THE CARE OF BOOKS
'Wher so ever y be come over all
I belonge to the Chapell of gunvylle hall;
He shal be cursed by the grate sentens
That felonsly faryth and berith me thens.
And whether he bere me in pooke or sekke
For me he shall be hanged by the nekke,
(I am so well beknown of dyverse men)
But I be restored theder agen.'
(_Written in a breviary in the Library
of Gonville and Caius College._)
WHEREIN lies the charm of an old book? In its contents? Not altogether,
for then would the reprint be just as acceptable; perhaps more so, for it
would be possibly more legible, probably cleaner, certainly in a more
convenient shape. In its scarcity, then? Partly, perhaps; yet not
necessarily, for there are many 'old' books that are always eagerly
bought up by collectors, though quite frequent in occurrence. Then
wherein lies the old book's charm? It is chiefly in its appearance.
It is the spiritual appearance rather than the material aspect of a book,
however, that draws the book-lover to it. To the true bibliophile there
is an intangible _something_ about an old book which it is impossible to
describe. That this feeling is closely akin to the impressive influence
of antiquity there can be no doubt; for you may prove it by taking your
book-lover successively to a modern free library and to a collection of
ancient books, and noting carefully his expression in each. Though he be
surrounded by thousands of volumes issued from the press during the last
half-century, rich and luxurious works even, yet the probability is that
he will be merely bored. But watch him as he stands before the thick oak
shelves eagerly scrutinising the dim lettering on ancient calf and vellum
back! See how his eye flashes as he takes down an ancient quarto, gently
and reverently lest the headband be grown weak with age, and, carefully
blowing the dust from its top edge, turns eagerly to title-page and
colophon!
And this feeling is not influenced by the surroundings which one is
accustomed to associate with old books. Whether they be in a cathedral or
college library, in a bookshop or the most modern of cases, it is all one
to your true collector. It is the books and the books only about which he
cares. No sooner does he feel the ancient tome within his hands than his
soul is borne rapidly away upon the wings of fancy, far far back into the
dim ages, high above all worldly considerations; caring, understanding,
feeling, in tune with the magic so wondrously locked up in this ancient
volume, to which his love of books alone has provided the key.
It is no wonder that he is impressed, for the soul of the true
book-collector is ever in communion with the _manes_ of those who gave
birth to his books. He is brother to author, paper-maker, compositor,
publisher, and binder, understanding all their hopes, doubts, and fears,
in sympathy with all the thoughts that gave his volumes their shape,
size, and appearance. Have you not often realised, brother collector, the
_spirit_ that is hidden in every old book, the concentrated thoughts that
have been materialised in giving it birth? Surely thoughts never die.
'Our thoughts are heard in heaven' wrote a neglected poet, and are not
books 'sepulchres of thought'?
Happier is the book-collector than he who acquires ancient pieces of
furniture, old vases, or pewter mugs. For, unlike the old book, these
things can be reproduced in facsimile so that you may not tell the
difference between old and new, and the reproduction may be stronger and
more serviceable than the original. Moreover he is not troubled with
qualms as to their genuineness, undergoing agonies of apprehension while
each treasure--or otherwise--is submitted to the scrutiny of friends and
experts.
There is a lasting charm about a book of our choice which the
antique-collector can never hope to experience. His treasure may be
grotesque or it may be beautiful, in either case it may please the eye
every time that he behold it, through many years. But beyond pleasure to
the eye and perhaps a smug complacency in its possession, there is
nothing else. He knows it inside-out, as it were, within a few minutes of
its acquisition. Very different, however, is the case with a book. After
the attraction exercised by its ancient appearance, the exterior aspect
is in reality but a secondary consideration, and when we have expressed
ourselves as to whether it be a fine or a poor copy, we turn at once to
its contents. The very wording of the title-page gives us an inkling of
the writer's character, places us upon his plane, and tunes our thoughts
in harmony with his.
