Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes and the booksmiths
at http://www.eBookForge.net
THE BOOK-HUNTER AT HOME.
_Of this edition 500 copies have been printed, and 50 upon fine paper._
[Illustration: THE BOOK-HUNTER AT HOME (JAN SIX, BY REMBRANDT)]
THE BOOK-HUNTER AT HOME
BY P. B. M. ALLAN
THE SECOND EDITION, REVISED
[Illustration]
LONDON
PHILIP ALLAN & CO.
QUALITY COURT, CHANCERY LANE
_First Edition_--1920
_Second Edition_--1922
PRINTED BY WHITEHEAD BROTHERS, WOLVERHAMPTON.
THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY
TO THE HONOURABLE AND VERTUOUS LADY MISTRESS E. K. A.
MADAM,
It would be churlish indeed were I to send this book into the
world without some acknowledgment of the share which you have had
in its making. Indeed, I feel that you are chiefly responsible
for it: without your encouragement, your active help, your
patience with me at all times (at which I marvel constantly), it
would never have arrived at completion. Truly it is your name,
not mine, that should appear upon the title-page; for although
mine may have been the hand that penned the words, certain it is
that yours was the mind that guided my pen throughout. It is to
your sympathy, your judgment, your excellent taste, that I am
indebted for every good thing that I have penned; and where I
have put down aught that is trite or insipid, it is due to my
own natural obstinacy in refusing, or carelessness in neglecting,
to defer the matter to your better judgment. Thus it is only
right that whatever praise may be bestowed upon this book should
be accorded to you; my shoulders alone must bear the censure of
the discerning reader.
I am, Madam, your very dutiful,
and loving husband,
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE
In placing this second edition before his fellow book-lovers, the
author would like to take the opportunity of thanking the
numerous correspondents who have written to him from all parts of
the world. In truth book-collecting establishes a bond between
its devotees that is effected by no other pursuit.
The first edition was put forth only after much hesitation, and
with a good deal of fear and trembling: that a second edition
would ever be required was unthinkable. But since the book has so
obviously been the means of bringing pleasure to so many, the
author feels that it is his duty to bring this second edition 'up
to date,' to make it as perfect as his poor skill allows.
Accordingly the volume has been revised throughout, a number of
additions have been made, both to the text and in the matter of
footnotes, and the prices of books have been amended according to
present conditions. Three illustrations have been added.
QUALITY COURT,
July, 1921.
CONTENTS
CHAP PAGE
I. ADVENTURES AMONG BOOKS 1
II. THE LIBRARY 31
III. BOOKS WHICH FORM THE LIBRARY 58
IV. CHIVALRY AND ROMANCE 84
V. THE CARE OF BOOKS 106
VI. THE CARE OF BOOKS (_Continued_) 126
VII. BOOKS OF THE COLLECTOR 160
VIII. A PLEA FOR SPECIALISM 194
IX. A PLEA FOR SPECIALISM (_Continued_) 230
INDEX 267
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE BOOK-HUNTER AT HOME _frontispiece_
THE PERON page 96
THE HALL OF THE KNIGHTS " 104
THE HOME-MADE LIBRARY " 128
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
ADVENTURES AMONG BOOKS
'Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne.'
CHAUCER.
IT is a sad truth that bargains are met with more frequently in our youth
than in our age. The sophist may argue that age begets philosophy, and
that philosophy contemns all worldly things; yet certain it is that the
book-hunter, one of the most philosophical of beings, remains on the
look-out for bargains to the very end of his career. Nevertheless, it is
a fact that in youth alone do we make those great bargains which lay the
foundations of our careers as book-hunters.
It is this sad truth which fosters in most of us the belief that we live
in a decadent age, and that the days of our youth were infinitely more
seemly than those which we now endure. But it is we who have changed: the
bargains are still there, and may still be had at the cost of youthful
energy and enthusiasm.
'Ah, but you can't get the bargains nowadays that you could when I was a
young man,' says the elderly bookseller, with a knowing shake of his
head. Can't you! Then mankind must have changed strangely since the
period of this sage's youth. Bargains, and rich ones too, in everything
that is bought and sold, are made every day and will continue to be made
so long as human nature endures, bargains in books no less among them.
The rich finds of which the aged bookseller dreams are bargains only in
the light of present-day prices. As a matter of fact, the great majority
of them were not really bargains at all. He may bitterly lament having
parted with a copy of the first edition of the 'Compleat Angler,' in the
'sixties for twenty guineas, but he overlooks the fact that that was then
its market value. Had he asked a thousand pounds for it, his sanity would
certainly have been open to question. 'Why, when I was a boy,' he says,
'you could buy first editions of Shelley, Keats, or Scott for pence.'
Precisely: which was their current value; by no stretch of the
imagination can they be considered bargains. His business is, and has
always been, to buy and sell; not to hoard books on the chance that they
will become valuable 'some day.' Neither can it be urged that 'people'
(by which he means collectors) 'did not know so much about books fifty
years ago.' Collectors know, and have ever known, all that they need for
the acquisition of their particular _desiderata_. If they were ignorant
of the prices which volumes common in their day would realise at some
future period, why, so were the dealers and every one else concerned!
Judging by analogy, we have every reason to believe that many volumes
which we come across almost daily on the bookstalls, marked, perhaps, a
few pence, will be fought for one day across the auction-room table.
The chief reason why the elderly bookseller no longer comes across these
advantageous purchases is that he has passed the age (though he does not
know it) at which bargains are to be had. But bargains are not
encountered, they are made. It is the youthful vigour and enthusiasm of
the young collector, prompting him into the byways and alleys of
book-land, that bring bargains to his shelves.
So, if you are young and enthusiastic, and not to be deterred by a series
of wild-goose chases, happy indeed will be your lot. For over the
post-prandial pipe you will be able to hand such and such a treasure to
your admiring fellow-spirit, saying: 'This I picked up for _n_-pence in
Camden Town; this one cost me _x_-shillings at Poynder's in Reading:
Iredale of Torquay let me have this for a florin; I found this on the
floor in a corner of Commin's shop at Bournemouth; this was on David's
stall at Cambridge, and I nearly lost it to the fat don of King's'; and
so on and so on.
Bargains, forsooth! Our book-hunter was once outbid at Sotheby's for a
scarce volume which he found, a week later, on a barrow in Clerkenwell
for fourpence! The same year he picked up for ten shillings, in London,
an early sixteenth-century folio, rubricated and with illuminated
initials. It was as fresh as when it issued from the press, and in the
original oak and pig-skin binding. He failed to trace the work in any of
the bibliographies, nor could the British Museum help him to locate
another copy. David's stall at Cambridge once yielded to him a scarce
Defoe tract for sixpence. But this being, as Master Pepys said, 'an idle
rogueish book,' he sold it to a bookseller for two pounds, 'that it might
not stand in the list of books, nor among them, to disgrace them, if it
should be found.' A copy has recently fetched twenty guineas.
