he was alive. How surprised he must be, and with what irony must he
observe, if his spirit walks this way, the great sums which have passed
from one hand to another in the exciting exchange of his manuscripts.
Our own Mark Twain always wrote under the greatest pressure. Like many
other artists, he was in constant need of money, but unlike them, he
held to a remarkably consistent gait in his writing. His manuscripts
are unusual, they show but few changes and corrections. His stories
came as “trippingly on the tongue” as his vital conversation, which was
characteristically free and easy. I have the original manuscripts of
_Tom Sawyer Abroad_, _Pudd’nhead Wilson_, and _A Connecticut Yankee at
King Arthur’s Court_. The second was written by the author under the
title of “Those Extraordinary Twins,” and the last one was originally
called “The Stranger’s Tale.” The few corrections made by Mark Twain
do not seem especially happy ones to our modern eyes. In my opinion
it would have been better if he had left alone the thoughts which God
first gave him. There are whole scathing paragraphs in _A Connecticut
Yankee_ which were never published, but should be published.
[Illustration: VAULT AT 273 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK]
[Illustration: PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF MARK TWAIN’S “TOM
SAWYER ABROAD”]
Lovers of manuscripts all succumb to the magic beauty of those of Edgar
Allan Poe. Most of them were written on long folio sheets in an
exquisite and unaffected hand. So perfect and so fine is the rise and
fall of the pen that his writing seems an imitation of copperplate in
its evenness. I had an amusing experience, many years ago, after I
bought one of the three known autograph copies of Poe’s poem, “Annabel
Lee.” A dealer in Boston wrote to me, asking if I could come there to
view this most interesting Poe manuscript. I made the appointment,
arriving on an early morning train. When I reached the dealer’s shop
he said he would not have the manuscript to show me until one o’clock.
I decided to pass the time walking, to think out clearly just what I
should pay him for it when the question of price came up.
As I wandered about the city I thought $1000 would be about right; I
then imagined that this copy must be an especially beautiful one, and
decided that $2000 was a fairer figure. But the more I considered it
the more I coveted it, so I jumped to $3000, then $4000, and finally
made $5000 my limit. When I returned to the shop he showed me a truly
lovely autograph. I asked him what he wanted for it. He replied he
would take $500, plus a ten per cent commission! It seemed preposterous
to me, but I was so pleased I paid quickly, took the manuscript and
returned to New York.
Some time later I went West with several very fine first editions. I
also took the manuscript of “Annabel Lee.” The train rushed through the
night and I found it difficult to sleep. This time I considered what
price I should ask for this manuscript, and the sum a customer would
pay for it. When the train reached Harrisburg I thought $1000 would be
a very nice price, giving me a profit of about one hundred per cent.
At Pittsburgh, thinking of the beauty of the poem, I ran my price up
to $2000. Then I fell asleep. A jerky stop woke me at Fort Wayne, and
immediately the Poe manuscript came to my mind. In the narrow confines
of a Pullman berth I felt sure it was worth $3000. After all, what
I had paid for it should be left out of the question, for it was a
magnificent lyric, one of the finest productions of his genius. At last
I reached Chicago, and up it went again, this time to $4000.
My customer lived in a suburb, and by the time I had reached his home
I knew I could not part with “Annabel Lee” for less than $5000! This
was the price I had been willing myself to pay for it. After selling
him some very attractive books I showed him the “Annabel Lee.” His
eyes glistened; he asked me the price. I bravely said, “Five thousand
dollars.” He jumped at it quickly, just as I had at the $500 in Boston
several months before. I was awfully amused, and told him about my
journey and the workings of my mind; about my original purchase of
the manuscript and the sum I had given for it, and how the price had
progressed geographically.
He burst out laughing, took hold of my arm, and said, “I suppose I have
something to be grateful for, at that! Thank God, I don’t live in San
Francisco!”
What would this manuscript be worth to-day?
[Illustration]
[Illustration: LETTER OF POE SUBMITTING “EPIMANES” TO THE “NEW ENGLAND
MAGAZINE,” WITH PART OF ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT]
Another, a unique manuscript which came into my possession, is the
original of Poe’s “Epimanes.”
