BOOKS AND BIDDERS
[Illustration: PAGE OF THE GUTENBERG BIBLE, SHOWING THE TEN
COMMANDMENTS]
BOOKS AND BIDDERS
THE ADVENTURES OF A BIBLIOPHILE
BY
A. S. W. ROSENBACH
[Illustration: AN ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS PUBLICATION]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1927
_Copyright, 1927_,
BY A. S. W. ROSENBACH
_All rights reserved_
Published November, 1927
Reprinted November, 1927
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS PUBLICATIONS
ARE PUBLISHED BY
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
IN ASSOCIATION WITH
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
*/
TO
PHILIP H. ROSENBACH
FOREWORD
It is a pleasant duty to record my appreciation of the assistance
rendered me in the writing of these articles by Miss Avery Strakosch
(Mrs. W. K. Denham). It was she who, at the suggestion of the editors
of the _Saturday Evening Post_, persuaded me to dictate the series of
eight articles that appeared in the _Post_ in the first part of 1927.
The ninth was published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ in October 1927.
I cannot tell how much I am indebted to her, not only for the form of
the articles, but for a friendship that began with the first article
and will continue, I trust, long after the last ceases to be read.
A. S. W. R.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I TALKING OF OLD BOOKS 3
II A MILLION DOLLAR BOOKSHELF 35
III SOLD TO DR. R! 68
IV SOME LITERARY FORGERIES 98
V AMONG OLD MANUSCRIPTS 134
VI AMERICAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS 179
VII OLD BIBLES 210
VIII WHY AMERICA BUYS ENGLAND’S BOOKS 243
IX THE COLLECTOR’S BEST BET 264
INDEX 301
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE OF THE GUTENBERG BIBLE, SHOWING THE TEN
COMMANDMENTS _Frontispiece_
MOSES POLOCK IN HIS BOOKSHOP 6
THE INFANT BIBLIOPHILE 10
STAN V. HENKELS 12
MOSES POLOCK 18
GROLIER BINDING 22
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF KEATS’S FAMOUS SONNET TO
HAYDON 41
FROM A LETTER BY SHELLEY SPEAKING OF KEATS 42
BOOKROOM AT 1320 WALNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA 44
A. EDWARD NEWTON 46
LETTER OF DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON TO DAVID GARRICK 48
BOOKROOM AT 273 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK 56
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CHARLES LAMB’S
“THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE” 62
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF HANDEL’S
“MESSIAH” 69
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WAGNER’S “DIE
MEISTERSINGER” 73
BOOK AUCTION AT THE ANDERSON GALLERIES, NEW YORK 76
THOMAS E. KIRBY ON THE ROSTRUM 80
“THE BIBLIO-FIENDS”: DRAWING BY OLIVER HERFORD
FOR DR. ROSENBACH’S “UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS” 82
SOTHEBY’S AUCTION ROOM IN LONDON 84
SHAKESPEARE WINDOW AT 1320 WALNUT STREET,
PHILADELPHIA 86
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF OSCAR WILDE’S SONNET “ON
THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS” 94
CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 94
LETTER OF KEATS TO FANNY BRAWNE 96
LAST PAGE OF LETTER WRITTEN BY CERVANTES 101
ORIGINAL DRAWING BY DAUMIER OF DON QUIXOTE 102
FROM A LETTER IN THE AUTOGRAPH OF GEORGE
WASHINGTON 106
PAGE FROM A LETTER OF THACKERAY TO MRS. BROOKFIELD 110
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF OSCAR WILDE’S
“SALOMÉ” 113
DEDICATION OF OSCAR WILDE’S “THE SPHINX” TO MRS.
PATRICK CAMPBELL 115
FORGERY OF SHAKESPEARE MANUSCRIPT BY WILLIAM
HENRY IRELAND 123
BOOK BELONGING TO THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN, OF WHOSE
COMPANY SHAKESPEARE WAS A MEMBER 126
LETTER OF FRANKLIN FROM PHILADELPHIA, 1775 135
PAGE OF FRANKLIN’S WORK BOOK 138
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CONRAD’S
“VICTORY” 144
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CONRAD’S
“LORD JIM” 145
ONLY UNCUT SHAKESPEARE QUARTO KNOWN 147
PRESENTATION INSCRIPTION TO ELIZABETH BOYLE IN
“THE FAERIE QUEENE,” IN THE AUTOGRAPH OF
EDMUND SPENSER 150
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WALT WHITMAN’S “BY
EMERSON’S GRAVE” 152
PAGE FROM MANUSCRIPT OF DICKENS’S “PICKWICK
PAPERS” 156
OWEN D. YOUNG 158
DICKENS’S RHYME TO MR. HICKS, PREFIXED TO THE
MANUSCRIPT OF “PICKWICK PAPERS” 159
LAST LETTER WRITTEN BY CHARLES DICKENS 160
“THE DYING CLOWN”: ORIGINAL DRAWING BY ROBERT
SEYMOUR FOR DICKENS’S “PICKWICK PAPERS” 160
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF ROBERT BURNS’S POEM
“BANNOCKBURN” 162
VAULT AT 273 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK 164
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF MARK TWAIN’S
“TOM SAWYER ABROAD” 165
LETTER OF POE SUBMITTING “EPIMANES” TO THE “NEW
ENGLAND MAGAZINE,” WITH PART OF MANUSCRIPT 169
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF JOYCE’S “ULYSSES” 171
STANZAS FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF “THE RUBÁIYÁT