Doubtless every bibliophile is perpetually on the look-out for treasures,
and it is essential that he learn, early in his career, to make up his
mind at once concerning an out-of-the-way book. He who hesitates is lost,
and this is doubly true of the book-collector. More than once in his
early days of collecting has our book-hunter hesitated and finally left a
book, only to dash back--perhaps a few hours later, perhaps next day--and
find it gone.
Once upon a time a spotlessly clean little square octavo volume of
Terence, printed in italics, caught his eye upon a bookstall. One
shilling was its ransom, but it was not the price that deterred him so
much as the fact that every available nook and corner of his sanctum was
already filled to overflowing with books. 'A nice clean copy of an
early-printed book,' he mused. But early-printed books were not in his
line--then; had they been in those early days of book-hunting, his
library would have been slow indeed of growth. So he passed on and left
it.
All that evening the memory of the little square volume would keep
recurring most absurdly. He didn't want it, it was not in his line, he
would never read it, and so on and so on. But over his pipe that evening
the colophon '. . . . _studio & impensis Philippi de Giunta florentini
. . ., 1505_,' came back to his memory; he must have been mad not to have
bought it at that price, and such a fine copy too. And so to bed, sorely
harassed in his bibliophilic mind.
Next morning he awoke sane and conscious of his folly. An early visit to
the bookstall followed, but the little volume had gone; and it was not
comforting to learn that it had been sold shortly after our bookman saw
it, to a man who 'knew a lot about that kind of books.' Let us hope that
the purchaser treasures the little square volume, printed in italics, as
much as our friend would.
What poignant memories they are, these memories of rare books which we
have found and failed to secure! Two prominent instances of our bookman's
folly stand out with bitter clearness, ever fresh in his memory as a
reminder of the criminal stupidity of procrastination. One was an
exceedingly scarce work by Lawrence Humphrey, entitled 'Optimates sive De
Nobilitate eiusque Antiqua Origine,' printed in small octavo at Basle in
1560, which he once saw in a catalogue for five shillings. He sent for it
three days after the receipt of the catalogue, and of course it had gone.
The other was an unknown, or at least undescribed, edition of Osorio's
'De Gloria et Nobilitate,' printed at Barcelona in the early part of the
sixteenth century. He lost this in the same manner, at two shillings!
Perhaps, however, you too have been guilty of these lapses, reader?
_Semel insanivimus omnes._ Experience is better than advice, and for his
part our book-hunter will not be caught napping again. The following
incident will show you, moreover, that it is not always safe to order
books from a catalogue even by return of post.
For many years he had searched in vain for that rarest of all English
heraldry books (though not properly English, for it is in the Latin
tongue), the 'De Studio Militari, Libri Quatuor' of Master Nicholas
Upton. It was edited by Sir Edward Bysshe, and printed in folio at London
in 1654. The numerous booksellers in London and the country from whom he
sought it had never seen it; indeed, most of them were unaware of its
existence, though it is well known to all heralds.
At length, coming home late one night, our book-hunter found on his table
a catalogue from a bookseller who seems to garner more out-of-the-way
books than any of his fellows. His catalogues are issued very frequently,
for he has a large and quick sale, pricing most of his wares at less than
five shillings. Moreover, the fact that the books described therein are
thrown together without any attempt at classification, even alphabetical,
serves but to add a zest to the repast. But our book-hunter was tired,
and his evil star was in the ascendant, for he went to bed leaving the
catalogue unopened.
Reading it over a late breakfast next morning, upon the last page he came
across the following entry:--
Uptoni (Nich.) De Studio Militari. Johan de Bado Aureo, Tractatus
de Armis. Henrici Spelmanni Aspilogia. Folio, calf. _Scarce._ 8s.
6d.
Scarce, indeed! In less than five minutes he was driving hot-haste to the
shop.
Of course it was sold: sold by _telegram dispatched the night before_. He
was allowed to see it, even to handle it, and he frankly confesses that
murderous thoughts rose within him as he held it in his hands. . . . The
bookseller was an old man . . . the shop was very dark . . . just a push,
and perhaps one firm application _super caput_ of a large-paper copy of
Camden's 'Britannia' which lay handy upon the table. . . . But I am glad
to say that our bookman's better nature prevailed, and sorrowfully he
returned the volume to the dealer's hands. Did he know the customer, and
if so would he try to buy it back? Certainly he would. A week later came
a letter saying that the customer was also a collector of these things,
but that he was willing to part with it 'at a price.' Unfortunately his
price was not our book-hunter's, and he failed to secure the
treasure--then.
Now comes the more pleasant sequel. About a year later, coming home in
the small hours from a dance, our bookman found a catalogue from this
same bookseller on his table. Although tired out, his previous bitter
experience had taught him a lesson; so pulling up a chair before the
remains of the fire he proceeded to skim through the catalogue. He had
reached the last page, and was already beginning to nod, when suddenly
his weariness vanished in a flash: he was wide awake and on his feet in
an instant, for his eyes had met the same entry that had thrilled him a
year ago. This time it was described as 'very scarce,' and the price was
considerably enhanced; but he had his coat on and was in the street
almost immediately.
The nearest telegraph office likely to be open at such an hour was a mile
away, and it was a miserable night, snowing and blowing; but no weather
would have deterred him. So the telegram was safely dispatched, and he
returned to bed, pinning a notice on the bedroom door to the effect that
he was to be called, without fail, at seven o'clock.
That night he was obsessed by Uptons of all shapes and sizes. Some he
beheld with agony, cut down by the ruthless binder to duodecimo size;
others there were no larger than Pickering's Diamond Classics; some (on
his chest) were of a size which I can only describe as 'Atlas,' or,
perhaps more appropriately, 'Elephant Folio,' large-paper copies with
hideous margins.
Next morning our bookman was at the shop betimes. Yes! his wire had
arrived; Upton was his at last! Should the dealer send it for him by
carrier? Carrier, forsooth! As well entrust the Koh-i-noor to a messenger
boy. Of course it was the same copy that our friend had missed
previously, the owner having sold his books _en bloc_ in the meantime.
Why Upton is so scarce it is hard to say; perhaps very few copies were
printed, or perhaps a fire at the printer's destroyed most of them.
Certain it is that the premises of James Allestry and Roger Norton, who
published the book, were both burnt in the great fire twelve years after
its publication. Besides the two copies in the British Museum, there are
examples of it in several of the ancient libraries throughout the
kingdom; but it is very rarely indeed to be met with in the London
salerooms.[1] Dallaway mentions two copies as being, in 1793, in the
library of Lord Carlisle at Naworth; and probably there are examples in
some of the libraries of our older nobility. There would seem to be
copies, also, in France; for several writers upon chivalry, such as La
Roque and Sainte Marie, make mention of it. The writer bought a portion
of it, some forty-eight pages, a few years ago for four shillings. But
take heart, brother bibliophile; it is quite possible that you may
unearth a copy some day--if indeed the book be in your line--long buried
in the dust of some old country bookshop.
