to-day sex appeal, such as Boccaccio’s _Decameron_, and his _Amore
di Florio e di Bianchafiore_--a wicked old romance of the fifteenth
century, truly the first snappy story--are firsts of which there are
but few left for our edification. They are extremely precious to the
collector, no matter what their condition. The first book on murder;
the first book on medicine or magic; the first Indian captivity; the
first music book, the first newspaper, the first published account of
lace making, or the comparatively modern subject, shorthand--the first
book on any subject marking the advance of civilization, is always
valuable.
One of the rarest and most interesting books is the first sporting
book, _The Book of Hunting and Hawking_, printed at St. Albans, in
1486, by an unknown man, called, for convenience of classification, the
Schoolmaster Printer. Women were sports writers even in those days,
for this record was written by a woman, Dame Juliana Barnes, sometimes
known as Berners. A copy was sold in the Hoe sale in 1911, for $12,000,
to Mr. Henry E. Huntington, who formed one of the few great collections
of the world. Nearly all of the few existing copies of this work are
now in this country. Another one, the Pembroke copy, which I now own,
sold for £1800 in 1914. As it is the last one that can ever come on
the market, heaven only knows what it is worth to-day. Like some other
famous firsts, it has several novel merits, being one of the first
books to contain English poetry, and the first English book to be
illustrated with pictures printed in color. This and Walton’s _The
Compleat Angler_ are the two greatest sporting books of all time. Yet,
because there are more copies of the latter in existence, a fine copy
of the first edition in the original binding is worth not more than
$8500 to-day.
Another tremendously rare book is the much-read _Pilgrim’s Progress_.
No work, with the exception of the Bible, has enjoyed greater
popularity all through the years than this powerful imaginative and
moral tale. I have almost every edition of it, in every language. A
best seller for years after the author’s death, and a very good seller
to-day, too, the early editions were really read to bits. So it is
hardly surprising that only six perfect copies of the first edition
exist. A few months ago a copy sold at Sotheby’s in London for £6800.
The most beautiful one in existence is that famed copy I purchased
eighteen months ago from Sir George Holford. I believe if one of the
half-dozen perfect first editions were offered in public sale to-day it
would easily bring from $40,000 to $45,000.
About five years ago the illness of an English barber’s wife brought
to light a first edition of _Pilgrim’s Progress_ which was in good
condition, except that it lacked two pages. In the little town of Derby
lived this barber, daily plying the trade of his ancestors. Between
the lathering and the gossiping he found little time and inclination
to read, but sometimes when business was not so brisk as usual he
listlessly ran through a small stack of books which he inherited along
with the shop. Old-fashioned in text, some with odd pictures, and
leaves missing, he thought them rather funny, and occasionally showed
them to customers who shared his amusement. One day someone suggested
the books were interesting because they were old, and--following the
popular fallacy of which I have spoken--must be valuable. He had heard
of a man who once paid two pounds for a book!
But the barber shrugged his shoulders and said he had plenty to do
without chasing about trying to sell old, worn-out books. Then came a
day when his wife took to her bed and the doctor was hurriedly sent
for. While waiting for him the barber tried to think of some way he
might amuse his wife. As he went into the shop his eyes fell first
upon the books on a low shelf. When the doctor arrived he found his
patient’s bed loaded down with books, and she was reading a copy of
_The Pilgrim’s Progress_. The doctor was a lover of books in a small
way; he felt there was something unusual about this copy. He insisted
it should be sent to Sotheby’s in London for valuation. Even then the
barber believed he was wasting both time and money.
Finally Sotheby’s received a package accompanied by a letter,
painstakingly written in an illiterate hand, with small _i_’s
throughout, and guiltless of punctuation. He was sending this copy,
he wrote, because a friend was foolish enough to think it might be
worth something. Of course it wasn’t. He had inherited it from his
people, and his people were poor. They couldn’t have had anything
valuable to leave him. If, as he believed, it was worthless, would
they please throw it away, and not bother to return it, or waste money
answering him? I don’t know what his direct emotional reaction was when
they replied saying his old book was worth at least £900--more than
$4000--and that they would place it in their next sale. Perhaps he
was stunned for a time. Anyway, weeks passed before they received a
rather incoherent reply. I happened to be in London when it was sold,
and I paid £2500--about $12,000--for the copy. I later learned that
the barber was swamped for months with letters from old friends he had
never heard of before, each with a valuable book to sell him.