OF OMAR KHAYYÁM,” BY EDWARD FITZGERALD 175
MANUSCRIPT TITLE PAGE OF HAWTHORNE’S “WONDER
BOOK” 180
TITLE PAGE OF “SPIRITUAL MILK FOR BOSTON BABES” 188
WILBERFORCE EAMES 192
TITLE OF “THE GLASS OF WHISKEY” 193
TWO PAGES FROM “THE INFANT’S GRAMMAR” 200
TITLE PAGE OF “THE UNCLE’S PRESENT” 204
PAGE FROM “PETER PIPER’S PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES OF
PLAIN AND PERFECT PRONUNCIATION” 208
FIRST PAGE OF CICERO, “DE OFFICIIS,” PRINTED ON
VELLUM, MAINZ, 1465 216
BELLE DA COSTA GREENE 218
LEAF FROM AN ENGLISH BIBLICAL MANUSCRIPT OF THE
NINTH CENTURY 222
CARVED AND POLYCHROMED WOODEN BINDING OF THE
LIESBORN GOSPELS 224
LEAF FROM BLOCK BOOK, FIFTEENTH CENTURY 227
SPECIAL DEDICATION PAGE TO SIXTUS IV, OF JENSON’S
BIBLE 232
WOODCUT, “JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES,” FROM CAXTON’S
“GOLDEN LEGEND” 233
“JACK JUGGLER,” 1555--THE ONLY COPY KNOWN 247
PAGE OF THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WHITE’S
“NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE” 251
PAGE FROM A FOURTEENTH-CENTURY MANUSCRIPT OF
THOMAS OCCLEVE’S “POEMS,” SHOWING A PORTRAIT
OF CHAUCER 252
HENRY E. HUNTINGTON 254
A CHAUCER MANUSCRIPT IN ORIGINAL BINDING 256
LETTER SIGNED WITH INITIALS OF GEORGE (BEAU)
BRUMMELL 258
THE ENGLISH LIBRARY IN DR. ROSENBACH’S HOME 260
MANUSCRIPT OF ARNOLD BENNETT’S UNPUBLISHED PLAY 262
TEA-SHIP BROADSIDE 266
TANKARD PRESENTED TO GEORGE WASHINGTON BY THE
REVEREND DR. GREEN 268
ENGRAVED TITLE OF CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH’S “HISTORY
OF VIRGINIA” 278
FIRST MAP OF NEW YORK CITY ENGRAVED IN AMERICA 282
GEORGE WASHINGTON’S COPY OF “PROCEEDINGS OF THE
CONVENTION” 285
LETTER SIGNED BY BUTTON GWINNETT, BOUGHT FOR
$51,000 286
GRANT’S TELEGRAM TO STANTON ANNOUNCING THE
SURRENDER OF LEE 298
BOOKS AND BIDDERS
I
TALKING OF OLD BOOKS
“Genius?” The tall old man with the fan-shaped beard looked eagerly at
his companion, then settled back more heavily against the rows and rows
of old books lining the walls to the ceiling on all sides of the room.
“Of course Edgar was a genius, but in spite of being a gambler and a
drunkard--in spite of it, I tell you!”
The other, a thin man of lesser years, his long, inquiring face
meditative in the twilight, nodded.
“You are right,” he agreed. “But what difference did it make? The
only question is, would ‘The Raven’ have been any greater without his
gambling and drinking? I doubt it.”
The argument was on, and my uncle, Moses Polock, would lean forward
now and again, waving his coatless arms--he handled books easier in
shirt sleeves--in an effort to gain a point. His peculiarly young and
penetrating blue eyes glistened. Opposite, George P. Philes, a noted
editor and book collector, twirled a gray moustache and goatee while
balancing in a tilted chair, listening calmly, and patiently relighting
a half-smoked cigar which went out often as the verbal heat increased.
I would watch these two, dazed with their heated words concerning
authors and their works; hear them make bookish prophecies, most
of which came true. A favorite subject was their neurotic friend,
Edgar Allan Poe. Both had befriended this singularly unfortunate and
great writer, and each had certain contentions to make which led
through the fire of argument to the cooler and more even discussion of
reminiscences. But they did agree that it would take less than fifty
years after Poe’s death to make first editions of his works the most
valuable of all American authors.
It was in 1885, when I was nine years old, that I first felt the
haunting atmosphere of Uncle Moses’ bookshop on the second floor of the
bulging, red-brick building on Commerce Street in old Philadelphia.
At that age I could hardly realize, spellbound as I was, the full
quality of mystery and intangible beauty which becomes a part of the
atmosphere wherever fine books are brought together; for here was
something which called to me each afternoon, just as the wharves, the
water, and the ships drew other boys who were delighted to get away
from books the moment school was out. Whatever it was,--some glibly
speak of it as bibliomania,--it entered my bones then, and has grown
out of all proportion ever since. The long walk from the bookshop to my
home in the twilight, the moon, just coming up, throwing long shadows
across the white slab of Franklin’s grave which I had to pass, was
sometimes difficult; but as I grew older I learned to shut my eyes
against imaginary fears and, in a valiant effort to be brave, hurried
past darkened corners and abysmal alleyways, inventing a game by which
I tried to visualize the only touches of color in Uncle Moses’ musty,
dusty shop--occasional brilliantly bound volumes. Running along, I
also cross-examined myself on quotations and dates from books and
manuscripts through which I had prowled earlier in the day, unwittingly
developing a memory which was often to stand me in good stead.