Upton died in 1457, and his work was so popular that numerous copies of
the manuscript were made. The treatise on coat-armour, or 'cootarmuris,'
as it is quaintly spelt, which comprises the third part of the 'Book of
Saint Albans' (first printed in 1486), is, for the greater part, a
literal translation of the second half of the fourth book of the 'De
Studio Militari' as printed by Bysshe. Ames, in his 'Typographical
Antiquities,' asserts that Upton's work was reprinted from the St.
Albans book in folio, 1496, 'with the King's Arms and Caxton's mark
printed in red ink.' But he gives no authority for his assertion, and it
seems doubtful whether such a volume ever existed. At all events there
does not appear to be any trace of such a book beyond this mention, and
Herbert, editing Ames, omitted the whole passage. Hain,[2] probably
copying Ames, calls this supposititious work 'De Re Heraldica,' and
states that it was printed at Westminster in 1496 'Anglice.' So much for
worthy Master Nicholas, Canon of Salisbury and protege of the 'good duke
Humfrey.'
There is a curious phenomenon of not infrequent occurrence among
book-collectors, and that is the enforced acquisition of certain volumes
solely by means of the passive persuasion of their presence. In other
words, it is possible to bully the bibliophile into purchasing a book
merely by obtruding it continually before his gaze, till at length its
very presence becomes a source of annoyance to him. To escape from this
incubus he purchases the volume.
In nine cases out of ten, books so acquired never attain the same status
as their fellow-volumes. They are invariably assigned either to the
lowest or topmost shelves of the library, and are, in fact, pariahs.
Their owner did not really want them, and he can never quite forgive
their presence on his shelves. Generally their stay in any one home is
not a long one, for they are weeded out at the first opportunity, and
find no permanent rest until they come finally to that ultimate goal of
books, the paper mills. I confess that in my early days of
collecting this phenomenon was of not infrequent occurrence, being
associated, probably, with the indecision of youth. And in this
connection a bookseller once told me an interesting story.
A certain young man of the working class, on his way to work every day,
used to pass a bookstall situated in a narrow alley. Every day he glanced
at the books, and as custom was scanty he would notice what books were
sold and with what works the bookseller filled the empty places on the
shelves. In this way all of the books which the young man had first
noticed gradually disappeared, with one exception. This was a volume
bound in calf, containing some rather curious poems, and no one seemed to
want it. At length, after some weeks, the young man could stand it no
longer. He approached the bookseller, and for sixpence the volume became
his.
The verses seemed to him rather poor, though one entitled 'Hans Carvel'
amused him rather. The title-page bore the date 1707, and he wondered who
was the 'E. Curll at the Peacock without Temple-Bar,' for whom the work
was printed. Some time afterwards he read in the newspaper that a certain
book had been sold for a large sum because of a misprint in it. This set
him wondering . . . 'at the Peacock _without_ Temple-Bar . . .'
Temple-Bar without a peacock he could imagine: surely this was a
misprint! Perhaps the book was valuable, and others had not 'spotted' the
error!
And now he bethought him of an acquaintance who kept a bookshop in the
West End of the town, a man who knew a lot about old books. He would take
it to him and ask his advice. So, one Saturday afternoon he carried his
'treasure' to the shop in question. Inside, an elderly man was examining
a calf-bound volume.
'. . . the first authentic edition, seventeen hundred and nine,' he was
saying.
The young man glanced at the volume under discussion, and as a page was
turned he caught sight of the heading 'Hans Carvel.' Good gracious; this
volume was the same as his! Just then the elderly man looked up, and the
young fellow handed his volume to the bookseller, saying: 'Here's another
one, same as that, but mine's got something wrong on the front page.'
The bookseller opened the newcomer's volume, looked at the title-page,
and handed it without a word to his customer, who took it with a look of
surprise.
'Something wrong?' said he, 'why, bless me, what's this--1707--that
rascal Curll's edition--where did you get this?'
The young man told him, adding that he gave sixpence for it.
'Sixpence, did you?' said the connoisseur; 'well, I'll give you six
guineas for it': which he did, there and then.
It was a copy of the rare 'pirated' collection of his poems, published
without Matt Prior's knowledge, some two years before the first authentic
edition appeared. Some years later, when the elderly collector died, this
volume came to the saleroom with the rest of his books. It realised forty
pounds! So much for the ugly duckling.
What an absorbing topic is that of 'lost books'! There is a fascination
about the subject that every bibliophile must have experienced. 'Hope
springs eternal in the human breast,' and it is impossible to read of
books long lost without making a mental note of their titles in the hope
that some day we may come across them. Perhaps it is these memories,
pigeon-holed in our mind, that add a zest to anticipation whenever we go
book-hunting on our travels. But alas! the reward for the bibliophile's
hope in this direction is rare as the blossoming of the aloe.
It is curious to think of the thousands of books that have completely
disappeared. Nowadays the Act which assures the preservation in our
greater libraries of every book published in this country will doubtless
prevent the disappearance of a good many English books of lesser
importance, such as school books and other works that are quickly
superseded. But before the passing of this Act there was nothing to
prevent an unpopular or useless work from becoming extinct, and vast
numbers must have disappeared in this country alone. There are many
books, however, important books even, and books which we know to have
been immensely popular in their day, of which so much as a glimpse has
been denied us. The 1606 octavo of 'The Passionate Pilgrim,' the first
issue of John Barclay's satirical romance 'Euphormionis Lusinini
Satyricon,' published at London in 1603, the 'Famous Historie of the
Vertuous and Godly Woman Judith,' London, 1565 (of which a title-page has
been preserved), what would not every book-collector give for copies of
these?
Then there are such early-printed works as Caxton's translation of the
Metamorphoses of Ovid, probably published by him about 1480, 'The Life of
St. Margaret' (known by three leaves preserved in the Bodleian), the
'goste of guido' or Ghost of Guy, and the Epitaph of the King of
Scotland, all printed by Pynson, as well as that mysterious volume
ycleped 'The Nigramansir,' said to be by John Skelton the poet-laureate
who lived under five kings and died in 1529. Many of Skelton's works,
perhaps even the majority of his writings, are known to us by title and
hearsay alone; but who shall say that his 'Speculum Principis,' or 'the
Commedy Achademios callyd by name,' which he himself mentions, are lost
beyond all hope of recovery? 'The Nigramansir' was actually seen by
Thomas Warton, the poet-laureate, in the 'fifties of the eighteenth
century, and is described by him in some detail. His account is so
interesting that it deserves quoting.