What book-lover does not sympathise with that great man Lenglet du
Fresnoy? Perhaps few men have come so completely under the spell of
books; for he devoted a long life entirely to consuming the fruits of the
master minds that had gone before him. In spite of the gossip concerning
him, not always to his credit, that has come down to us, it is undeniable
that by sheer love and knowledge of books he piled up a monument that
will ever keep his name in memory among bibliophiles for he is numbered
with such giants as Hain, Brunet, and Lowndes. The 'Methode pour etudier
l'Histoire' alone is sufficient to show his extraordinary knowledge of
books; indeed, they were the very inspirers of his being and though his
paths led him to high places, 'a passion for study for ever crushed the
worm of ambition.' Having spent the greater part of his eighty-two years
among old books, it was a modern one which caused his end; for,
slumbering over its dulness, he fell into the fire and was burned to
death!
It is said of him that he refused all the conveniences offered by a rich
sister, that he might not endure the restraint of a settled dinner-hour;
preferring to browse undisturbed among his beloved tomes. His immense
knowledge of ancient books is shown by the vast number of diverse works
which he wrote and edited; but so forcible and controversial were his
writings that he was sent to the Bastille some ten or twelve times. It is
even related of him that he got to know the prison so well, that when
Tapin (one of the guards who usually conducted him thither) entered his
chamber, he did not wait to hear his commission but began himself by
saying 'Ah! Bonjour, Monsieur Tapin,' then turning to the woman who
waited on him, 'Allons vite, mon petit paquet, du linge et du tabac,' and
went along gaily with M. Tapin to the Bastille. Verily the true
bibliophile is not as other men, and a modern world looks upon him
askance. Yet his portion is a happiness that riches cannot purchase, for
his soul has found lasting comfort and contentment in a knowledge of the
innermost recesses of human thought. There is no aspect or phase of the
human mind with which he is unacquainted; and it is a knowledge that
books alone can impart.
Yet our true book-lover is not of those whose very religion is the
preservation of the pristine appearance of their books, who deem it
sacrilege to destroy one jot of the contemporary leather in which their
treasures are clothed: liking rather to glue, varnish, and patch,
preferring even a grotesque effect rather than sacrifice an inch of
decayed calf. Their point of view is wholly admirable: that the only form
in which we are justified in possessing a book is that in which it was
originally issued to the world: that the men who bestowed great thought
in giving it birth, to wit, author and publisher, know better what is
meet and seemly for it than can any man of a different age: that one
man's choice is another man's abhorrence: and so on, and so on. Granted
these things are so; but surely he who possesses the volume may have some
say in its appearance, since it exists upon his shelf solely for his own
delight and for no other man's?
'It is mine,' says Praktikos, 'may I not clothe it in the colours of the
rainbow if it please me?'
'Then you are a vandal,' replies Phulax, 'for you will ruin your book,
and it will not be worth ten shillings when it returns from the binder.'
And there's the rub: rebind your book and--in nine cases out of ten--_you
will lower its market value_. Therefore, if the book-collector have any
eye to the purely commercial value of his library, he will do well to
become an 'original-boards-uncut' man at once. Handsome his library will
never be, for here there will be a whole set of paper-bound volumes
lacking backs, here a folio strangely patched and mended, there a book in
rather dirty vellum somewhat cockled by damp, and so on. But he will have
the satisfaction of knowing that his volumes retain, in their appearance
at least, something of the spirit of the time in which they first saw
light. Perhaps they will create for him the more easily that stimulating
yet peaceful atmosphere imparted by a collection of old books.
Is there not, then, any alternative to preserving one's volumes in a
disreputable condition? Assuredly there is--there are two alternatives.
Either the collector will be so wise (and, incidentally, so wealthy) as
never to purchase a dilapidated book, or else he must exercise great
common sense and much good taste, putting fancy entirely to one side.
You possess a copy of Cotton's translation of the Commentaries of Messire
Blaize de Montluc, folio 1674. It is a good, clean, tall copy, but
clothed in tattered contemporary brown calf. Half of the back is missing,
two of the corners are badly broken, and a piece of the leather upon the
under cover is torn off. Perchance you elect to send it to your binder,
with strict instructions that it is to be repaired with plain calf. In
due course the volume is returned to you, and it now presents a fearful
and marvellous appearance. It is the proud possessor of a new back,
nearly but not quite matching the sides in colour, and upon this the
remaining upper half of the original back has been pasted. The corners
bulge strangely, and you can discern new leather underneath the old and
wherever the old was deficient. The sides shine with polishing, and a
patch--again not quite matching the original, for it is next to
impossible to do this--has been inserted on the under cover. The whole
volume shines unnaturally, and has rather a piebald appearance. In short,
it reminds one of Bardolph's face--'all bubukles and whelks and knobs.'