My uncle’s appreciation of books showed itself long before he took over
the publishing and bookselling business established in Philadelphia in
1780, just before the close of the Revolution. Throughout his youth
books had been dear to him, and his father, noting this, encouraged
him to keep together the volumes he prized most. Yet he gained
local attention, not as a book collector but as a publisher, when
with a certain amount of initiative he brought out the works of the
first American novelist, Charles Brockden Brown. But I early had my
suspicions of him as a publisher. It seemed to me that he used the
publishing business as a literary cat’s-paw by which he might conceal
his real interest and love--searching for, finding, and treasuring rare
books.
After all, if one is in a trade, certain expectations are held by the
public; and the older Uncle Moses grew the less willing he became
to meet these expectations. To publish books and sell them was one
phase; but to collect, and then to sell, he considered a different and
entirely personal affair. A poor young man, Uncle Moses had acquired
the business in an almost magical manner. Jacob Johnson, the original
founder, began by publishing children’s books only. But in 1800 he
decided to branch out, and took a partner, Benjamin Warner. Fifteen
years later the firm was sold out to McCarty and Davis. After several
successful years McCarty retired, and it was then that Moses Polock was
employed as a clerk. They had spread out and were now publishing all
sorts of books. Davis became very fond of his clerk, and when he died,
in 1851, left him sufficient money in his will to purchase the business
for himself. Luck was evidently with my uncle, for he made a great deal
of money in publishing Lindley Murray’s Grammar and other schoolbooks
of the time.
First as a publishing house and bookstore combined, Uncle Moses’ shop
became a meeting place for publishers and writers. Here it was that the
ill-fed Poe came in 1835 to talk modestly of his writings and hopes.
Such men as James Fenimore Cooper, William Cullen Bryant, Noah Webster,
and Herman Melville might be seen going up or coming down the narrow
staircase leading to the second floor. George Bancroft, the historian,
came, too, and Eaton, who wrote the Life of Jackson; George H. Boker,
a distinguished Philadelphia poet, Charles Godfrey Leland, of Hans
Breitmann Ballads note, and Donald G. Mitchell, who wrote as Ik.
Marvel, and many others--they found their way along the uneven brick
sidewalks of Commerce Street. Gradually, however, it developed into a
rendezvous for the more leisured group of collectors.
[Illustration: MOSES POLOCK IN HIS BOOKSHOP]
Men--and occasionally a woman--who owned many an interesting
and valuable volume came to browse and talk. Silent or voluble,
enthusiastic or suspiciously conservative, each had in mind some
book, of Uncle Moses’ he hoped one day to possess. For it took
something more than money and coercion to make this old man give up
his treasures. Even when he occasionally fell to this temptation
and sold the precious volume, in place of the original he would
make a pen-and-ink copy of the book, word for word, so that it was
typographically perfect. This would take weeks to do, and only when
he needed money badly did he consent to part with the original. I
have some of these copies and treasure them as curiosities. Not only
months but very often years of tireless perseverance were necessary
to make him sell a favorite volume. Equally interesting was that
other group which came daily--a group composed of impecunious and
peculiarly erratic book lovers, found in book haunts the world over: a
poverty-stricken intellectual class, who in filling their minds often
forget to provide for their stomachs as well.
All the memories of my childhood centre around the secluded and dusty
corners of this shop, where I eavesdropped and prowled to my heart’s
content. My uncle, at first annoyed at having a little boy about the
place prying into musty papers and books, eventually took delight in
showing me rare editions purchased by him at auctions and private
sales. As he grew older he became somewhat eccentric, and, despite
my extreme youth, insisted upon treating me as a book lover and
connoisseur, his own equal. Although he lived to be a very old man, he
retained the most marvelous memory I have ever known. He could tell
without a moment’s hesitation the date of a book, who the printer
was, where it had been found, any physical earmarks it might have, its
various vicissitudes, and how it had reached its final destination.
Among the noted collectors who came to match their wits and learning
with my uncle was a younger man, Clarence S. Bement, who developed into
one of the greatest American book experts. Even at that time he had a
wonderful collection, and I well remember his subtle efforts to add
to it constantly. He would talk in a firm, low, rather musical voice,
obviously toned with persuasion, hoping to make his friend part with
some cherished volume he coveted. As I watched Uncle Moses refuse,
I saw a curiously adamant and at the same time satisfied expression
spread over his features; I noticed, too, the dignity of movement as he
gravely took the volume from Bement’s fingers to look at it, with that
expressive pride in ownership that verges on madness with many people
to whom possession can mean but one thing--books.
Samuel W. Pennypacker, who in later years became governor of
Pennsylvania, was another avid book collector and constant habitué
of the old Commerce Street bookshop. His hobby was anything he could
lay his hands upon from the Franklin press. He also collected all
data relating to the early Swedish settlers of Pennsylvania and his
German and Dutch ancestors, as well as any material concerning the
development of the state. A large man he was, with serious eyes set in
a rather square-shaped head. But his voice fascinated me most of all
as it boomed about the shelves when he grew excited, and took on an
unforgettable Pennsylvania-Dutch twang.
Pennypacker was a fervent admirer of George Washington, and he had once
heard of a letter which General Washington wrote from one of the scenes
of his childhood, Pennypacker’s Mills. He couldn’t seem to forget this
letter, for he was always talking about it, hoping to trace it to its
owner and eventually make it his own.
