a renewal of the BOOK THEME: but rather, I should hope, as connected with
those Bibliographers, Booksellers, and Printers, who have for so many years
shed a sort of lustre upon _Parisian Literature_. It will therefore be no
unappropriate continuation of this subject, if I commence by furnishing you
with some particulars respecting a Bibliographer who was considered, in his
life time, as the terror of his acquaintance, and the pride of his patron:
and who seems to have never walked abroad, or sat at home, without a
scourge in one hand, and a looking-glass in the other. Droll combination!--
you will exclaim. But it is of the ABBÉ RIVE of whom I now speak; the very
_Ajax flagellifer_ of the bibliographical tribe, and at the same time the
vainest and most self-sufficient. He seems, amidst all the controversy in
which he delighted to be involved, to have always had _one_ never-failing
source of consolation left:--that of seeing himself favourably reflected--
from the recollection of his past performances--in the mirror of his own
conceit! I have before[121] descanted somewhat upon probably the most
splendid of his projected performances, and now hasten to a more particular
account of the man himself.
It was early one morning--before I had even commenced my breakfast--that a
stranger was announced to me. And who, think you, should that stranger turn
out to be? Nothing less than the _Nephew_ of the late Abbé Rive. His name
was MORENAS. His countenance was somewhat like that which Sir Thomas More
describes the hero of his Utopia to have had. It was hard, swarthy, and
severe. He seemed in every respect to be "a travelled man." But his manners
and voice were mild and conciliating. "Some one had told him that I had
written about the Abbé Rive, and that I was partial to his work. Would I do
him the favour of a visit? when I might see, at his house, (_Rue du Vieux
Colombier, près St. Sulpice_) the whole of the Abbé's MSS. and all his
projected works for the press. They were for sale. Possibly I might wish to
possess them?" I thanked the stranger for his intelligence, and promised I
would call that same morning.
M. Morenas has been indeed a great traveller. When I called, I found him
living up two pair of stairs, preparing for another voyage to Senegal. He
was surrounded by _trunks_ ... in which were deposited the literary remains
of his uncle. In other words, these remains consisted of innumerable
_cards_, closely packed, upon which the Abbé had written all his memoranda
relating to ... I scarcely know what. But the whole, from the nephew's
statement, seemed to be an encyclopædia of knowledge. In one trunk, were
about _six thousand_ notices of MSS. of all ages; and of editions in the
fifteenth century. In another trunk, were wedged about _twelve thousand_
descriptions of books in all languages, except those of French and Italian,
from the sixteenth century to his own period: these were professed to be
accompanied with critical notes. In a third trunk was a bundle of papers
relating to the _History of the Troubadours_; in a fourth, was a collection
of memoranda and literary sketches, connected with the invention of Arts
and Sciences, with Antiquities, Dictionaries, and pieces exclusively
bibliographical. A fifth trunk contained between _two and three thousand_
cards, written upon on each side, respecting a collection of prints;
describing the ranks, degrees, and dignities of all nations--of which
eleven folio _cahiers_ were published, in 1779--without the letter-press--
but in a manner to make the Abbé extremely dissatisfied with the engraver.
In a sixth trunk were contained his papers respecting earthquakes,
volcanoes, and geographical subjects: so that, you see, the Abbé Rive at
least fancied himself a man of tolerably universal attainments. It was of
course impossible to calculate the number, or to appreciate the merits, of
such a multifarious collection; but on asking M. Morenas if he had made up
his mind respecting the _price_ to be put upon it, he answered, that he
thought he might safely demand 6000 francs for such a body of miscellaneous
information. I told him that this was a sum much beyond my means to
adventure; but that it was at least an object worthy of the consideration
of the "higher powers" of his own government. He replied, that he had
little hopes of success in those quarters: that he was anxious to resume
his travels; talked of another trip to Senegal; for that, after so
locomotive a life, a sedentary one was wearisome to him....
... "trahit sua quemque voluptas!"
Over the chimney-piece was a portrait, in pencil, of his late uncle: done
from the life. It was the only one extant. It struck me indeed as
singularly indicative of the keen, lively, penetrating talents of the
original. On the back of the portrait were the lines which are here
subjoined:
_Dès sa plus tendre enfance aux études livré,
La soif de la science l'a toujours dévoré.
Une immense lecture enrichit ses écrits,
Et la critique sure en augmente le prix._
These lines are copied from the _Journal des Savans_ for October 1779. Iean
Joseph Rive was born at Apt, in 1730, and died at Marseilles in 1791. He
had doubtless great parts, natural and acquired: a retentive memory, a
quick perception, and a vast and varied reading. He probably commenced
amassing his literary treasures as early as his fourteenth year; and to his
latest breath he pursued his researches with unabated ardour. But his
career was embittered by broils and controversies; while the frequent acts
of kindness, and the general warmth of heart, evinced in his conduct,
hardly sufficed to soften the asperity, or to mitigate the wrath, of a host
of enemies--which assailed him to the very last. But Cadmus-like, he sowed
the seeds from which these combatants sprung. Whatever were his defects, as
a public character, he is said to have been, in private, a kind parent, a
warm friend, and an excellent master. The only servant which he ever had,
and who remained with him twenty-four years, mourned his loss as that of a
father. Peace to his ashes!