But perchance you possess another copy in precisely the same condition
inside and out, and this you have decided must be rebound. It goes to
your binder, always with your very definite instructions, and in due
course returns, modestly attired in morocco of, let us say, a dark
sage-green hue. On each side there is a plain double panel, 'blind'
tooled; the back is simply lettered
BLAIZE
DE
MONTLUC
and there are 'blind' lines at the sides of each band; but, beyond the
lettering, there is no gilding whatever on the back. The edges have not
been trimmed, much less cut, but have been left precisely as they were
originally.
Suppose now for an instant that you do _not_ possess either copy, but
that both are offered to you by a bookseller at precisely the same price.
What will be your feelings as you handle the repaired copy? It is more
than probable that you will sigh '_Poor thing_' as you open it gently for
fear of cracking the old piece pasted on to the back. But, '_What a nice
clean copy_' you will say as you take up the other; and it is improbable
that you will hesitate long in making choice.
The repairing of moderately old bindings is an excellent thing so long as
it is not carried to extremes. Obviously there are many cases where it
would be sheer foolishness to rebind the volume, slight repairs _at the
hands of an experienced binder_ being all that is necessary to enable the
book to be described as a _fine, tall, clean copy, in the original
binding, neatly repaired_. And this is where one's carefully considered
judgment and good taste must be exercised.
But advice is easier to give than to follow. If our purse be a slender
one, it is next to impossible to confine our purchases to perfect copies
in choice condition. And so it is unavoidable that a certain number of
our volumes should be in a more or less dilapidated state. A book that we
have long sought for crops up; it is a perfect copy, more or less clean
inside, but in a sad state of decay as regards the binding. On this
account it is offered to us at one-half the price which a sound copy
would fetch, perhaps even less. Of course we buy it, and many others like
it; so that at length we are faced with the choice between a formidable
binder's bill and the alternative of harbouring a collection of wrecks.
This temptation to acquire imperfect books and poor copies is a most
insidious one, and few collectors can withstand it altogether. Andrew
Lang, than whom there was never a more genuine book-lover, seems to have
been as susceptible as most of us. 'I believe no man,' he writes in
'Books and Bookmen,' 'has a library so rich in imperfect works as the
author of these pages.' Yet although the purchasing of a volume in a
state of decay (externally, that is) is sometimes unavoidable, it should
be every collector's endeavour, however modest his means, to avoid buying
dilapidated books. If a book be at all frequent in occurrence it is far
better to bide our time until a better copy turns up, even though we may
have to pay a few shillings more for it, than to rest content with the
possession of a sorry example in which we can take no pride, and one that
will never be worth a penny more than we gave for it until it has passed
through the binder's hands. Remember also that although the choicest
binder in Europe may lavish his art upon our volume, yet a taller and
cleaner copy _in the original, or contemporary, binding_, and in perfect
condition, will ever command a better price in the sale-room. Our choice
in binding--however appropriate to the book--may not be the choice of him
who next possesses the volume.
As an example of this discretion which one must exercise in rebinding
one's volumes, here is an incident that occurred in a London sale-room a
few years ago. A copy of Jane Austen's 'Mansfield Park' in three volumes,
1814, was put up for auction and realised L20. It was bound in boards and
was entirely uncut. Nevertheless it was not in the original binding, but
it had been rebound in precisely the same style as that in which it was
originally published. The paper labels had been reprinted in facsimile,
and the edges had not been tampered with in any respect, not even
'trimmed.' The best price that had been realised previously for an uncut
copy in the original boards was L18 10s.
The owner was indeed wise in his generation. Had he sent the volumes to
his binder to be bound in full morocco 'extra,' at a cost of, perhaps,
twenty shillings apiece, the work would have realised, probably, seven or
eight pounds. But by good judgment (and, in the writer's opinion at
least, good taste) his expenditure would not exceed fifteen shillings for
the three, his profit being four times as great. Not long ago two copies
of the first edition of Keats' 'Endymion' appeared at an auction-sale in
London. Both were 'uncut,' but one was in the original form in which it
issued from the press, the other was bound in morocco. The former
realised L41, the latter L17, 5s. _Dictum sapienti sat est._
Old books, by which I intend sixteenth and early seventeenth century
volumes, are always best left alone as regards the binding. If they be at
all dilapidated, it is as well to have a case[44] made for them which can
be lettered on the back, and they can then stand upon the shelf among
one's other books. Nothing is more unseemly and incongruous than an
ancient volume in a modern cover, and, try as the most skilful binder
may, it is impossible to imitate an ancient binding so closely as to
deceive the eye even momentarily. Do not seek to make them presentable by
patching and repairing, unless they be too far gone for their value to be
of any consideration.