I shall never forget the day Uncle Moses told him he had found and
bought this letter. He handed it to Pennypacker with a light of
triumphant amusement in his eyes. After reading it, Pennypacker put it
down on the table before him and, without raising his eyes, said in a
peculiarly exhausted way, “Polock, I must have this letter. You can
make any bargain you choose, but I must have it!” Hardly waiting for
the other to reply, he rushed down the stairs, to return a few moments
later with two books under his arm. My uncle’s blue eyes were but
mocking questions as he pushed them aside after glancing at their title
pages. They were two valuable books, but not unusually so. Pennypacker
had by this time unbuttoned his coat, and I saw him take from an inner
pocket a thin, yellow envelope.
“These”--Pennypacker pointed to his two books “and this.” He opened the
envelope and gave my uncle its contents. It, too, was a letter from
George Washington, yet no sign of emotion swept the old man’s features
as he read. But the exchange was made rather quickly, I thought, and
it would have been, difficult to decide which bargainer was the more
satisfied. I have read both letters many times since. The Pennypacker’s
Mills letter was dated September 29, 1777, and addressed: “On public
service, to the Honorable John Hancock, President of Congress,
Lancaster.” George Washington wrote in part:--
I shall move the Army four or five miles lower down today from where
we may reconnoitre and fix upon a proper situation at such distance
from the enemy as will enable us to make an attack should we see a
proper opening, or stand upon the defensive till we obtain further
reinforcements. This was the opinion of a Council of General Officers
which I called yesterday.
I congratulate you upon the success of our Arms to the Northward and
if some accident does not put them out of their present train, I think
we may count upon the total ruin of Burgoyne.
The letter which my uncle received was written four years later from
Philadelphia, in 1781, to Abraham Skinner, Commissary General of
Prisoners, and was easily the more important, historically, of the two,
as General Washington discussed throughout the surrender of Cornwallis
and the exchange of prisoners at Yorktown. He instructed General
Skinner not to consent to the exchange of Lord Cornwallis under any
conditions.
Even I, with but a short experience as a mere onlooker in the
collecting game, realized its greater value. After my uncle’s death
this Washington letter sold for $925, and it rests to-day as one of the
treasures in the Pierpont Morgan collection.
[Illustration: THE INFANT BIBLIOPHILE]
A few years ago I bought back the Pennypacker’s Mills letter for
$130 from Governor Pennypacker’s estate. Because of the incident it
recalls I would never part with it.
When I was eleven years old I began book collecting on my own. My
first purchase was at an auction in the old Henkels’s auction rooms on
Chestnut Street. It was an illustrated edition of _Reynard the Fox_,
and was knocked down to me for twenty-four dollars. My enthusiasm
rather than my financial security swept me into this extravagance, and
after the sale I had to go to the auctioneer, Mr. Stan V. Henkels, and
confess that I was not exactly solvent. At the same time I explained I
was Moses Polock’s nephew, instinctively feeling, I suppose, that such
a relationship might account for any untoward action concerning books.
I had hardly got the words out of my frightened mouth when Mr. Henkels
burst into a fit of laughing which--although I was too young, too
scared and self-conscious to realize it at the time--was the beginning
of a lifelong friendship between us.
When he ceased laughing, he looked down at me, a sombre little boy
with a book under his shaking arm, and said, “I’ve seen it start at an
early age, and run in families, but in all my experience this is the
very first baby bibliomaniac to come my way!” With this admission he
kindly consented to extend credit, and trusted me for further payments,
which I was to make weekly from my school allowance. Giving him all
the money I possessed, ten dollars, I marched from the auction room,
feeling for the first time in my life that swooning yet triumphant,
that enervating and at the same time heroic combination of emotions
the born bibliomaniac enjoys so intensely with the purchase of each
rare book.
Stan V. Henkels--no one dared to leave out the middle initial--was a
remarkable man. Even in his young days he resembled an old Southern
colonel, the accepted picture we all have, a man of drooping moustache,
rather patrician nose, and longish hair which he decorated with a
large-brimmed, rusty black hat of the Civil War period. He insisted he
was an unreconstructed rebel and was always willing to take on anyone
in a verbal battle about the Civil War.
By profession an auctioneer of books, Mr. Henkels was the first person
to make the dreary, uninteresting work of auction catalogues into
living, fascinating literature, almost as exciting reading as fiction.
Previous to this, anyone wanting to find out what was in a collection
had little luck when searching through a catalogue, beyond discovering
names and dates.
Observing this, and that certain items whose contents were of
exceptional interest did not sell well, Henkels decided to find out
for himself what was between the covers of the books he sold, and to
learn what was often told so confidentially in the literary manuscripts
and letters, and then to print the most interesting data he could find
about each item. This was a great work in itself, and how he found
the leisure to give to it was a mystery. Thus he brought in color and
life, a human-interest setting, which added thousands of dollars yearly
to his business, and which awakened feelings of gratitude in many
collectors.
[Illustration: STAN V. HENKELS]
Seven years after buying _Reynard the Fox_ on the installment plan,
I made my first valuable literary discovery. I was studying then at the
University of Pennsylvania, and books enthralled me to a disastrous
extent. I attended book sales at all hours of the day and night; I
neglected my studies; I bought books whether I could afford them or
not; I forgot to eat, and did not consider sleep necessary at all. The
early stages of the book-collecting germ are not the most virulent, but
nevertheless they make themselves felt!