This precious draft is now happily in the library of a collector
whose taste is exquisite and faultless. The author has prefixed to the
story a letter to the editor of the _New England Magazine_. Poe writes
in part:--
I send you an original tale in hope of your accepting it for the
N. E. Magazine. It is one of a number of similar pieces which I
have contemplated publishing under the title “Eleven Tales of the
Arabesque.” They are supposed to be read by the eleven members of a
literary club, and are followed by the remarks of the company upon
each.
This manuscript, too, is beautifully, clearly written, except that the
letters are very small. It was not until some time after I bought it
that I discovered one of the most tragic sentences I have ever read.
Poe had folded over his manuscript several times. There are three tiny
words inscribed in the lower left corner. One of the greatest masters
of all time appeals to his editor, saying desperately, “I am poor.”
These few pathetic words are enough to tear at the heartstrings of any
collector.
A deadly malady which attacks all collectors at one stage or another is
catalogitis. Here is a disease which will defy science as long as books
and their ilk remain to be collected. In the beginning the symptoms
are not grave. You will quietly open your mail one morning to find
a pamphlet, perhaps from some local auctioneer, enumerating certain
books he is offering for sale. From time to time other sales lists
will be sent you, and one day when you have started to arrange your
desk neatly you will be surprised that there are catalogues in nearly
every drawer. You quickly decide to throw them out. But something, the
most insidious germ of the disease, stays your hand. You have fallen a
victim, merely in keeping them.
[Illustration: PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF JOYCE’S “ULYSSES”]
Then follows what Leigh Hunt, more than half a century ago, called
“one of the loftiest pleasures of the imagination,” hours spent
with a pencil in hand and catalogues scattered about, as you read
over, memorize, and check up the names of books and manuscripts you
would like to buy if you could afford it--and sometimes do anyway.
Catalogitis is never a waste of time. Collectors are rewarded sooner
or later by an intensive study, especially of new catalogues hot from
the bookseller. It is a great point of vantage to secure an advance
copy, thus being in a position to forestall one’s fellow collectors.
For years I have been desperately ill with catalogitis. Indeed, I am
a hopeless case. I have reached a peculiar stage. I even order my
overcoats made with an extra and unusually large pocket. A sort of
literary marsupial, I carry my young--and old--catalogues in my pouch,
never sure into what they may develop, as I bound from sale to sale.
I shall never forget the time when an English book dealer mailed me a
catalogue which brought me luck immediately. Quite daft at the sight
of it, I studied every item mentioned, then my eyes fell upon the
description of a Benedict Arnold letter. According to the catalogue,
this was the letter in which Arnold gave for the first time a truthful
account of his treason, mentioning the £6000--less than $30,000--paid
to him by the British. The letter was listed at only thirty pounds. I
quickly cabled my brother Philip, who has a remarkable and unerring
taste for fine things. He was in London at the time and was fortunate
enough to secure it for me.
Arnold wrote rather complainingly to Lord North, the English prime
minister, as follows:--
Your Memoralist, Influenced by Sentiments of Loyalty to the King and
Attachment to the British Constitution, has sacrificed a handsome
property in America ... and at the most Eminent hazard of his Life,
Co-operated with Sir Henry Clinton, Commander in Chief of the
British Army in America, which will appear by his official letters
to Lord Sackville. But his Intentions and measures being discovered
before they would be brought to a happy issue, which bid fair to
put a fortunate end to the War in America. He was obliged to fly,
and very narrowly, but fortunately, escaped from the Americans, and
having joined the British Army in New York, the Commander in Chief
was pleased to confer upon him the Rank of Brigadier General, which
was approved by the King.... And your Memoralist begs leave further
to observe that in Consideration of his Corps and Services, he has
received from Government only six thousand pounds sterling, one
thousand pounds of which he has expended in raising his Regiment.