In the case of early-printed books and works of great rarity, never, upon
any account, tamper with your copy or seek to improve it in any way. Not
only, as I have said, is it quite impossible to impart a contemporary
appearance to a fifteenth-century book however famous and skilful the
binder, but age leaves its mark upon the constitutions of books as surely
as it does upon mankind. No volume of that age will stand the handling of
a casual reader, still less the pulling, patting, and pressing that
re-sewing and re-covering necessitate, however gently such processes be
carried out.
There is a terrible story (I hope it is untrue) told of a certain peer
who decided to send to the auction-room the six or seven Caxtons which
had descended to him with a noble library from his ancestors. As,
however, the volumes were bound in fifteenth-century sheepskin (probably
in Caxton's house) he thought that their appearance would be rendered
rather more attractive if they were rebound first of all. So he sent them
forthwith to the local binder; and on their return, now gorgeously
clothed in 'calf gilt extra' (a la school prize), he despatched them to
the London sale-room. The result may be imagined. His foolishness must
have robbed him of a sum running well into four figures!
There is another point also to be considered, and that is the _pedigree_
of a volume. The solitary impression of a binder's tool upon a fragment
of binding may identify a volume and its previous owners. Some years ago
the writer purchased an ancient folio without title-page and colophon,
bound in tattered fragments of ancient calf covering stout oak boards.
There was, apparently, nothing to indicate when, where, or by whom the
volume was printed or bound, or whence it came. But from a certain
peculiarity in the type (which he noticed when studying the early
printers of Nuernberg) he now knows the name of the printer and the town
in which he plied his trade; while from a certain woodcut which that
printer used also in two other _dated_ works only, _both printed the same
year_, he discovered when the volume in all probability was printed.
A scrutiny of the remains of the binding revealed the blind impressions
of four different stamps. As these occur frequently in conjunction upon
the bindings executed by the monks at a certain monastery in Germany in
the sixteenth century, there is little difficulty in assigning a
_provenance_ to the volume. Furthermore the initial H in a heart-shaped
impression identifies the binder as a monk whose initials H.G. (on two
heart-shaped tools) are of frequent occurrence on contemporary volumes at
that time in the possession of the monastery.
Needless to say, it has _not_ been rebound. The tattered pieces of skin
have been carefully pasted down, and a case--lettered on the back--now
contains the book upon his shelf.[45]
In the case, however, of more recent books bound in tattered or perished
calf, books of which one may obtain duplicates at any time, except they
be works of extreme value there is no reason why they should not be
re-bound. Even here, however, the collector must tread warily; for
should he send his copy of Tim Bobbin's Lancashire dialogue of _Tummus
and Meary_ to the binders with brief instruction that it is to be bound
in full morocco, it may be returned to him in all the splendour of a
sixteenth-century Florentine binding.
With regard to books published in cardboard covers with paper backs and
paper labels, what is to be done with these when the backs are dirty or
torn off, the labels of some volumes missing? Must they be re-bound in
leather or cloth? Not necessarily, and I for my part maintain that the
delightful ease which one experiences in handling them when reading the
early editions of Byron, Scott, or Irving, and those writers who
flourished in the first few decades of the nineteenth century when books
were commonly issued in this form, is sufficient excuse for retaining
them in their original shape. Such volumes may easily be made presentable
at the cost of a little time and trouble, as I shall presently show.
An appearance of antiquity is never a _desideratum_ to the honest
book-collector. I say 'honest' advisedly, for there have been--and
doubtless are--persons so misguided as to stoop to the fabrication of
certain small and excessively valuable books. To such, an appearance of
age is no doubt indispensable in their wares. But these are torments
which afflict the wealthy only; and for this I at least am sincerely
thankful.