'I cannot quit Skelton,' he writes, 'without restoring to the public
notice a play, or MORALITY, written by him, not recited in any catalogue
of his works, or annals of English typography; and, I believe, at present
totally unknown to the antiquarians in this sort of literature. It is,
_The_ NIGRAMANSIR, _a morall_ ENTERLUDE _and a pithie written by Maister_
SKELTON _laureate and plaid before the king and other estatys at
Woodstock on Palme Sunday._ It was printed by Wynkin de Worde in a thin
quarto, in the year 1504.'
Against this Warton makes the following note: 'My lamented friend Mr.
William Collins . . . . shewed me this piece at Chichester, not many
months before his death (Collins died in 1759), and he pointed it out as
a very rare and valuable curiosity. He intended to write the History of
the Restoration of Learning under Leo the Tenth, and with a view to that
design had collected many scarce books. Some few of these fell into my
hands at his death. The rest, among which, I suppose, was this Interlude,
were dispersed.'
Warton then goes on to describe the book in detail, and this
circumstance, together with the fact that he quotes one of the stage
directions ('_enter Balsebub with a Berde_') seems to point to the fact
that he actually had the volume in his hands. It concerned the trial of
Simony and Avarice, with the Devil as Judge. 'The characters are a
Necromancer or Conjurer, the Devil, a Notary Public, Simonie, and
Philargyria or Avarice. . . . There is no sort of propriety in calling
this play the Necromancer: for the only business and use of this
character is to open the subject in a long prologue.'[3] Unfortunately
there is no other mention of this interesting work, and of recent years
its very existence has been doubted.
'It was at Chichester,' wrote Hazlitt, 'that the poet Collins brought
together a certain number of early books, some of the first rarity; his
name is found, too, in the sale catalogues of the last century as a buyer
of such; and the strange and regrettable fact is that two or three items
which Thomas Warton actually saw in his hands, and of which there are no
known duplicates, have not so far been recovered.' Mr. Gordon Duff, in
his 'English Provincial Printers,' mentions seventeen books described by
Herbert at the end of the eighteenth century, of which no copies are now
known to exist. Another rare volume is known to have existed about the
same time. A copy, the only one known, of 'The Fabulous Tales of Esope
the Phrygian' by Robert Henryson, published at London in 1577, was
formerly in the library of Syon College; for it is included in Reading's
catalogue of that college library, compiled in 1724. But its whereabouts
is now unknown. Fortunately in this case a later edition has survived.
Another mysterious volume is the treatise concerning Elizabeth Barton,
the Maid of Kent, who was burnt at Tyburn in 1534. Cranmer, describing
her story to a friend, writes: 'and a boke (was) written of all the hole
storie thereof, and putt into prynte, which euer syns that tyme hath byn
comonly sold and goone abrod amongs all people.' From the confession of
John Skot, the printer of this work, at the trial, it seems that seven
hundred copies were printed; but no copy is now known to exist.
Other works there are as yet unseen by bibliographer, such as Markham's
'Thyrsis and Daphne,' a poem printed in 1593, and the 1609 and 1612
quartos of Ben Jonson's 'Epicoene or the Silent Woman.' This last was
seen by William Gifford a century ago, but neither is now known to exist.
Or is a copy extant of Horace's 'Art of Poetry' english'd by Jonson and
published so late as 1640. Alas! the list of works by 'rare Ben Jonson'
now lost to us, it is feared, for ever, is quite a lengthy one. Who has
seen the original issue of 'Gude and Godlie Ballatis,' printed at
Edinburgh in 1546? Of this book it has been said that, after the Bible,
it did more for the spread of Reformation doctrines in Scotland than any
other volume; so presumably a fairly large edition was printed.
That the editions of some of these early-printed books, now with us no
more, were of considerable size may be judged from contemporary evidence
of their widespread popularity. Speaking of the 'Morte d'Arthur,' Mr. E.
G. Duff remarks: 'Of the popularity of the book we have striking
evidence. Of Caxton's edition two copies are known, of which one is
imperfect.[4] The second edition, printed by Wynkin de Worde in 1498, is
known from one copy only, which is imperfect; while the third edition,
also printed by de Worde is, again, only known from one imperfect copy.
It may well be, considering these facts, that there were other
intervening editions which have entirely disappeared.'
Of the thirteen early editions of Shakespeare's 'Venus and Adonis' only
twenty-two copies have so far been traced. Yet if each of these editions
comprised only 250 copies, the tale of survivors is not large out of a
total of 3,250. 'Printers and publishers . . . strained their resources
to satisfy the demands of eager purchasers,' remarks Sir Sidney Lee; so
presumably the estimate of 250 per edition is a conservative one.
Where are these volumes now? It is difficult to believe they have been
utterly destroyed, leaf by leaf, so that no vestige of them any longer
exists. Surely they will turn up at an auction sale some day, for they
may well be safely ensconced, at this very moment, on the shelves of some
neglected country library. Mr. Duff himself records the discovery
recently of a copy of Caxton's 'Speculum,' 'amongst some rubbish in the
offices of a solicitor at Birkenhead.'
What a vast number of books there is, also, of which only one copy is
known to exist. Of the early editions of Shakespeare's plays alone, more
than a dozen are known by solitary examples. Of such books Hazlitt
remarks that he 'has met in the course of a lengthened career with
treasures which would make a small library, and has beheld no
duplicates.' Probably many of these _incognita_ and _rarissima_ perished
in the great fire of London; others again met their fate solely through
their own popularity, being 'thumbed' to pieces. In 1494 Pynson thought
well enough to reprint Caxton's 'Book of Good Manners'; but of this once
popular book one copy only--that which was formerly in the Amherst
Library--now survives.
Then there is that ancient romance of European popularity 'The four Sons
of Aymon.' One of the great cycle of Charlemagne romances, such was its
popularity that by the end of the thirteenth century it had penetrated
even to Iceland. Many and various were the editions that issued from the
early presses. Caxton printed it about 1489, but of this thick quarto
impression one imperfect copy only has survived. A second edition, as we
learn from the colophon of the third edition, was 'imprinted at London by
Wynken de Worde, the viii daye of Maye, and the year of our lorde
M.CCCCC. iiii'; but a solitary leaf, discovered in the binding of an
ancient book, is the sole representative of an edition that ran probably
into several hundreds.
In the case of some at least of these early books there is another reason
for their disappearance and scarcity. Stephen Vaughan, the indefatigable
agent of Mr. Secretary Cromwell, writing to his master from Antwerp,
mentions that he is 'muche desirous t'atteyne the knowlage of the Frenche
tonge,' but that he is unable to obtain a copy of the only primer which
he knows to exist. This volume, called 'L'Esclarcissement de la Langue
Francoyse,' was 'compose par Maistre Jehan Palsgraue, Angloys, natyf de
Londres et gradue de Paris,' and was printed by Pynson, though it was
finished and published by Hawkins in 1530.