Your Memoralist has not only sacrificed his fortune, but is deprived
of Four Hundred and Fifty pounds sterling per Annum, which he was
intitled to receive from Congress, as also a large tract of land, and
by the decided part which he has taken, his Family have been Banished
from America, and he has sacrificed his prospects for providing
for them there, which were undoubtedly of equal if not of greater
Importance to them than his Fortune, which with that of others has
been given up by the late Administration for the desirable purpose of
obtaining Peace.
The next day the London dealer received seventeen cabled offers for it.
When Mr. Henry F. DePuy came into my library in New York soon after,
I told him the story of the Benedict Arnold letter. One of the most
generous of men, he asked me to place a price on it. I replied frankly
that the price I paid for it was nothing short of ridiculous good
fortune, that I believed if it were sold at auction in this country
it would bring at least $1850. He offered to buy it from me at that
figure, and we immediately closed the bargain. Three years later, when
Mr. DePuy held his sale, I was pleased to see my judgment verified.
The Benedict Arnold letter sold for $2850. It is now in the Huntington
collection.
If you once make a find like this you become wedded to the reading of
catalogues. The finest private collection of catalogues in the world
is in Paris. It is the result of the tireless and exhaustive study of
my friend Seymour de Ricci. He has gathered complete files of auction
catalogues dating from the seventeenth century, from France, Germany,
and England. Every room of his large apartment on the Rue Boissière
is filled from floor to ceiling. He has even compiled a catalogue of
catalogues. This stupendous work comprises more than forty thousand
items. Commercial pamphlets are generally thrown into the wastebasket,
but I doubt if book catalogues are ever thrown away. True collectors
guard them as zealously as they do their rarest literary finds. I like
to look back at some of the catalogues I have issued, and note the
marked increase of price since certain items have left my hands. How I
would like to buy back many books and manuscripts at the prices I sold
them for!
[Illustration: STANZAS FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF “THE RUBÁIYÁT OF
OMAR KHAYYÁM” BY EDWARD FITZGERALD]
This purchase of the Benedict Arnold letter was the beginning of a mad
chase for American documents and historical papers which has become
more frantic with the roll of years. Although great papers dealing
with the history of England have always interested me intensely,
those of American interest are dearest to my heart. It is a great and
exciting adventure to collect noble relics of our country’s past. The
chase is often more fascinating than the wildest exploits of the most
experienced huntsman; sometimes the bag proves remarkable, far beyond
one’s hopes and expectations. When I first started to collect Americana
it did not enjoy its present vogue. In the early days you could
buy amazingly important historical papers for a mere song. Nowadays
everyone is seeking things American, from old New England bedsteads to
Pennsylvania whiskey flasks. The spell seems to be on the nation, and
this craving for Americana is extending to every collector.
The greatest purchase I ever made was an original certified copy of the
Declaration of Independence. It is the only official copy extant, with
the exception of that famous instrument now deposited for safekeeping
in the Library of Congress. It was in 1911, when I was attending an
afternoon session of the remarkable sale of the Robert Hoe collection
in New York. In the midst of the bidding an attendant entered the room
saying I was wanted at the telephone. It was my brother calling from
Philadelphia, and his voice sounded so excited that I feared he had ill
news for me.
A cable had just come from Berlin, he said, offering us this certified
copy of the Declaration of Independence. It was the one sent to
Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, in order that the independence
of the American colonies should be recognized officially in that part
of the world. It was signed by Benjamin Franklin and Silas Deane,
Commissioners Plenipotentiary. Included in the lot was the only signed
and attested copy of the original Articles of Confederation of the
United States, the first provisional government of the colonies. I,
too, was tremendously impressed, and my only question was: Were they
authentic? In reply my brother told me they were to be sold by a
direct descendant of Baron von Scolenberg, the minister of Frederick
the Great, and that their authenticity was undisputed.
Although the price was high, we felt that we could not allow
manuscripts of such tremendous national importance to escape us. Then
my brother, with his usual business acumen, immediately cabled our
agent to pay the money forthwith. Our excitement was intense until we
received a reply confirming our purchase. Neither my brother nor I
could sleep until the news was flashed over the wires the next morning.