This night I went to the Henkels’s auction room several hours before
the sale. I looked at many of the books with great delight, sighed
when I estimated the prices they would bring, and was beginning to
feel rather despondent, when I happened to see a bound collection of
pamphlets in one corner of the room.
Now for some unknown reason pamphlets, even from my boyhood, have
been a passion with me. I cannot resist reading a pamphlet, whether
it has value or not. The potentialities between slim covers play the
devil with my imagination. It is true that books are my real love,
but pamphlets flaunt a certain piquancy which I have never been able
to resist. One might call them the flirtations of book collecting.
I crossed to the corner, disturbed that I had not seen the volume
earlier in the evening, that I had so little time to devote to it. But
hurried as I felt,--it was almost time for the sale to begin,--I came
upon a copy of Gray’s _Odes_. It was not only a first edition, but the
first book from Horace Walpole’s famous Strawberry Hill Press, printed
especially for him. Walpole had a weakness for gathering fame to
his own name by printing the works of certain famous contemporaries.
Delighted at finding this, I observed the title page of a pamphlet,
which was bound with it. I could hardly believe my eyes! For in my
hands I held, quite by accident, the long-lost first edition of Dr.
Samuel Johnson’s famous _Prologue_, which David Garrick recited the
opening night of the Drury Lane Theatre in London in 1747. Although
advertisements in the _General Advertiser_ and _Gentleman’s Magazine_
of Doctor Johnson’s day announced the sale of this work for the modest
sum of sixpence, no one had ever heard of a copy of this original
edition being in existence before or since. Boswell made an allusion to
it in his _Life of Johnson_, but that was all that was known of this
first issue of the little masterpiece of “dramatick criticism.”
I closed my eyes in an effort to steady myself, leaning heavily against
the wall. I wanted to buy this pamphlet more than I had ever wanted
anything in the world. A wealthy and noted collector entered the room.
I gave up hope. Again I looked at the pamphlet, and as I read Doctor
Johnson’s famous line on Shakespeare, “And panting Time toil’d after
him in vain,” I wished that I might be weak enough to take something
which did not belong to me.
Suddenly my plans were made. I would have the _Prologue_! I would
do anything honorable to obtain it. Having nothing but my future to
mortgage I desperately decided to offer that, whoever the purchaser
might be.
Mr. Henkels announced the usual terms of the sale and I gazed
cautiously about the room; every member of the audience was just
waiting for that volume of pamphlets, I knew. Finally it was put up,
and the very silence seemed to bid against me; when, after two or three
feeble counter bids, it became really mine for the sum of $3.60, I
sat as one in a trance. The news soon spread among the experts of the
exceptional find I had made, and I had many offers for it. Several
years later, during my postgraduate course at college, when I needed
money very badly, a noted collector dandled a check for $5000 before my
eyes. It was a difficult moment for me, but I refused the offer. In my
private library I retain this treasured volume.
One day previous to this I was in the auction rooms when a white-haired
negro said Mr. Henkels had something interesting to show me if I
would go to the top floor. I found him standing by an open window
fronting Chestnut Street, exhibiting to several curious customers a
small gold locket which had belonged to George Washington. It had been
authenticated by his heirs, and also the gray lock of hair enclosed
within it. As I joined the others, Mr. Henkels opened the locket and
held it out for inspection. At that moment an unexpected gust of wind
blew into the room, and, sweeping about, took the curl very neatly
from its resting place. So quickly did it happen it was a moment or
so before we realized that the prized lock had been wafted out of the
window. Then suddenly we all ran to the stairs and raced four flights
into the street below. Up and down, searching the block, the gutters,
and the crevices of stone and brick, we sought the lost lock of the
Father of our Country. After an hour, or so it seemed, we gave it up
as useless. As we returned to the entrance of the rooms the old negro
employé came out.
“Wait a minute!” Henkels exclaimed, as an idea came to him.
He grabbed the ancient and surprised servant by the hair. Selecting
a choice curly ringlet, he clipped it off with his pocketknife, then
placed it carefully in George Washington’s locket, closing it tightly.
Several days later I saw the locket put up for sale. The bidding was
brisk, and the buyer later expressed himself as being exceptionally
lucky. But Henkels, who was the soul of honor, could not listen quietly
for long. He told of his, as well as Nature’s prank with the original
lock of hair, and offered to refund the money. The purchaser refused,
saying he had given no thought to the contents anyway; that his
interest lay only in the locket.
It is almost incredible, the number of stories that circulate about
the civilized world containing misstatements and garbled information
about the values and prices of old books. I am sometimes amused, at
other times annoyed, to read in the daily papers statements of prices
I and other collectors are supposed to have bought and sold books for.
Reporters who descend upon us hurriedly to verify the story of some
unusual sale can be divided into two classes--overenthusiastic and
bored. The former often exaggerate the amount paid for a book and its
value; the latter are likely to be careless about details and set them
down incorrectly.
When I bought a Gutenberg Bible for $106,000 last spring, I was careful
to read and correct the original announcement made of the purchase.
Such an event was too important in the history of book collecting to
be misstated. Even then, many papers carried a story which gave the
impression that this was the only Gutenberg Bible in existence, when
there are about forty-two known copies--differing in condition, of
course. But collectors themselves have often been at fault for the
broadcasting of misinformation, for they seldom take time to go out of
their way to correct wrong impressions.