As collectors grow older, they find it is better to buy occasionally
and at a high price than to run about collecting tuppenny treasures.
There is seldom any dispute about the worth of a rare book. Many
collectors, however, feel collecting has a value other than monetary;
it keeps men young, and as the years pass it proves to be a new type of
life insurance.
The late Mr. W. A. White of New York, until his death a few months ago,
was as vigorous at eighty-three as he had been thirty years before.
He combined a quality of youth with his extraordinary knowledge of
books and literature. His wonderful library would take away the load
of years from a Methuselah. Even to read over the partial list of
his treasures, which was recently published, would have a distinctly
rejuvenating effect. Mr. Henry E. Huntington was another successful man
who practically gave up his business interests to devote himself to
the invigorating pastime of book collecting. He collected so rapidly
that no young man could follow in his steps! Even my uncle Moses grew
younger and younger as he sat year after year surrounded by books.
Rare books are a safe investment; the stock can never go down. A market
exists in every city of the world. New buyers constantly crop up. The
most ordinary, sane, and prosaic type of business man will suddenly
appear at your door, a searching look in his eye, a suppressed tone of
excitement in his voice. Like the Ancient Mariner, he takes hold of you
to tell his story--for he has suddenly discovered book collecting. And
if it happens to be at the end of a very long day, you feel like the
Wedding Guest, figuratively beating your breast the while you listen.
He returns again and again, enthralled by this new interest which
takes him away from his business. If he is wealthy, he already may be
surfeited with luxuries of one sort or another; but here is something
akin to the friendship of a charming and secretive woman. He takes no
risk of becoming satiated; there is no possibility of being bored;
always some new experience or unexpected discovery may be lurking just
around the corner of a bookshelf.
II
A MILLION DOLLAR BOOKSHELF
One of my early memories concerns a cold winter night in Philadelphia.
I was a little boy of thirteen. Uncle Moses and I had been together
undisturbed the entire evening, for the weather was so bitterly cold
not one of his book-loving cronies dared venture out. With the shop
door locked and the shutters tightly drawn, we sat close to the
little wood stove, in the dim light of an oil lamp, while I listened,
fascinated, to endless tales about books--how this one was lost and
that one found. To this handsome old patriarch books were more vital
than people; with ease he held my boyish imagination until I was almost
afraid to glance back at the shadowed shelves.
He told me the story of a man in England, a collector, who heard of
some Shakespeare folios in Spain; of how, after months of inquiries and
exciting adventures, he at last journeyed to a castle in the Pyrenees.
There he found an ancient Spanish grandee leaning forward before a
great fireplace, feeding the fire with torn bits of paper on which, to
his horror, he beheld English printing; how he tore them from the old
man’s fingers--the remains of a second Shakespeare folio he had sought
and found too late! As Uncle Moses spoke, he arose to throw casually
some sheets of an old Pennsylvania _Journal_ into the stove, while I
watched, tense and frightened for fear they, too, might be of value!
At last, as the clock in Independence Hall struck midnight, we felt
our way down the dark narrow stairs to the street. In his hand Uncle
Moses clasped a cherished volume of the first edition of Fielding’s
_Tom Jones_, to read when he reached home. The uneven sidewalks were
dangerously glazed with ice; as we crept unsteadily toward the corner
we were relieved to see a lonely carriage passing, and hailed it. The
streets were even worse than the sidewalks, and the horse went his way
skiddingly. We came to a bridge which shone like a polished mirror in
the moonlight. We were halfway across when suddenly the horse lurched,
and both Uncle Moses and I were thrown forward. In the confusion Uncle
Moses dropped his precious book. Out it went, slithering along the icy
way. I started to climb down after it, but was stopped by a firm hand.