Palsgrave, the author, seems to have been determined that his book should
not fall into the hands of other teachers of French (he was 'scolemaster'
to the Princess Mary, sister of Henry VIII., in 1513, at a stipend of L6
13s. 4d.); and although Vaughan writes that he 'made not a letle labour
to Mr. Palsgrave to have one of his books,' yet 'in no wise he wolde
graunt for no price.' So Vaughan entreats Thomas Cromwell to obtain a
copy for him, 'not doubtyng but though he unkyndly denyd me one, he will
not denye youe one.'
Apparently Palsgrave had entered into some kind of arrangement with the
printer, for Vaughan writes that he 'hathe willed Pynson to sell none of
them to any other person than to suche as he shall comaunde to have them,
lest his proffit by teching the Frenche tonge myght be mynished by the
sale of the same to suche persons as, besids hym, wern disposed to studye
the sayd tongue.'
From this premise it is easy to understand why 'L'Esclarcissement' is
such a rare book. Very few copies indeed are known to exist. Yet one
cannot help wondering what became of the copies that had not been
disposed of at the author's death. Possibly a very small number was
printed, and perhaps 'Johan Haukyns,' faithful to his pact, destroyed
those on hand. That the book was in high esteem may be gathered from the
fact that, in spite of his rebuff, Vaughan says: 'If I had one, I wolde
no less exteme it then a Jewell.' The letter ends with a delightful burst
of ingenuousness. 'Syr, I remember Mr. Palsgrave gave youe one of his
books, which if it please you to geve me I wer muche bounde to youe.'
Whether he obtained a copy in the end history does not relate; but if our
book-hunter is ever so fortunate as to come across one, like Vaughan he
will certainly 'no less exteme it then a Jewell.'
Very many, indeed the vast majority, of the popular jest-books which
appeared in such numbers during Queen Elizabeth's reign are now lost to
us. Some are known by later quotation of their titles, others by later
editions, such as 'The Life of Long Meg of Westminster,' 'A Lytle and
Bryefe Treatyse called the Defence of Women,'[5] etc. But these were
small volumes of few pages, and were doubtless considered as little
worthy of preservation as is the modern 'penny dreadful.' 'But, when we
consider how very many of these early books have come down to our time
only in single copies or even fragments out of an edition of some
hundreds, it is only natural to suppose that a great number must have
utterly disappeared.'[6]
It is not for want of enterprise that so many of these books have not so
far been recovered. The smaller and more remote towns, even villages, of
these islands and the Continent have been, and are being, ransacked by
dealers as well as collectors. The number of works hitherto undescribed
that has been brought to light during the last sixty years must be
considerable; and one still hears every now and then of some rich trover
that has been unearthed. In 1887 a small octavo manuscript volume, in a
worn brown binding, was offered at the end of a sale at Sotheby's. It had
stood, for how long no man knows, on the shelf of a small parish library
in Suffolk; and it was offered for sale 'presumably as being unreadable
to country folk, and capable of being turned into hard cash wherewith a
few works of fiction might be purchased.' Acquired by the Bodleian
Library for L6, it proved, by perhaps one of the most romantic chains of
evidence ever attached to a book,[7] to be the favourite devotional
volume and constant companion of Saint Margaret, Queen of Scotland, who
died in 1093. It was not until 1905 that the original quarto edition
(1594) of Shakespeare's 'Titus Andronicus' was known to exist, when a
copy was discovered and sold for L2000.
Books travel far afield. At the dissolution of the monasteries the rich
libraries that many of them possessed were scattered far and wide. One of
these religious houses was famed for its rich store of books; and that
the report was not exaggerated we know from its ancient library
catalogue, still extant. In this case some of the books were taken by the
inmates with them into exile in Flanders; and when the small community
migrated thence to Portugal, the precious tomes were carried reverently
with them. A fire at their convent in 1651 destroyed a large number of
the volumes, and when some of the nuns returned to England in 1809 they
brought the remaining books with them. Some were sold, but three cases of
these ancient books were sent back to the nuns who stayed behind in
Portugal, and of these cases two were lost in transit.
London, however, has always been the centre of book production in this
country, and it is there that any existing copies of these forgotten
books are most likely to re-appear. Was not a priceless manuscript, a
Household Book of the Black Prince, discovered only a few years ago in
the office of a city lawyer? Once, in the course of his rambles by the
bookstalls of the Farringdon Road,[8] our book-hunter caught a glimpse of
an old box almost covered by books and prints on one of the stalls. Being
unearthed, it proved to be a veritable gem of a trunk, about two feet by
one, and nine inches deep. It had a convex lid, and was covered with
shaggy horsehide, bound with heavily studded leather. The proprietor
stated that he had found it in a cellar, full of old books, most of which
had already been sold (his listener promptly pictured Caxtons among
them); and he was amused to think that any one could be so foolish as to
offer him two shillings for such a dirty old box. However, it was carried
home in triumph, regardless of the great interest shown by
fellow-travellers in the train. A year or two ago the same vender
produced a similar trunk, rather larger, which was full of ancient deeds
relating to property in Clerkenwell. These he sold for a shilling or two
shillings apiece, according to size and seals. The box was larger than
our bookman wanted, but apparently it soon found a purchaser.
Surely such instances must be common in this great city, and many a trunk
must yet linger in cellars and attics in the old parts of the town. Not
many years ago our book-hunter chanced to visit an ancient house at the
end of a small court off Fleet Street. Inside, it seemed to be entirely
lined with oak planking, and it was occupied, or at least that part into
which he penetrated was, by a printer in a small way of business. The
staircase was magnificent, of massive coal-black oak; and when our
book-hunter remarked upon it, the printer informed him he had discovered
that the house had once been the town residence of a famous bishop of
Tudor times.[9] How the occupant discovered this fact our bookman does
not remember; possibly the house is well known to antiquaries, and the
occupier may have read about it or have been told by the previous tenant.
But it is also within the bounds of possibility that he unearthed some
deed or papers relating to the premises. It is strange, too, that one of
the few letters of this bishop which have been preserved refers to books.
'Ye promised unto me, long agone,' he writes to Secretary Cromwell, 'the
Triumphes of Petrarche in the Ytalion tonge. I hartely pray you at this
tyme by this beyrer, . . . to sende me the said Boke with some other at
your deuotion; and especially, if it please you, the boke called
Cortigiano in Ytalion.'[10]
There must be many such houses still extant in London, and who knows what
there may be in their long-disused attics? Hidden away in the darkness
beneath their tiles, between joists and under the eaves, it is possible
that books till now unknown to us, by sight at least, may still exist. Or
who has explored the lumber accumulated in many a disused cellar within a
quarter of a mile of the Mansion House? The very existence of the trunks
which we have mentioned proves that such things do still linger in the
nooks and crannies of this great city.