There is no doubt, however, that in the collection of many things
antiquity in appearance is desirable: witness the modern fabrication of
'antique' furniture and pottery. Our book-hunter was once acquainted with
a certain country gentleman, a learned man and most excellent companion,
whose passion for rare things once got the better of his judgment. It was
not books that he collected, but butterflies; and he was inordinately
proud of a rather seedy-looking 'Large Copper' which his cabinet
contained. For the benefit of his admiring entomological friends he would
recite how his grandfather had caught it with his hat when on a holiday
in the Fens. It grew to be quite an exciting tale. One day, however, in
the course of a country ramble they fell to discussing the romancer, or
man who resorts to fiction that his adventures may be the more
interesting. And as (for the sake of argument) the man of books affected
to praise him, remarking that any soulless fool can tell the bald truth
whereas it requires an artistic temperament to adorn a tale with
realistic embellishment (!), his friend turned to him eagerly. Being
encouraged, he confessed that his Large Copper was not all that it
appeared to be. In short, the bookman discovered that he had secured it
himself while on a summer tour in Switzerland, and with the aid of a
camel's-hair brush had succeeded in reducing it to a venerable state.
'Of course,' the entomologist hastened to explain, 'no one could possibly
tell that it was not my grandfather's. He had a very fine collection, and
probably there was more than one Large Copper in it, though there was
only the one in the cabinet that came to me. I shall never forget my
feelings when it happened. I had taken it out of the drawer to show to a
friend, when we both saw, outside the window, what we thought was an
_Antiopa_. We rushed out, and when we came back we found that the
cat. . . . Dear me; I was quite overcome. . . . But that summer I caught
the one you have seen in Switzerland; and as my dear friend was no more
and nobody else knew of the catastrophe, I thought there would be no harm
in merely restoring a specimen to my grandfather's collection.'
But the bookman pointed out to him that when he died and his collection
was sold his family would benefit by some pounds through his
indiscretion; for it was now known to all his friends as a genuine
English specimen. This troubled the entomologist greatly, for it was a
point of view that had never occurred to him, and, like the rich young
man, 'he went away grieved.'
So it is sometimes in book-collecting: there is a temptation to 'restore'
an incomplete book. Should the collector find that his copy of a certain
work lacks a portrait, what is more natural than to go to the print-shop
and purchase a portrait of the same individual for insertion in his copy?
And in this there may be little harm, provided that the book is of no
value _and that he makes a note in ink inside the front cover as to what
he has done_. But occasionally some unscrupulous book-fiend--he is, of
course, no true book-collector--substitutes for a damaged page a page
from another copy, or perhaps of a later edition; sometimes he supplies
his volume with a spurious title-page or other leaf; and, worst of all,
substitutes in his copy of the second edition, whereof the title-page is
damaged, the title-page of a first edition, of which he possesses an
incomplete copy.
And here let me utter a word of warning. Apparently it is the practice of
certain cheap second-hand booksellers to abstract the engraved plates
from folio books, occasionally also removing the 'List of Plates' that
the theft may remain undiscovered, and to sell the works thus mutilated
as sound and perfect copies. Needless to say to the print collector such
plates are invariably worth a shilling or two apiece, if portraits
considerably more. I know to my cost one London bookseller who habitually
removes the engraved portraits with which certain seventeenth-century
folios, especially historical ones, are wont to be embellished. How many
rare volumes this ghoul has ruined it is impossible to say, probably some
hundreds. Our book-hunter confesses to having been caught by him three
times, discovering the reason for the cheapness of his bargains (!) some
time later. A friend has also suffered from his attentions. I need hardly
add that his shop is now avoided, by two book-hunters at least, as
something unclean.
Occasionally, also, one comes across scarce volumes bereft of
title-pages, these having been torn out by some vampire to adorn his
scrapbook. Surely no fate can be too bad for the man who dismembers
books. His proper place is certainly in the Inferno, where, in company
with Bertrand de Born, he will be condemned for ever to carry his own
head, after it has been separated from his body, in the shape of a
lantern.[46]
As soon as ever you reach home with your purchases from a ramble along
the bookstalls, and whenever you receive books that you have ordered
through a bookseller's catalogue, collate your acquisitions carefully.