Slowly Uncle Moses got out, walked uncertainly forward. He had not
gone two steps before he lost his balance. As he fell I cried aloud
in alarm and the driver turned, amazed. Up Uncle Moses got, and down
he went again; yet with each fall he came nearer and nearer his book,
which lay open face downward in the frozen gutter. At last he reached
it and, after securely placing it in his overcoat pocket, started the
perilous way back. But he had learned the trick; instead of trying to
walk, he crouched down on all fours, and, dignified dean of booksellers
that he was, crawled cautiously toward the carriage. Suddenly the
sight of him there struck me as being the funniest thing I had ever
seen! The glassy bridge, the unreal light, and statuesque Uncle Moses
telescoping like a huge caterpillar toward me! I snickered, then burst
out laughing. The old driver followed suit, and our rude guffaws echoed
across the bridge, through the deserted streets. Uncle Moses’ dark eyes
snapped as he reached the carriage.
“You should have let me get your book,” I said shamefacedly. “You might
have broken your leg!”
“I would risk breaking two legs for this book,” he growled back, and we
drove on.
In the years which followed I have known men to hazard their fortunes,
go long journeys halfway about the world, forget friendship, even lie,
cheat, and steal, all for the gain of a book. Improbable as it sounds,
there was a man once who murdered so that he might possess a volume for
which he had long yearned.
It was in the valuable library of the monastery at Poblet, near
Tarragona, just a century ago, that Don Vincente, a Spanish monk,
developed his unholy love for books. Years of religious training did
not prevent him from seizing every chance to plunder his own and other
monastery libraries which were thrown open in a political upheaval
of the time. As confusion spread, he found opportunities to take the
books he coveted most, and then he vanished. But sometime later he
appeared in Barcelona, the proprietor of a bookshop. The one volume he
had worshiped at a distance and longed to own was a work of Lamberto
Palmart, published in Valencia in 1482. It had been in the collection
of a Barcelona advocate for years, and at the dispersal of his estate
was offered at auction. It was understood to be the only one of its
kind known.
Don Vincente went to the sale and staked every cent he possessed on it;
but a competitor, Augustino Paxtot, outbid him by fourteen pesetas. The
ex-monk grew white with fury, threatening revenge as he left the room.
When, a few nights later, Paxtot’s house burned to the ground and he
perished with it, several friends recalled Don Vincente’s threats. He
was reported to the police, his shop searched, and the rare Palmart
volume found. Even when he was arrested, Don Vincente made no effort to
deny his guilt. All he seemed interested in was the fate of the little
book which had brought disgrace upon him. During the trial his lawyer,
making a valiant effort to save him, announced that another copy of the
Palmart volume had been found in a Paris library, a few days previous
to the alleged crime. It could not be proved, he argued, that the copy
in question was the one recently auctioned. But Don Vincente, hearing
his book was not unique, burst into violent weeping and showed no
further interest in the trial. Alone at night in his cell, and before
the court during the final days of his trial, his only words of regret
were, “Alas, alas! My copy is not unique!”
To-day book collectors are less violent, although they have their
moments when they seethe and writhe inwardly! Just go to any book sale
and observe the expressions of competitive buyers--faces that are
usually marvelous poker portraits become sharply distorted; eyes which
ordinarily indulge in an almost studied innocence shoot sudden darts
of fire. Whenever I attend an important sale I make it a point to look
neither to the right nor to the left!
I have often been asked why collectors are so enamored of first
editions. This is almost unanswerable, because the whole question of
first editions hinges on a matter of sentiment, of feeling, almost
of emotion. How can one explain the sentimental affections? A first
edition is almost as much the original work of its author as the
painting is of an artist. I suppose there are people--I’ve been told
there are intelligent people--who would just as soon have an edition of
Keats’s _Poems_, for example, well printed on good paper, in a handsome
modern binding, as a first edition in its original boards! I only hope
I shall never meet them.
Collectors are very ardent on the subject of association copies, or
books inscribed or annotated by the authors themselves. To think that
John Keats may have held in his slender white fingers your first
edition of his poems; that his luminous eyes, already sunken from the
inroads of his fatal illness, may have lingered over the very pages of
the copy you possess--this is enough to thrill the Devil himself!
