‘Le Cid,’ ‘Les Horaces,’ ‘Le Cinna,’ ‘La Mort de Pompée,’ ‘Le Polyeucte.’
The name, ‘L’Illustre Théâtre,’ appearing at that date has an interest of
its own. In 1643–44, Molière and Madeleine Béjart had just started the
company which they called ‘L’Illustre Théâtre.’ Only six or seven copies
of the book are actually known, though three or four are believed to
exist in England, probably all covered with dust in the library of some
lord. “He has a very good library,” I once heard some one say to a noble
earl, whose own library was famous. “And what can a fellow do with a
very good library?” answered the descendant of the Crusaders, who
probably (being a youth light-hearted and content) was ignorant of his
own great possessions. An expensive copy of ‘L’Illustre Théâtre,’ bound
by Trautz-Bauzonnet, was sold for £300.
Among Elzevirs desirable, yet not hopelessly rare, is the ‘Virgil’ of
1636. Heinsius was the editor of this beautiful volume, prettily
printed, but incorrect. Probably it is hard to correct with absolute
accuracy works in the clear but minute type which the Elzevirs affected.
They have won fame by the elegance of their books, but their intention
was to sell good books cheap, like Michel Lévy. The small type was
required to get plenty of “copy” into little bulk. Nicholas Heinsius,
the son of the editor of the ‘Virgil,’ when he came to correct his
father’s edition, found that it contained so many coquilles, or
misprints, as to be nearly the most incorrect copy in the world. Heyne
says, “Let the ‘Virgil’ be one of the rare Elzevirs, if you please, but
within it has scarcely a trace of any good quality.” Yet the first
edition of this beautiful little book, with its two passages of red
letters, is so desirable that, till he could possess it, Charles Nodier
would not profane his shelves by any ‘Virgil’ at all.
Equally fine is the ‘Cæsar’ of 1635, which, with the ‘Virgil’ of 1636 and
the ‘Imitation’ without date, M. Willems thinks the most successful works
of the Elzevirs, “one of the most enviable jewels in the casket of the
bibliophile.” It may be recognised by the page 238, which is erroneously
printed 248. A good average height is from 125 to 128 millimetres. The
highest known is 130 millimetres. This book, like the ‘Imitation,’ has
one of the pretty and ingenious frontispieces which the Elzevirs prefixed
to their books. So farewell, and good speed in your sport, ye hunters of
Elzevirs, and may you find perhaps the rarest Elzevir of all, ‘L’Aimable
Mère de Jésus.’
_BALLADE OF THE REAL AND IDEAL_.
(DOUBLE REFRAIN.)
O VISIONS of salmon tremendous,
Of trout of unusual weight,
Of waters that wander as Ken does,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the skies that bring never a “spate,”
But the flies that catch up in a thorn,
But the creel that is barren of freight,
Through the portals of horn!
O dreams of the Fates that attend us
With prints in the earliest state,
O bargains in books that they send us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the tome that has never a mate,
But the quarto that’s tattered and torn,
And bereft of a title and date,
Through the portals of horn!
O dreams of the tongues that commend us,
Of crowns for the laureate pate,
Of a public to buy and befriend us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the critics that slash us and slate, {19}
But the people that hold us in scorn,
But the sorrow, the scathe, and the hate,
Through the portals of horn!