It is only in the past few generations that collectors have taken great
care of their treasures--a lucky change, too, for had they all pawed
books about, wearing them to shreds in the scholastic manner, few rare
volumes would have been saved for us to-day. Acquisitiveness, that
noble urge to possess something the other fellow hasn’t or can’t get,
is often the direct cause of assembling vast, extraordinary libraries.
Book lovers who were contemporaries of Moses Polock treated him as
though he would live forever. It has been noted that those who collect
things outlive people who do not. No one notices this so much, perhaps,
as the collector himself who has his eye on the collection of another,
or the book collector who cannot sleep well at night for the thought of
a valuable first edition he would like to own. Book collectors, I make
no exceptions, are buzzards who stretch their wings in anticipation as
they wait patiently for a colleague’s demise; then they swoop down and
ghoulishly grab some long-coveted treasure from the dear departed’s
trove.
Two years before my uncle’s death I gave up my fellowship in English
at the University of Pennsylvania to enter professionally the sport of
book collecting and the business of selling. Uncle Moses was extremely
pleased to have me as a competitor. He often said he believed I had
all the necessary requisites for collecting, an excellent memory,
perseverance, taste, and a fair knowledge of literature. Alas, all
requisites but one--money! He thought if I were fortunate enough to
acquire that, I would also have the other virtue--courage: the courage
to pay a high price for a good book and to refuse a poor one at any
price. And I was fortunate. Two gentlemen whose interest in books
was as intense as mine made it possible for me to establish myself
as a bookseller. The first, Clarence S. Bement, possessed a glorious
collection over which he had spent years of constant study and search.
All collectors were eager to secure his volumes, each being fine
and rare. As a silent partner he was invaluable to me in many ways,
and with the second, Joseph M. Fox, spurred me on to collecting the
choicest books and manuscripts as they came on the market, pointing out
the fact that at all times there is a demand for the finest things.
Mr. Fox, one of the most lovable of men, lived in a very old Colonial
house called Wakefield, in the suburbs of Philadelphia, in which he had
discovered wonderful Revolutionary letters and documents.
[Illustration: MOSES POLOCK]
It is difficult to know at what moment one becomes a miser of books.
For many years preceding his death, Uncle Moses kept a fireproof vault
in the rear of his office, where he secreted rarities no one ever
saw. His books were as real to him as friends. He feared showing the
most precious lest he part with one in a moment of weakness. One of
the amusing incidents of his life was that he had sold a copy of the
Bradford _Laws of New York_, published in 1694, to Doctor Brinley
for sixteen dollars, and many years later he had seen it sell at the
Brinley sale for $1600. The money consideration did not cause his
regret so much as the fact that he had felt an affection for this
volume, which had rested upon his shelves for more than thirty years.
By an amusing turn of the wheel of chance, which my uncle might have
foreseen, the same volume would be worth to-day $20,000!
At the death of my uncle, in 1903, I came into possession of some of
his wonderful books; others were purchased by private buyers and are
to-day parts of various famous libraries. I was greatly thrilled when,
as administrator of his estate, I entered his secret vault for the
first time in my life. In the half light I stumbled against something
very hard on the floor. Lighting a match, I looked down, to discover a
curious bulky package. Examining it more closely, I found it was a bag
of old gold coins. A reserve supply cautiously hoarded, no doubt, to
buy further rarities.
My uncle’s estate included several books from the library of George
Washington, the finest of which was a remarkable copy of the _Virginia
Journal_, published in Williamsburg, which I still have. Washington
was one of the three presidents who collected books in an intelligent
manner. There have been presidents who loved books--the late Theodore
Roosevelt, for example--but who were not real collectors. It is always
interesting to hazard a guess at a great man’s personal likes by noting
the titles in his library. In the past years I have bought other
books from Washington’s collection. There is _The History of America_
by William Robertson, in two volumes, Brown’s _Civil Law, Inland
Navigation_, Jenkinson’s _Collections of Treaties_, eight volumes of
the _Political State of Europe_, a four-volume course of lectures by
Winchester on the _Prophecies That Remain to be Fulfilled_--in this
last Washington wrote: “From the author to G. Washington.” These are a
heavy literary diet, somewhat one-sided when placed next to _Epistles
for the Ladies_, which was also his. Each volume has the signature on
the title page--“George Washington”--with his armorial bookplate pasted
inside the front cover. There were doubtless book borrowers in those
days, too, whose memories and consciences might be jogged at sight of
the owner’s name. Another, a gift to Washington, is a collection of
poems “written chiefly during the late war,” by Philip Freneau, one
of the few very early American poets whose work has survived. On the
title page in Freneau’s hand, with his signature, is written: “General
Washington will do the author the honor to accept a copy of his poems,
as a small testimony of the disinterested veneration he entertains for
his character.”
The books belonging to Martha Washington are few, merely because she
was not a great reader, and the common-sense title of the one book of
hers which I have--_Agriculture of Argyll County_--would lead one to
think of her as a practical woman rather interested in rural activities.
The collecting passion is as old as time. Even book collecting, which
many believe to be a comparatively recent development, can be traced
back to the Babylonians. They, with their passion for preserving
records on clay tablets, could hardly go in for all the little
niceties, such as original paper boards or beautifully tooled bindings,
but they were collectors nevertheless.