We did not realize the extent of our good fortune, however, until one
of our competitors informed us he had sent a special messenger from
London to Berlin to secure this great document. His disappointment was
terrific when he learned that these precious papers had already been
sold.
I do not think the price of $260,000 excessive for these great
cornerstones of our country’s history. Some day they will be beyond
the computation of dollars. What adds a further glamour to this tale
is that only a few days later someone came to our office and offered
us the original letter arranging for the transfer of Independence
Hall from the State of Pennsylvania to the City of Philadelphia. The
transfer of ground was for the historic building and the piece of land
known as Independence Square, on which was erected the clock tower
that then contained the most precious memento of our independence, the
famous Liberty Bell. It gives the purchase price of this most hallowed
building and ground at only $70,000.
When I think of the historic papers and documents, and the great
literary manuscripts that have passed through my hands into those of
our customers, I recall the words from Proverbs xx, 14, which is the
motto of our house:--
“It is naught, it is naught, saith the buyer; but when he hath gone his
way, then he boasteth.”
VI
AMERICAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS
A young man who recently came into my library in New York looked about
at the high walls entirely lined with rare books, then sank into a
chair. He was the very picture of dejection. For a moment he sat
quietly staring into space, then said, with a melancholy sigh, “It’s no
use!”
“What’s the matter?” I inquired. “Bad news?”
“No!” He turned upon me with a quick blaze of temper. “How can anyone
collect books after seeing all these rarities?” He waved in accusatory
circles toward the walls. “I have very little money. Why, I can’t even
begin to collect!”
Now this was really a very nice young man. He was in his early
twenties, loved books, and had brains too. Then what was the matter
with him? Alas, he had very little money and very, very little
imagination. He was minus the latter asset, the very foundation of
successful book collecting. He allowed himself to be blinded by the
high prices of a few old volumes. He either could not, or would not,
visualize anything beyond that which he actually saw before him. He had
no vision.
People do not always have to invest in high-priced books to form an
interesting collection. Many unusual collections have been made through
small but exceedingly careful and, of course, thoughtful expenditure.
Yet this is a fact very difficult to thump into the young collector’s
head. It has taken some men I know--men with slender purses--several
years to realize this. Meanwhile they lose both time and bargains.
But vision in book buying does not come so readily when you are first
suffering from the febrile mania of collecting. Yet be not dismayed!
Just because Gutenberg Bibles and Shakespeare folios jolt the auction
rooms with their stupendous prices is no reason why you should ignore
the works of a comparatively obscure writer who appeals to you, someone
in whom you believe.
[Illustration: MANUSCRIPT TITLE PAGE OF HAWTHORNE’S “WONDER BOOK”]
Keep your eyes on his books, his manuscripts, his letters, when you are
browsing in bookshops; ask yourself a few leading questions concerning
his future and answer them honestly. Do you believe your author has
an intrinsic value that is likely to increase with the years? How
scarce are these books or manuscripts or letters of his? Think back.
If you have the real collecting instinct you have kept all your sales
catalogues. Check them over.
Just remember that Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, and Joseph Conrad
first editions could have been bought a few years ago for almost
nothing, in fact at their published prices.
This reminds me of a remarkable prophecy made by Uncle Moses in
1895. He was complaining of the high prices he had just paid for
several books. He said he didn’t see how rare volumes could possibly
go any higher. Then he amended this by naming three men in English
letters whose works he thought would advance to almost unbelievable
values--Shelley, Keats, and Poe. If only I had taken advantage of Uncle
Moses’ significant foresight and vision!
“When prices are high,” Uncle Moses advised me, “don’t forget that
there are new fields for the collector. There’s no need to grumble. You
can always spend your money wisely on the things which are not so much
in demand.”
I realized, even then, that these were words of wisdom in the book
game. Many times I have thought of his oft-repeated, laconic statement:
“There are always books to fit every purse.”
There are hundreds of types of books to collect: volumes as yet
unnoticed in the auction room, which lie neglected year in, year
out, upon the bookseller’s shelf, and which are disregarded by the
conventional collector. They are waiting for the man with imagination
to discover them. And many of them will eventually come into their own.