Whenever it is possible refer to a bibliography to see that your copy is
all that it should be. Nothing is more annoying than to discover, perhaps
years afterwards, that your copy of a rare book, which you fondly
imagined to be a fine one in every respect, lacks a page or so, or a leaf
of index or errata, or a plate. It is a good plan to make a point of
keeping books upon your table until they have been properly collated and
catalogued, when--and not before--they may be placed upon the shelves.
Frequently you will discover that a second book, or even a third, has
been bound up with your volume, and you would have overlooked these but
for collating. It was a common practice at one time (as, indeed, it is
with some collectors nowadays) to bind up thin books with thicker ones to
save the expense of binding. Probably this is the reason why certain
sixteenth and seventeenth century works which consist of but fifty or
sixty leaves are so hard to find, being bound at the end of larger works
and thus commonly escaping the cataloguer's eye.
It is necessary for the collector to exercise the greatest caution in
acquiring a valuable old book from any but a reputable bookseller. The
fabrication of a page or so--especially a title-page--is a comparatively
small matter to the nefarious dealer who hopes by this means to obtain
for his copy the price which a perfect one would command. 'Perfect'
copies of rare fifteenth-century works are made up from two or more
imperfect ones, title-pages and leaves are reproduced in facsimile, blank
leaves and engravings are inserted: for all these the collector must be
continually upon his guard. Other books there are which have certain
passages frequently mutilated, or a genealogical tree or a table
generally missing.
Hazlitt gives two examples of this species of knavery. One, in which a
reproduction of the scarce portrait of Milton usually attached to the
first edition of his 'Poems,' 1645, had been actually split and laid down
on old paper to make it resemble the original print: the other, a case in
which a copy of Lovelace's 'Lucasta,' 1649, lacked a plate representing
Lucy Sacheverell (which makes a good deal of the value of the book), and
a copy of the modern reproduction of this plate to be found in Singer's
'Select Poets' had been soaked off and 'lined' to give it the appearance
of a genuine impression mounted, and then bound in.
And these mutilations are not the only things of which the collector must
beware. Early in the history of books, the reputation that hall-marked
the publications of certain famous presses became a source of envy to
less fortunate printers. Type and imprints were soon counterfeited, and
the fine editions of the Classics printed at Venice by the great Aldine
press were reproduced at Lyons and elsewhere. In this matter of forgery
and pirated reprints, you will find Gustave Brunet's 'Imprimeurs
Imaginaires et Libraires Supposes' of value. It is a catalogue of books
printed with fictitious indication of place or with wrong dates, an
octavo volume published in 1866.
These things, however, cannot be learnt at once, and it is only by the
continual study of catalogues and bibliographies that one comes to know
them. Needless to say, however, all reputable booksellers will take back
a work which is discovered to be imperfect, provided that the volume be
returned without delay.
Books, like those who gave them birth, are of all conditions; but from
the collector's point of view they may be divided conveniently into five
classes. To the First Class belong those volumes which are described by
booksellers and auctioneers as 'fine copies.' Ever since their
publication they have been in the possession of wealthy men, often peers,
and (sometimes like their owners!) have passed their lives for the most
part undisturbed amid luxurious surroundings. They are invariably richly
bound, often in historic bindings, and are clean and fresh inside.
Frequently they are sumptuous works and presentation copies, and they
always command high prices. In a word, they are aristocrats among books.
They are not necessarily rare volumes, though frequently they are
large-paper copies, and for the true collector they do not offer so much
attraction as the Second Class, in which we place those books that are
more eagerly sought after. These are generally rare books, such as
incunabula and the higher class English literature of the seventeenth
century, and are to be found in the libraries of wealthy collectors who
are also learned men. They are always well bound and in good condition,
though sometimes they have their headlines shaved, occasionally they are
slightly imperfect, or have been cleaned and repaired. But they are
always desirable books, and evoke spirited bidding whenever they appear
in the auction-room.
Class Three comprises the great army of what may be termed 'middle-class
books.' They are bound usually in half-bindings, when they are not in the
publisher's cloth, and are good, clean, _sound_, copies of such works as
county histories, antiquarian books, sets of the learned societies'
publications and of 'standard authors.' They are such stable and solid
books as you will usually find in the libraries of the well-to-do middle
classes. In short they are gilt-edged securities, and command a steady
price in the market.