Among the early individual book collectors such colorful names as Jean
Grolier, De Thou, Colbert, and the Cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin
shine forth. Jean Grolier, a collector of the late fifteenth and the
early sixteenth century, now considered the patron saint of modern book
collectors, showed unusual vision in selecting his books. Though many
libraries of that time are both remarkable and valuable, their worth
varies. But every collector is keen to possess a Grolier volume, and at
each sale the prices increase. He evidently read what he selected, and
his taste showed that he had education and discernment. Aldus Manutius,
the most famous printer of that day, dedicated books to him and
printed certain works for him on special paper. Aldus was the first to
popularize the small-sized book, and that is why many from the Grolier
collection are easier to handle than the more gross volumes from other
early libraries.
Grolier’s generous disposition is indicated by the fact that he has
either written in, or had stamped on the outside of the truly exquisite
bindings, “Io Grolierii et Amicorum”--his books were for himself
and his friends too. Many people have since copied this inscription
on their bookplates. The Grolier family were book lovers, and his
library was kept intact for three generations. Not until one hundred
and sixteen years after his death was it sold, and although many
were bought by other famous collectors, old records show that some
disappeared entirely. It is just such knowledge that keeps the true
bibliophile living in hopes--a long-missing Grolier might turn up any
time, anywhere.
About the time of the discovery of America a book came out called _The
Ship of Fools_, by one Sebastian Brant. In it was an attack on the book
fool: a satire on the passion of collecting, in which the author said
that the possession of books was but a poor substitute for learning.
That phrase which the layman reader asks the book collector so often
with a smirk of condescension, “So you really read them?” undoubtedly
originated then. The real book collector, with suppressed murder in his
heart, smiles acquiescence, assuming an apologetic air for his peculiar
little hobby. His invisible armor is his knowledge, and he has been
called a fool so often he glories in it. He can afford to have his
little joke. So much for this threadbare gibe.
[Illustration: GROLIER BINDING]
Cardinal Richelieu, according to history, sought relaxation from the
cares of state in his love of books. His huge library was got together
in many ways. Sometimes he bought books; he sent two learned men
on the road, one to Germany and the other to Italy, to collect both
printed and manuscript works. Often he would exchange volumes with
other collectors, and one can imagine the covert smile of satisfaction
on this ecclesiastical politician’s lips whenever he got the better of
a bargain.
Of course there was always a way to get a rare work, whether the
owner cared to part with it or not, by an off-with-his-head policy of
intimidation. After the taking of La Rochelle the red-robed Richelieu
topped off the victory by helping himself to the entire library of that
city. Even though he was something of a robber, his ultimate motive was
good--he planned to establish a reference library for all qualified
students. Yet it was his nephew, the inheritor of his library, who
carried out these plans posthumously. He willed it to the Sorbonne,
with a fund to keep up the collection and to add to it according to the
needs and progress of the times.
Cardinal Mazarin had the appreciation of books instilled in him from
his boyhood, when he attended a Jesuit school in Rome. Following in the
footsteps of the famous Richelieu, it was necessary to carry out many
of his predecessor’s policies. One of these was to weaken the French
nobles, who ruled enormous country estates, by destroying their feudal
castles. Thus Mazarin, a great but wily character, took his books where
he found them. Eventually his library grew to be a famous one, which he
generously threw open to the literary men of the day. Fortunately the
men who followed Mazarin kept his collection intact, and to-day, in
Paris, one may see the great Mazarin Library on the left bank of the
Seine.
Colbert, first as Mazarin’s secretary, and later a great political
leader on his own account, also collected a fine library in perhaps a
more legitimate manner than his patron. He arranged for the consuls
representing France in every part of Europe to secure any remarkable
works they might hear of. Colbert not only offered the use of his
collection to such of his contemporaries as Molière, Corneille,
Boileau, and Racine, but pensioned these men as well.
De Thou, also a Frenchman, of the latter half of the sixteenth and
the early seventeenth century, had the finest library of his time.
His thousands upon thousands of volumes included many bought from
the Grolier collection, and collectors’ interest in them has never
lessened. De Thou was the truest type of book lover. He had not one
but several copies of each book he felt a particular affection for;
he ordered them printed on the best paper obtainable, expressly for
himself. His bindings are richly beautiful, of the finest leathers,
exquisitely designed. They are easily recognizable, as his armorial
stamp, with golden bees, is on the sides, and the back is marked with
a curious cipher made from his initials. Most of the contents treat of
profound but interesting subjects. He was a real student, and wrote an
extensive history of his time in Latin. Here is an example of inherited
passion for books. His mother’s brother and his father were both book
lovers.
It is a general belief that books are valuable merely because they
are old. Age, as a rule, has very little to do with actual value. I
have never announced the purchase of a noted old book without having my
mail flooded for weeks afterward with letters from all over the world.
Each correspondent tells me of opportunities I am losing by not going
immediately to his or her home to see, and incidentally buy, “a book
which has been in my family over one hundred years.”
I receive more than thirty thousand letters about books every year.
Each letter is read carefully and answered. There are many from cranks.
But it is not hard to spot these even before opening the envelope, when
addressed, as one was recently from Germany,“Herrn Doktor Rosenbach,
multi-millionaire, Amerika.” Indeed, the greater number of letters
about books are from Germany. One man in Hamburg wrote me of a book he
had for sale, then ended by saying he also had a very fine house he
would like me to buy, because he felt sure, if I saw it, his elegant
garden would appeal to me for the use of my patients! Many people write
me, after I have purchased a book at a high price, and say they have
something to offer “half as old at half the price!”