My uncle and others of his day could not foresee the slavish manner
in which some collectors would in later years pursue, with neither
rhyme nor reason, every volume on any arbitrary list. Imagine buying
books other than those of your own taste and inclination! It seems the
veriest joke to have signposts on the way, indicating the books you
should buy--just as though one or two men are able to choose fifty or
even one hundred of the most outstanding books in English or any other
literature. The difference of opinion is too great. To me such buying
is about as thrilling as going to a doctor to have him dictate your
diet.
“I have collected,” said my uncle, as we talked together a few years
before he died, “along a path untrodden in my day--early American
children’s books.” He walked about his dusty old shop for a few
moments, then selected a diminutive volume, the _Dying Sayings of
Hannah Hill, Junior_, published in Philadelphia in 1717. “Now,” he
observed, “I will show you an example. I would have you know that
this little book is damn rare.” He always hated and made fun of
the stereotyped expressions in booksellers’ catalogues, such as
“excessively rare,” “extremely rare,” “of utmost rarity,” “very rare,”
and “rare.” He said it reminded him of the man who had eggs to sell,
offering them as newly laid eggs, fresh eggs, and eggs. Uncle Moses
described his books more colorfully. First of all they were “infernally
rare,” then “damn, damn rare,” followed by “damn rare,” and finally
“rare.”
This and similar picturesque language fitted his rugged personality
and endeared him to everyone. How much more interesting it would be if
modern cataloguers used their imagination when describing the degree of
rarity of an old book.
In his younger days Uncle Moses had had a most unusual opportunity to
gather together many early books published expressly for children. When
he succeeded to the business of the Philadelphia publishers, McCarthy
and Davis, in 1851, the stock included a number of early American
juveniles. You see, McCarthy and Davis were successors to Johnson and
Warner, who succeeded the original firm established by Jacob Johnson
in 1780. It was noted for its children’s books, so you can imagine the
varied juvenile curiosities my uncle inherited.
Even when my brothers and sisters and I were very small children, Uncle
Moses remembered our birthdays and other anniversaries always with a
pretty little book. Although we were all taught to care for and really
honor our books from the time we could hold them in our hands, it was
to my eldest sister, Rebecca, and to me that he gave the most valuable
and entertaining volumes. I have kept every one of them; each bears his
inscription in beautiful, finely printed letters, “From Uncle Mo.”
My sister was early imbued with the book-hunting spirit, and I have
often found her in some little secondhand store in Philadelphia quietly
looking through piles of books in the hope of securing something
quaint, something unusual and perhaps hitherto unknown. Her searches
were not fruitless either.
These book-hunting expeditions were adventures for us. We thought it
great fun to add to our little library so charming and tiny a pamphlet
as, for instance, _The History of Ann Lively and her Bible_, which was
sold in 1830 for one half cent, and issued in New York in a somewhat
proselyting manner by the American Tract Society. It was a red-letter
day in our lives if we could find some curious example to flaunt before
the amused face of Uncle Moses. But the occasion was rare, indeed, when
we found a book which he did not already own.
It was many years ago that I took Uncle Moses’ tip to start collecting
early American children’s books. Hence I am some leagues ahead of
those who got a later start. Many collectors are only now beginning
to rub their eyes and to wake up to the fascination which these tiny
volumes offer to book lovers. Early American juveniles are unusually
interesting for several reasons. To begin with, they give such naïve
samples of the mental food our poor ancestors lived upon in the dim
days of their childhood.
Take, for instance, a small volume published in 1738 by Samuel
Phillips, called _History of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,
Epitomized; for the Use of Children in the South Parish at Andover_.
The author says that “his great Lord and Master had commanded his
Ministers to feed his Lambs as well as his Sheep.” But what anæmic
feeding! He sets before his particular lambs sixty pages of the
most indigestible food ever concocted, consisting of questions on
and answers to the most abstruse metaphysical, philosophical, and
controversial subjects! Subjects which are no nearer solution to-day
than when the Rev. Samuel Phillips propounded them for the benefit
of his bewildered little lambs of Andover Parish one hundred and
eighty-nine years ago!