To Class Four may be assigned the volumes contained in the average
second-hand bookseller's shop in this country. They are the [Greek: hoi
polloi] among books, and for the most part they include the more frequent
and more modern English works. Usually they are quite desirable copies,
though frequently they lack a portrait or other plate, sometimes they
have a torn or mounted title-page, or other imperfection. They are
generally in cloth or calf bindings which are almost invariably somewhat
decrepit, being either rubbed or perished, or cracked at the joints.
They are dusty and rather unkempt, and fox-marks are common, for such
volumes have passed through many hands and have not always been accorded
the care that is due to good books. But it is here that one comes across
books 'in the original boards uncut,' and, if expense be no object to
you, you may often raise such purchases to a higher class.
Books in Class Five are the outcasts of the book-world, being those
decrepit volumes which stack the bookstalls and barrows in the larger
towns. They are the weedings of auction sales and shops, books that are
not worth cataloguing by the dealer. Like human beings they have drifted
through life with all its vicissitudes, knowing many masters and earning
the gratitude of none. And so at length, deprived even of a home, they
find their way into the streets, where they are soon reduced to wreckage.
At first sight it would seem that they owe their situation to their
quality, both intrinsic and extrinsic--that they are valueless either as
literature or as specimens of book-production, or that they are imperfect
or odd volumes. In many cases this may be true, but in general it is not
so. The wrecks of handsomely produced books of high-class literature are
common on the bookstalls and barrows, as all collectors of modest means
are aware. They owe their situation _chiefly to inconsiderate handling_
and to the carelessness of their successive owners.
As to the practice of inserting illustrations in books that are published
without them, 'Grangerising,' as it is called, it is perhaps best left
alone. At first sight there appears to be small harm in providing, let us
say, a volume of travels or the description of a town with an appropriate
engraved frontispiece, or adorning your biography of So-and-so with a
portrait. But the temptation to overstep the bounds of seemliness is so
great that it is seldom the collector stops at a mere frontispiece. In
most cases the Grangerite soon loses his self-control, and develops an
acute mania for embellishing his volume with all and every print upon
which he can lay his hands, apposite in the slightest degree to the
subject of the book. Every year the sale-rooms witness these
monstrosities. Biographies issued in a single volume are 'extended'
('rended asunder' would be a better term) to fifteen or twenty volumes by
the insertion of hundreds of engravings depicting every place mentioned
in the text and every man or woman that the subject of the biography ever
met. I have seen an octavo volume multiplied into twenty-five folio ones
in this fashion, the leaves being inlaid to suit the size of the huge
portraits and views stuffed into the disjointed sections of the wretched
book. Nor is it only engravings that are used. Play-bills,
lottery-tickets, tradesmen's advertisements, autograph letters, maps,
charts, broadsides, street ballads, bills even, all are grist for the
Grangerite's mill.
It is a singularly futile hobby, and it is certainly a pernicious form of
bibliomania, for it is responsible for the destruction of many good
books. Whether its devotee imagines that any one is ever going to wade
through his twenty monstrosities, turning, perhaps, six illustrations
between page and page of text, we have not discovered. His completed
labours form a compilation about as valuable as a scrap-book. If it were
possible to gather into one volume, or rather portfolio, every portrait,
let us say, of a certain celebrity _that has ever been published_, one
would possess a valuable storehouse for reference purposes; and such a
volume, from its _completeness_, would be invaluable in the British
Museum. But these limits are too narrow for the true Grangerite. He
desires a wider field of action. So he embarks upon a task which he can
never hope to complete. Though he labour all his life there will always
be _some_ one or more engravings that he has failed to secure; and so far
from being 'invaluable,' his collection becomes merely of passing
interest. As a book it is, of course, grotesque.
The fate of most of these collections is probably the same. So long as
the binding remains in good condition they are ensured a niche on some
neglected shelf; but once the marks of age or wear and tear manifest
themselves their fate is sealed. They come speedily into the hands of
those booksellers who deal also in prints, and beneath such ruthless
hands the labour of years is undone in a few minutes. At least it is
pleasant to think that the poor pages, separated for so many years, come
together again if only for a few hours before they reach the paper-mill!