And I would not confine my surmise in this direction to London alone. Two
ancient libraries there are, one in the North Countrie, the other in the
West, that to my certain knowledge have never been explored by modern
bibliographer. The latter is spurned and neglected, the books are deep in
dust and even mildew; the former is also neglected, but at least the
house is inhabited. The owner, an old, old woman, will never permit of
any volume being disturbed. It is said that her father collected the
books many years ago, and that she still guards them jealously for him.
Perhaps one day a copy of the 'Nigramansir' will emerge from its long
sleep in some such house as these. Indeed, it is not so much a matter of
surprise that such books should have disappeared, as that they should
have remained hidden for so long. In 1909 an ancient volume was
accidentally discovered in an old manor-house in the North of England,
where it had lain undisturbed for generations. It proved to consist of no
less than five of Caxton's publications bound up together. Moreover, it
was in the original binding, and was bound, probably, by one of Caxton's
workmen, whose initials it bore. On being put up for sale at Sotheby's,
it changed hands at L2,600.
The account which Gairdner gives in the Introduction to his last edition
of the Paston letters, of the loss and rediscovery of those historic
documents, is also a striking example of the manner in which books may
lie hidden for years. For nearly a century the originals of Sir John
Fenn's compilation were utterly lost. 'Even Mr. Serjeant Frere who edited
the fifth volume . . . declared that he had not been able to find the
originals of that volume any more than those of the others. Strange to
say, however, the originals of that volume were in his house all the
time. . . .' Gairdner then applied to the owner of Roydon Hall for the
remainder of the manuscripts, but received answer 'that he did not see
how such MSS. should have found their way to Roydon.' Yet there they were
discovered (with many others) eight years later! Even then the
whereabouts of the letters forming Fenn's first and second volumes, which
he had presented in 1787 to King George III., was still unknown. 'The
late Prince Consort . . . caused a careful search to be made for them,
but it proved quite ineffectual.' No wonder, for in 1889 they came to
light in a Suffolk manor-house!
It is difficult to portray in words the sensations of the book-collector
when engaged in searching some ancient building or library--especially if
he be upon a 'hot scent.' The thrills that he experiences as he handles
some rich volume that has lain hid for years, the delicious excitement
that pervades him while exploring some huge charter chest or ancient
oaken press, these are feelings not to be described in words. 'It was
discovered in the library at such and such a place,' we read, and we
barely stop to picture the scene of its finding or to imagine the
sensations of its finder. The very finding at Syon by 'Master Richard
Sutton, Esq.,' of the manuscript containing the 'revelacions' of St.
Katherin of Siena, from which de Worde printed his edition, conjures up a
whole romance in itself; yet in his eulogy of the work Wynkyn dismisses
the matter briefly, merely stating that it was found 'in a corner by
itself.' 'We were shipwrecked,' says the mariner, relating his
adventures; and in those three words what a world of incident and
sensations is comprised!
Our book-hunter confesses frankly to having had much good luck in book
collecting. Some years ago he made up his mind to start collecting
Elzeviers, more with the intention of gathering a representative
collection of books printed by that great family of printers than with
any idea of specialising in them. Probably he was urged thereto by
reading that wholly delightful book 'The Library' by Andrew Lang, wherein
the author discourses so pleasantly on these rare pygmies of the book
world. 'The Pastissier Francois,' we read, 'has lately fetched L600 at a
sale'; and the 'Caesar' of 1635 seemed nearly as rare, provided it were a
copy of that impression wherein the 149th page is misprinted '153.' A
little later our bookman was dipping, for the _n_-th time, into that
bibliophile's bible 'The Book Hunter,' by John Hill Burton, whose opinion
of the Caesar seemed even higher, for he devotes nearly half a page to
the little volume which Brunet describes as 'une des plus jolies et plus
rares de la collection des Elsevier.'
That decided our friend. He would collect Elzeviers. Moreover, he would
continue to collect them until he had acquired both the 'Pastissier
Francois' and the 1635 'Caesar.' Such was the confidence of youth! So he
sallied forth straight away, determined to ransack the nooks and corners
of certain shops of his acquaintance.
He didn't find the 'Pastissier Francois' that afternoon, but he found the
1635 'Caesar' in Charing Cross Road for _two shillings_. Moreover, it had
the requisite misprint and certain other distinctions which proclaim it
to be of the rare impression, and it is no less than 126 millimetres in
height! He has not yet come across the Pastissier, but doubtless he will
find a copy one day, provided his luck holds good.
The little 'Pastissier' is a far more interesting volume than the
'Caesar.' The latter is a dainty book, beautifully printed upon fine
paper, with folding maps and plans of castramentation. The 'Pastissier,'
on the other hand, is a disappointing little book in appearance, for it
is but indifferently printed upon poor paper. It cannot even claim the
merit of originality, being merely a pirated reprint of a volume that
appeared in Paris some two years previously.[11] But it is very, very
rare, and it has been celebrated by many distinguished pens.
'"Monsieur," said I, "pray forgive me if my question seems impertinent,
but are you extremely fond of eggs?"'
Such were the words with which Alexandre Dumas first addressed Charles
Nodier, the famous dramatist and bibliophile, whom he found sitting next
to him at the Theatre Porte-Saint-Martin. Dumas' curiosity as to the
little volume that was engrossing his neighbour's attention more than
the play was at length allayed, and it was a view of the title-page that
prompted his unusual question. Looking over his neighbour's shoulder, he
read, opposite the engraved frontispiece, as follows:--
[Illustration: LE PASTISSIER FRANCOIS
Ou est enseigne la maniere de
faire toute sorte de Pastisserie,
tres-utile a toute sorte
de personnes.
_ENSEMBLE_
_Le moyen d'aprester toutes sortes d'oeufs_
_pour les jours maigres & autres,_
_en plus de soixante facons._
_A AMSTERDAM_
Chez Louys & Daniel Elzevier
_A M DC LV._]
But Nodier was far from being the gourmet that Dumas supposed him to be.
He was merely a bookhunter devouring a rare 'find'; and the little book,
he explained to Dumas, was one of those tiny volumes published in the
seventeenth century by the house of the Elzeviers at Leyden and
Amsterdam; and of all the many productions of that press, this was the
most sought for by collectors.
Elzeviers, however, are no longer fashionable, in this country at least.
The Caesar might possibly bring five pounds if it came to the notice of an
Elzevier specialist, but I doubt it.[12] Only the Pastissier has retained
its exalted price, probably on account of its notoriety. A copy, in
modern calf binding, sold recently (1917) at Sotheby's for so much as
L130; but Lord Vernon's copy, choicely bound by Cape, realised only L70
at the Sudbury sale in June 1918. However, it was a poor copy and much
cut down.