Yet one out of every two thousand letters holds a possibility of
interest. I followed up a letter from Hagenau not long ago, to
discover--the copy was sent me on approval--a first edition of
_Adonais_, Shelley’s lament on the death of Keats, in the blue paper
wrappers in which it was issued. There are only a few copies known
in this original condition. I bought it by correspondence for a
reasonable price. It is worth at least $5000. On the other hand, I
have often made a long journey to find nothing but an inferior copy of
a late edition of some famous work. I once heard of a first edition of
Hubbard’s _Indian Wars_, in Salem, Massachusetts. When I arrived there
the family who owned it brought out their copy, unwrapping it with
much ceremony from swathings of old silk. Immediately I saw it was a
poor reprint made in the nineteenth century, although the original was
printed in 1677.
But luck had not deserted me entirely that day. As my train was not
due for an hour, I wandered about the city. In passing one of the many
antique shops which all New England cities seem to possess by the
gross, I noticed a barrow on the sidewalk before it. In this barrow
were thrown all sorts and conditions of books. Yet the first one I
picked up was a first edition of Herman Melville’s _Moby Dick_, worth
about $150, which I bought for two dollars.
Speaking of this copy of _Moby Dick_ reminds me of another, a more
valuable one, which I prize in my private library. One day about
five years ago John Drinkwater, the English poet and dramatist, and
I were lunching at his home in London. Talking of books and the
ever-interesting vicissitudes of collecting them, he told me of his
_Moby Dick_, found one day, by chance, in a New York bookstore for
but a few dollars. It was a presentation copy from the author to his
friend, Nathaniel Hawthorne, to whom the book was dedicated, and had
Hawthorne’s signature on the dedication leaf. When Mr. Drinkwater told
me of this I became restless; I wanted this copy as much as I had ever
wanted any other book, and there was nothing for me to do but tell
him so. I offered him twenty times what he had paid for it, and to my
surprise and delight he generously let me have it.
Why age alone should be thought to give value to most collectible
objects, including furniture, pictures, and musical instruments, I
don’t know. However, it is a great and popular fallacy. The daily
prayer of all true collectors should begin with the words, “beauty,
rarity, condition,” and last of all, “antiquity.” But books differ
from other antiques in that their ultimate value depends upon the
intrinsic merit of the writer’s work. A first edition of Shakespeare,
for instance, will always command an ever-increasing price. The same is
true of first editions of Dante, Cervantes, or Goethe. These writers
gave something to the world and to life--something of which one always
can be sure.
Very often the greatness of an author, the value of what he has
written, is not realized until years have gone by. Vital truths
are sometimes seen more clearly in perspective. A first folio of
Shakespeare’s _Comedies, Histories and Tragedies_ was sold in 1864
to the late Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who paid what was considered an
enormous price--£716--for it. Yet only fifty-eight years later my
brother Philip bought the same folio for me at Sotheby’s in London
for £8600, Shakespeare’s writings having increased in value more than
twelve times in a little more than half a century.
The fallacy of thinking that age is of major importance in judging a
book should be corrected by every book lover. Age? Why, there are
many books of the fifteenth century which command small prices in the
auction rooms to-day, while certain volumes brought out a decade ago
are not only valuable but grow more so with each passing year. A first
edition of A. A. Milne’s _When We Were Very Young_, printed two years
ago, is already more precious than some old tome, such as a sermon of
the 1490’s by the famous teacher, Johannes Gerson, the contents of
which are and always will be lacking in human or any other kind of
interest.
The inception of any great movement, whether material or spiritual,
is bound to be interesting, according to its relative importance. The
Gutenberg Bible, leaving aside the question of its artistic merit and
the enormous value of its contents, as the first printed book is of the
greatest possible significance. But it so happens that this wonderful
Bible is also one of the finest known examples of typography. No book
ever printed is more beautiful than this pioneer work of Gutenberg, the
first printer, although it was issued almost five hundred years ago.
It has always seemed an interesting point to me that printing is the
only art which sprang into being full-blown. Later years brought about
a more uniform appearance of type, but aside from this we have only
exceeded the early printers in speed of execution. Enormous value is
added to some of these earliest books because they are the last word in
the printer’s art.
The first books printed on subjects of universal interest are the
rarest “firsts” of all for the collector. These include early romances
of chivalry, of which few copies are found to-day. They are generally
in very poor condition, as their popular appeal was tremendous, and
they were literally read to pieces. They were really the popular
novels of the period. The ones which come through the stress of years
successfully are extremely rare. For instance, there are the Caxtons.
William Caxton was the first printer in England, and the first to print
books in the English language. When he brought out the second edition
of Chaucer’s _Canterbury Tales_ in 1484, with its fascinating woodcut
illustrations, it was literally devoured by contemporary readers. This
and other publications of Caxton were very popular--he evidently had
a good eye for best sellers--and now a perfect Caxton is difficult to
find.
One of the finest Caxtons in existence is _Le Morte d’ Arthur_ by Sir
Thomas Malory, published in 1485. This perfect copy, this jewel among
Caxtons, sold at the dispersal of the library of the Earl of Jersey in
1885 for £1950, approximately $9500. Now this is an excellent example
of a book increasing in value for its pristine, perfect state as well
as for its alluring contents. Twenty-six years later it brought $42,800
at the Hoe sale. It is now one of the treasures adorning the Pierpont
Morgan Library.