Miss Amy Lowell was, as all the world knows, devoted to Keats. She
believed herself spiritually attuned to him. I shall never forget the
last time I visited at her home near Boston. After a delightful dinner,
we went into her library, where we lighted our cigars and talked. She
told me of her colossal work on Keats, which, fortunately for her peace
of mind, she lived to see published. Then followed a silence as the
blue haze of smoke enveloped her. Suddenly she leaned toward me and,
with an excited brightness in her eyes, said, “Doctor, there is a
certain book I want more than anything in the world! Keats’s own copy
of Shakespeare, with his notes through it.”
I put my hand in my pocket and smiled. By one of those unusual chances
which really do make truth stranger than fiction, I had that very
volume in my pocket. She caught her breath and grew quite pale with joy
as I handed it to her.
At the Frederickson sale in New York, nearly thirty years ago, Mr.
Harry B. Smith bought Shelley’s own copy of _Queen Mab_. The poet had
presented this to his future wife, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, with the
wooing inscription, “You see, Mary, I have not forgotten you.” When
Mr. Smith was going out of the salesroom, an old gentleman whom he had
never seen before stopped him. Brushing tears from his eyes, he asked
if he might merely hold the book in his hands for a moment. The history
of this same copy, I think, is interesting. General Brayton Ives bought
it in 1888 from a London dealer for £20--less than $100. Three years
afterward it was sold at the dispersal of the General’s library to Mr.
Frederickson for not quite one hundred per cent gain--$190. But when
Mr. Smith, the next possessor, bought it, the price jumped to $650.
Sometime later I purchased his “Sentimental Library,” as he gracefully
termed it, and I also trembled when first holding this _Queen Mab_ in
my hands. In 1914 I sold it to Mr. William K. Bixby of St. Louis for
$12,500. Then it finally passed, as so many of the finest books did,
into Mr. Huntington’s collection, where it will remain for all time.
[Illustration: ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF KEATS’S FAMOUS “SONNET TO HAYDON”]
Buxton Forman’s copy of _Queen Mab_, the one Shelley had kept for
himself and inestimably enriched by changes and additions for a later
edition, is now in the remarkable collection of Mr. Jerome D. Kern of
New York.
[Illustration: FROM A LETTER OF SHELLEY SPEAKING OF KEATS]
Still another, also containing Shelley’s precious notes in his own
hand, is in that treasure-house of rarities, the library of Mr. Thomas
J. Wise. His catalogue, now wanting only the last volume, is more
absorbingly interesting to book lovers than most works of fiction.
When I was in London in 1925 a friend told me a story which he thought
something of a joke on me. As he browsed, one fine spring day, through
some books in a bookstall, he noticed a young man also reading.
Suddenly a clerk from inside the shop came out, exhibiting a cheap
dog’s-eared copy of Margot Asquith’s autobiography.
“How much?” asked the young man cautiously. The clerk replied,
“Fourpence.”
“Fourpence,” repeated the other, scandalized. “Who do you think I
am--Dr. Rosenbach?”
A few days before, I had bought in London, at auction, a copy of
Richard Baxter’s _Call to the Unconverted_, at the Royal Society’s
sale. I had to pay £6800, or about $34,000, for it. It was a beautiful
copy, printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1664, and the only
one known. Translated into the Indian language, it was entitled
_Wehkomaonganoo Asquam Peantogig_, and was the painstaking work of
that picturesque early missionary, Apostle John Eliot, who a few years
before had translated the Bible for the Indians’ use too. The auction
price of this book--Baxter’s _Call to the Unconverted_--was quick to
take hold of the public imagination; of course it was colorful news,
and English editors made the most of it.
The story was cabled over here, and one afternoon soon after my return
a man telephoned saying he had a book he must show me. His voice was
shaking with excitement, so I could not refuse him. He soon called, a
dignified elderly gentleman. Under his arm he held tightly an old book.
“What is this?” he demanded as he proudly waved the volume before my
eyes. I glanced at it and answered, “It looks very much like a Baxter’s
_Call to the Unconverted_.” I had hardly spoken when he gave a short
gasp and pulled a newspaper clipping from his pocket. As I read, I
understood this poor fellow’s hopes; he believed he had made a great
find. The most significant fact about my purchase was not mentioned
in the clipping. Its great value lay in that it was the only known
copy of Eliot’s translation of Baxter’s work into the Indian language.