Railway-trains, among other things, have killed Elzeviers. Nothing could
be more convenient for saddle-bag or knapsack, or the restricted luggage
which one could stow in the boot of a coach. But who makes a practice
nowadays of putting books into his suit-case or gladstone-bag?[13]
Besides, before the advent of railways, there was not the same facility
for distributing books, and one might travel many leagues and visit many
villages without coming to a place where there would be a bookshop. In
travelling nowadays one is continually in the presence of cheap books.
The fate of the little Pastissier was probably that of many popular
books. There must have been thousands of copies of it printed. Dumas, in
that delightful chapter of 'Mes Memoires' which we have just quoted,
makes Nodier say, 'Techener declares that there were five thousand five
hundred copies issued, and I maintain that there were more than ten
thousand printed'; and he goes on to declare that 'there are probably
only ten examples of it left in Europe.' Willems, however, in his
bibliography of the Elzeviers published in 1880, enumerates some thirty
copies, and states that the highest price yet paid for the Pastissier
was 10,000 francs. But that was for a quite exceptional copy. From 4,500
francs to 5,500 francs seems to have been the average value of the book
in Willems' time, and, enthusiast as he is, he hesitates not to describe
it as a 'bouquin insignifiant et mediocrement imprime.'
Its scarcity at the present day is, perhaps, not surprising; for, from
the very nature of its contents, its habitat must always have been the
kitchen rather than the library. How long would such a tiny volume, with
its 130 thin paper leaves, bear the rough and greasy handling of chefs
and 'pastissiers'? Book-shelves are rare in kitchens, and the little book
must have been continually moved from pillar to post. Besides, it is
unlikely that copies for kitchen use would be strongly bound in morocco.
The very printing and paper of the book sufficiently indicate the use to
which its producers at least expected it to be put. So the little 'French
pastrycook' gradually disappeared. Those for whose benefit it had been
written would soon learn its secrets by heart and confide them verbally
to their apprentices; and it would not be long ere the tattered and
greasy booklet found its way into the dustbin.
Of all the _rarae aves_ sought by book-collectors this little volume is
perhaps the most widely known. That copies may still exist in this
country is shown to be possible by the fact (recorded by Willems) that
one was sold at an auction in Belfast. Another was found at Brighton, and
occasionally one appears in the London salerooms, as we have shown. It
requires little imagination to picture merchants and travellers, whose
paths led through the Low Countries at that time, slipping copies into
their pockets or holsters for use in the household across the water. Many
a courtly exile during the Protectorate, glancing through the bookshops
of Amsterdam, must have chanced upon the little volume as a gift for wife
or daughter.
Numbers, also, must have found their way to France. Some years ago our
book-hunter happened to stay at an ancient hostel in Rouen. From the
outside the building was everything that could possibly be desired by
bibliophile or antiquary. It was situated in one of those quaint narrow
back streets that lead towards the Place Henri Quatre; and the courtyard
was so small as scarcely to allow a baker's cart to turn round in it.
Like many of the houses in this ancient town, its crookedness was such
that it seemed impossible for it to remain standing much longer.
Misgivings arose within him as he ascended the staircase, which seemed to
sway as he avoided the broken treads. But the sight of the bedroom he was
to occupy, furnished with such furniture and such a bed, all spotlessly
clean and polished, sent him into the seventh heaven of delight. Here he
could read and write undisturbed for as long as he chose to stay. Surely
pleasant surprises must be in store for one in every way in such
surroundings as these!
It was not long before he got one.
'Will Monsieur require anything to be cooked for him to-night?' inquired
the trim hostess.
It was rather late and our bookman was disinclined to seek a restaurant.
Besides, he was anxious to explore his lodging before it got too dark. An
omelette would be delicious, provided she could make one properly.
'Eggs, perhaps, and tea, with bread and butter'--could she turn the eggs
into an omelette?
'Why certainly,' with a merry laugh, 'of course--_I can prepare eggs in
more than sixty ways._'
To say that our book-hunter started would be to put it mildly. A certain
title-page instantly rose before his eyes. There was only one way in
which anybody could possibly learn to cook eggs in sixty different ways,
and that was by studying the 'Pastissier Francois.' Without the slightest
doubt the hostess possessed a copy, and he was at last to look upon the
tiny volume that he had sought for so long. But as she seemed so proud of
her achievement, could she be induced to part with the precious tome?
These and many other kindred thoughts passed rapidly through his mind as
he repeated slowly 'en plus de soixante facons?'
She laughed again. Ah yes, but she couldn't repeat them _d'abord_, she
would have to _refer to her book_.
He had difficulty in controlling his voice sufficiently to inquire what
her book was.
Oh, it was just a little book which her mother had given her, a little
book of _la cuisine_. Could he see it? Why certainly, but it could not
possibly interest monsieur, it was only a common little book, and dirty.
Ah, as usual it would be soiled, perhaps badly, for it was evidently
still in constant use; but so long as it were complete one might possibly
be able to clean it. What delightful thoughts and anticipations passed
through his mind as the hostess slowly descended the rickety stairs to
fetch her treasure! At last he had found it, and just in the very sort of
house and town where he had always expected to come across it. Well,
well, if you make up your mind to have a thing and search eagerly enough
for it, you are bound to obtain it in the long run.
Then another thought entered his mind: how much should he offer her for
it? Probably she would not part with it unless he named a sum which she
could not resist; yet if the sum were at all large she might suspect the
book's value and refuse. Ten francs, twenty-five, a hundred? While he was
deliberating this important point she was ascending the stairs. Should he
turn his back to her, shut his eyes, and tell her to place the volume on
the middle of the table, then suddenly turn about and gloat upon the
little treasure?
Before he could make up his mind she came in and he got his second
surprise that day. It was not as pleasant as the first, for in her hands
she held a thick octavo volume bound in shiny black leather. Heavens!
. . . a large-paper copy? . . . No, no, impossible. . . .
'Le voici, m'sieu.'
Our poor book-hunter's feelings almost overcame him, and he opened the
dirty manuscript volume mechanically, feebly muttering 'tres
interessant.' She watched him closely, and from that moment considered
him slightly mad. However, the book certainly did contain sixty-two
recipes for cooking eggs as well as receipts for making fancy pastry and
cakes. Whether it was copied out of the 'Pastissier' I know not; but
certain it is that the hostess had no knowledge of, nor had ever seen,
that volume.
There must be many book-treasures lying hid in all these ancient towns of
Northern France, towns also that lie far off the restless tourist's
track, small country towns in which the majority of the houses are
slipshod timbered relics of a bygone age. No striking or unusual feature
can they offer to the curious, and so for the most part they are
dismissed in brief by the guide book. Yet there is many an aged building
in Brittany where old books do still lie hid, as our bookman knows from
the library of a friend who lives in Finisterre. St. Brieuc, Guingamp,
Morlaix, Quimper, even Brest, all these must harbour long-forgotten
books.