Whether the sober-minded collector whose pride is the well-being of his
books is justified in adding a frontispiece and, say, half-a-dozen good
engravings to a book that he appreciates, is a moot question. Doubtless
the correct view is that books should not be meddled with by amateur
book-producers, that both publisher and author know best what is most
fitting for the volume they produce, that any book which has been
tampered with internally in any way becomes a monster and is to be
avoided. But this brings up again the old question, 'May we not do what
we like with our own volumes?'
Personally I am of opinion that the judicious and extremely moderate
adornment of certain books is justified by the result. There is no doubt
that the insertion in an _un_illustrated volume of travel of, let us say,
six engraved plates depicting scenes mentioned in the text, adds a charm
to the volume and enhances both its appearance and the pleasure of its
perusal. Similarly the addition of an _authentic_ portrait to a biography
certainly lends an added interest, whilst the addition of a map is often
of the greatest assistance to the reader. But that books should be
mutilated, torn apart, and stuffed with play-bills, lottery-tickets, and
the like, no sane book-lover will admit.
There are some books that seem to ask for illustration. Who has handled
the three folio volumes which comprise the first edition of Clarendon's
'History of the Rebellion' without feeling that by rights they should
contain fine mezzotint portraits of the chief actors in that great drama?
But they must be mezzotints, mark you--mere line engravings would be out
of place among those bank-note paper leaves with their handsome
great-primer type. This question of seemliness, too, must be considered
carefully ere we add a single plate to any volume. Not every engraving,
however beautiful in design and impression, is at once suitable to every
book that treats of the subject it depicts. That the illustrations be
contemporary with the text goes without saying. No one would be so
foolish as to insert modern 'half-tone' illustrations in a
seventeenth-century book.
That heading 'Extra-illustrated,' so dear to certain booksellers, must
send a shudder through many of the discerning readers of their
catalogues. Books that are extra-illustrated should be avoided by the
collector on principle. There is something foolishly egotistical in
seeking (by those who have no knowledge of book-production) to 'improve'
the work of other men whose business is the making of books. There can be
no necessity for it; the author is quite sure to have added the
illustrations that are requisite for the volume. It is only books that
were published without illustrations that we are justified in attempting
to embellish. Illustrations in a book are invariably a question of the
author's and publisher's tastes; the cost of their production is not
usually an all-important item: it is the setting up of the type, the
paper, and the binding that count--not the illustrations.
It was the fashion in the early decades of the last century to issue
volumes of engravings suitable for illustrating the works of contemporary
writers, such as Byron and Scott: and these illustrations can be used
when you have your editions rebound. There is no particular merit about
the greater part of them, but they depict incidents described in the
text, so at least they are apposite. Each to his taste; our book-hunter
for his part needs no second-rate illustrations to help him visualise the
glories of Childe Harold or Don Juan; and he has long since confined his
Grangerising to the sparing addition of finely engraved portraits to
biographical volumes.
FOOTNOTES:
[44] With regard to these cases, the collector will use his own judgment
as to whether they be of the 'slip-in' variety, by which means the
binding is rubbed every time that he withdraws and inserts his volume;
whether such cases be lined with velvet, and roomy enough to obviate this
friction; or whether they shall open with a flap at the side.
[45] If you are interested in the pedigrees of your volumes (by which we
mean the identification of their previous owners) you will find M.
Guigard's 'Nouvel Armorial du Bibliophile,' octavo, Paris, 1890, useful
where armorial bindings are concerned. It is an interesting volume, and
appeared first of all in four parts (large octavo, Paris), between 1870
and 1872. There are cuts of every coat of arms identified, but these are
almost entirely French. Mr. Cyril Davenport's 'English Heraldic
Book-stamps' was published in large octavo, in 1909. For early
book-plates you must consult the numerous works upon this subject that
have appeared in recent years. An excellent series of articles entitled
"Books on Book-plates," by F.C.P., appeared in 'The Bookman's Journal and
Print Collector' between February and July, 1920 (Nos. 15-18, 20-23, 25,
34, and 40). There is also 'A Bibliography of Book-Plates,' by Messrs.
Fincham and Brown, in which the plates are arranged chronologically. The
Ex-Libris Society issues a journal, and there are numerous other volumes
upon this subject, which you will find mentioned in Mr. Courtney's
'Register of National Bibliography.'
[46] Canto xviii.
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