When I told him this, and that editions in English were as common
as blackberries, he suddenly grew pale and, as he turned away in
disappointment, said in a dejected tone, “I feel $34,000 poorer than
when I came in!”
It is extremely unfortunate that the price of first editions should
occupy so predominant a place in the public mind. The true book lover
gives the question of monetary value the last as well as the least
important place in his passion for collecting. If the average reader
finds it easier to remember books by their prices in lieu of other
earmarks, he can look forward to a time in the near future when he must
revalue his entire mental collection. Prices of fine books are rising
to new heights. Old records show they have advanced continually since
the middle of the seventeenth century. Prices are now bound to go much
higher. The world is filled with books, but the number of desirable
ones is limited.
[Illustration: BOOKROOM AT 1320 WALNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA]
During the past decade many wonderful rarities have been taken off
the market forever. They have found a final resting place in public
institutions. Two of the greatest private collections in this country,
those of Mr. Henry E. Huntington and the late Pierpont Morgan, have
been dedicated forever to the people. These splendid gifts comprise, at
a very rough estimate, more than one hundred thousand of the world’s
choicest literary treasures. Mr. William L. Clements, of Bay City,
Michigan, has donated his library of Americana to the University of
Michigan, and Mr. William A. Clark, Jr., of Los Angeles, his splendid
collection to the southern branch of the University of California, thus
removing all possibility of their books ever being offered for sale.
Mr. Clark is held in grateful esteem by scholars and lovers of books
for his superb series of facsimiles of great English classics in his
collection.
The magnificent gift of the library of Harry Elkins Widener to Harvard
University is another case in point. Born in Philadelphia, Harry Elkins
Widener spent his childhood on the large estate of his grandfather,
the late P. A. B. Widener, in a home filled with treasures brought
together from all parts of the world. The collector’s spirit was his
through both inheritance and environment. When a young boy he showed an
interest in books, and as he grew older proved himself a born student
of bibliography. Books were his life work, his recreation, his passion.
I think if Harry Elkins Widener had lived he would have been the
greatest collector the world has ever known. Of course he began as all
collectors do, gathering rather unimportant works. But he weeded them
out sooner than most enthusiasts, and by the time he was twenty-six had
a library of three thousand volumes; each one of these showed a most
fastidious, exacting, and exquisite taste, which he had found possible
to gratify through the sympathy and generosity of his grandfather and
his mother. When abroad attending various book sales, because of his
youth and remarkable learning he attracted the attention of many older
collectors. After the Huth sale in 1912 in London, he slipped a volume
of Bacon’s _Essays_ in his pocket--a second edition which is almost as
rare as a first--and, turning to a friend, said, “I think I’ll take
that little Bacon with me in my pocket, and if I am shipwrecked it
will go down with me.” With what prophecy he spoke they little knew. A
few days later he was one of the victims of the Titanic disaster. His
books may be enjoyed by students forever, but they will never again be
offered for sale.
To-day there are twice as many people collecting books in this country
as there were five years ago. Every year they increase in numbers,
and the competition is keener for the best things. Naturally, prices
must go up. The much-maligned business man who collects books will at
last come into his own. He has been held for many years responsible
for musical-comedy successes, but nothing is said of his books and his
collecting. It is restful to think of him in his library of an evening
instead of in the first row of a crowded theatre.
[Illustration: A. EDWARD NEWTON]
The increasing number of scholars in this country, with their insistent
demands for the original sources of history and literature, is another
cause for advancing prices. After all, contemporary documents are
the only authentic tools for the student. The collector renders a
real service to scholarship when he uncovers valuable unpublished
material. A dear friend of mine has been also largely responsible for
the modern esteem of old authors. A. Edward Newton, through his popular
and appealing books about books, has inspired many to collect them.
His _Amenities of Book Collecting_ is the bibliophile’s Bible; and his
unbounded enthusiasm for Doctor Johnson is so intense that it is now
contagious. Everyone has become infected with it. A new Johnsonian
interest has spread over the country, and a first edition of Boswell’s
_Life of Johnson_, published in London in 1791, which used to sell for
seventy-five dollars, now brings $450, and in its original covers twice
this price.