But there are other towns which no power on earth shall force our
book-hunter to disclose. One there is far off the beaten track, where the
houses, painted with bright colours, lean all askew, supporting each
other and sometimes almost toppling across the narrow winding streets. So
that, entering it, one seems to have stepped suddenly into some such
fairy town as exists in the pages of Grimm or Hans Andersen; and, half
ashamed, one peers curiously at the dwellers in this goblin town, as
though expecting to find that they have pointed ears and narrow elfin
feet. They never seem to move about, and, sitting at almost every
doorstep, watch one intently from weird nooks and crannies. Hurry and
bustle are here unknown, and though they will reply to you in the best of
French, yet to each other the townsfolk speak a strange and uncouth
tongue.
Once, rambling in the narrow alleys about the ancient church, our
book-hunter ventured through a gothic doorway along a broad passage that
was guarded by a huge and ancient iron grille and presently he found
himself in a small courtyard paved with moss-grown cobbles. About it was
a timbered gallery, roofed, once doubtless level, now gently and
gracefully undulating so that it seemed about to fall from off the wall
to which it was attached. But the walls had also subsided with the
gallery, so that the whole still showed a symmetry that was pleasing to
the eye. Above the gallery and across the front of the building had been
painted the legend HOTEL DU LION D'OR, and a dim weatherbeaten shield
above the doorway still bore the trace of a rampant lion. It seemed a
large building, judging by the number of its windows, far larger than its
present-day custom could possibly warrant.
The place was curiously still, for the noise of carts and footsteps could
never penetrate into that silent court, and it must have been many years
since chaise or horseman clattered across its now mossy _pave_. The
stillness was almost uncanny, forbidding, and our book-hunter hesitated
to cross the courtyard lest the sound of his footsteps should disturb the
slumber of the ancient building. Presently a rat squealed somewhere along
the gallery, and a voice called out sharply within. The spell was broken,
and entering the house he called for a 'petit verre' preparatory to
finding out something of the inn's history.
Yes, it was very old, and madame had been born in it; but now that she
was left alone with Jeanne it was very lonely, and there was little
custom. Did they have many travellers there? Oh no, not for a long time,
the house was not easy to find, and as the old customers died none came
to fill their places. But sometimes Messieurs So and So came in of an
evening and took a 'petit verre,' and then the neighbours were very
friendly, so it was not so bad.
So the hostess prattled on, only too pleased to impart the news of her
little world to a newcomer from the greater one, while all the time
fantastic visions rose before him. He pictured old hide-bound trunks
that had been left behind by travellers who had never returned, trunks
which, opened, would prove to contain priceless black-letter books:
boxes, stored in attics and cellars and in concealed presses, which would
contain ancient apparel with copies of the 'Pastissier' in the pockets:
small travelling bags, tendered by needy scholars in lieu of payment,
which he would find stuffed with rare Elzeviers: rusty iron-bound chests
enclosing missals, books of hours and antiphonals: in short to such
heights did his imagination soar that he resolved to sojourn there till
he had explored the old house from attic to cellar.
Then a rat squealed again, near at hand. Oh yes, they were everywhere,
ever since Monsieur Gautier rented the left wing of the house to store
grain in; and they were _so_ tame and _so_ large that Madame was obliged
to keep miou-miou in her bedroom every night.
That decided our book-hunter. Enthusiasm can be carried too far. Even the
possibilities of a rich trover would not compensate for having rats
running about one's bed at night. Moreover the vermin would surely have
gnawed, if not devoured, any copies of the 'Pastissier' that might have
been lying about, even if these were innocent of bacon-grease stains. And
so consoling himself, he took another 'petit verre' and departed, casting
more than one regretful glance backwards at the old Lion d'Or.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Apparently there is only one copy of Upton's work in the United
States at present--that which was formerly in the Huth Library. It was
purchased at Sotheby's in July, 1920, by a well-known New York dealer,
Mr. G. D. Smith, for ten guineas, the writer of these lines being the
underbidder. Mr. Smith had sent "an unlimited commission" to secure it.
An announcement in _The Bookman's Journal_ (1920) asking for information
respecting other copies elicited but one response.
Since writing the above, the author has secured the splendid presentation
copy given by Upton's editor (Bysshe) to the great Parliamentary leader,
Sir Humphrey Mackworth, of Neath, in Glamorganshire. It had remained at
Glen Uske until the dispersal of the Mackworth Library in 1920.
[2] No. 16096. See page 164.
[3] Possibly the title was _Nigromanser_, from _niger_, black, and
_manser_, a bastard.
[4] The perfect copy was purchased by Mr. Pierpont Morgan at the sale of
the Hoe Library, in 1911, for L8,560. It formed originally one of the
twenty-two Caxtons which were dispersed in 1698 with the library of Dr.
Francis Bernard, Physician to King James the Second, when it realised two
and tenpence! It became the property of the great Robert Harley, Earl of
Oxford, and was acquired later by the Countess of Jersey for two and a
half guineas. Passing thus into the Osterley Park collection, it was
purchased, when that library was sold in 1885, by Bernard Quaritch for
L1,950, becoming the property, the same year, of Mrs. Abby E. Pope, of
Brooklyn, U.S.A.
[5] By Edward More of Hambledon, Bucks.
[6] Mr. E. G. Duff.
[7] For this romantic story see _Books in Manuscript_, by Mr. Falconer
Madan, 8vo, 1893, p. 107 _et seq._
[8] Book-collectors always speak of _The_ Farringdon Road; why, I know
not, but the definite article certainly gives it an old-world tang.
[9] Alas for romance! Truth compels me to add that as the Great Fire
swept across this very court, the existing house must date at earliest
from King Charles' reign. But the site and tradition as to its former
owner may well be true.
[10] _The Courtier_, by Baldassare Castiglione, was first printed at
Venice in 1528, folio. This letter was written by the fearless churchman,
then of Wolsey's household, on the great Cardinal's 'last lingering
journey north.' There is, perhaps, a certain significance in his wish to
study a volume which treats of the art of living in courts, and of
becoming useful and agreeable to princes, for he was shortly to transfer
his services to a royal master.
[11] At the sale of Baron Seilliere's books in 1887, a copy of this
prototype of the Elzevier volume, printed at Paris 'chez Jean Gaillard,'
1653, brought only L6, 10s. It was described as 'a beautiful copy, red
morocco, super extra, gilt edges, by Petit.' It is exceedingly rare,
but--it is not an Elzevier.
[12] A recent (1920) catalogue offers a copy for thirty-five shillings.
[13] I confess that I do, but then I am hopelessly out of date, or I
shouldn't be fond of Elzeviers.
[Illustration]