From bibliography let me gently, and naturally, as it were, conduct you
towards BIBLIOPOLISM. In other words, allow me to give you a sketch of a
few of the principal Booksellers in this gay metropolis; who strive, by the
sale of instructive and curious tomes, sometimes printed in the black
letter of _Gourmont_ and _Marnef_, to stem the torrent of those trivial or
mischievous productions which swarm about the avenues of the Palais Royal.
In ancient times, the neighbourhood of the SORBONNE was the great mart for
books. When I dined in this neighbourhood, with my friend M. Gail, the
Greek Professor at the College Royale, I took an opportunity of leisurely
examining this once renowned quarter. I felt even proud and happy to walk
the streets, or rather tread the earth, which had been once trodden by
_Gering_, _Crantz_, and _Fiburger_.[122] Their spirits seemed yet to haunt
the spot:--but no volume, nor even traces of one--executed at their press--
could be discovered. To have found a perfect copy of _Terence_, printed in
their first Roman character, would have been a _trouvaille_ sufficiently
lucky to have compensated for all previous toil, and to have franked me as
far as Strasbourg.
The principal mart for booksellers, of old and second hand books, is now
nearer the Seine; and especially in the _Quai des Augustins_. _Messrs.
Treuttel and Würtz, Panckoucke, Renouard_, and _Brunet_, live within a
quarter of a mile of each other: about a couple of hundred yards from the
_Quai des Augustins_. Further to the south, and not far from the Hotel de
Clugny, in the _Rue Serpente_, live the celebrated DEBURE. They are
booksellers to the King, and to the Royal Library; and a more respectable
house, or a more ancient firm, is probably not to be found in Europe.
Messrs. Debure are as straight-forward, obliging, and correct, in their
transactions, as they are knowing in the value, and upright in the sale, of
their stock in trade. No bookseller in Paris possesses a more judicious
stock, or can point to so many rare and curious books. A young collector
may rely with perfect safety upon them; and accumulate, for a few hundred
pounds, a very respectable stock of _Editiones principes_ or _rarissimæ_. I
do not say that such young collector would find them _cheaper there_, or
_so cheap_ as in _Pall-Mall_; but I do say that he may rest assured that
Messieurs Debure would never, knowingly, sell him an imperfect book. Of the
Debure, there are two brothers: of whom the elder hath a most gallant
propensity to _portrait-collecting_--and is even rich in portraits relating
to _our_ history. Of course the chief strength lies in French history; and
I should think that Monsieur Debure l'ainé shewed me almost as many
portraits of Louis XIV. as there are editions of the various works of
Cicero in the fifteenth century.[123] But my attention was more
particularly directed to a certain boudoir, up one pair of stairs, in which
Madame Debure, their venerable and excellent mother, chooses to deposit
some few very choice copies of works in almost every department of
knowledge. There was about _one_ of the _best_ editions in each department:
and whether it were the Bible, or the History of the Bucaineers--whether a
lyrical poet of the reign of Louis XIV. or the ballad metres of that of
François Premier ... there you found it!--bound by Padaloup, or Deseuille,
or De Rome. What think you, among these "choice copies," of the _Cancionero
Generale_ printed at Toledo in 1527, in the black letter, double columned,
in folio? Enough to madden even our poet-laureat--for life! I should add,
that these books are not thus carefully kept together for the sake of
_shew_: for their owner is a fair good linguist, and can read the Spanish
with tolerable fluency. Long may she yet read it.[124]
The Debure had the selling, by auction, of the far-famed M'CARTHY LIBRARY;
and I saw upon their shelves some of the remains of that splendid
membranaceous collection. Indeed I bought several desirable specimens of
it: among them, a fine copy of _Vindelin de Spira's_ edition (1471) of _St.
Cyprians Epistles_, UPON VELLUM.[125] Like their leading brethren in the
neighbourhood, Messieurs Debure keep their country house, and there pass
the Sabbath.
The house of TREUTTEL and WURTZ is one of the richest and one of the most
respectable in Europe. The commerce of that House is chiefly in the
wholesale way; and they are, in particular, the publishers and proprietors
of all the great classical works put forth at _Strasbourg_. Indeed, it was
at this latter place where the family first took root: but the branches of
their prosperity have spread to Paris and to London with nearly equal
luxuriance. They have a noble house in the _Rue de Bourbon_, no. 17: like
unto an hotel; where each day's post brings them despatches from the chief
towns in Europe. Their business is regulated with care, civility, and
dispatch; and their manners are at once courteous and frank. Nothing would
satisfy them but I must spend a Sabbath with them, at their country house
at _Groslai_; hard by the village and vale of Montmorenci. I assented
willingly. On the following Sunday, their capacious family coach, and pair
of sleek, round, fat black horses, arrived at my lodgings by ten o'clock;
and an hour and three quarters brought me to Groslai. The cherries were
ripe, and the trees were well laden with fruit: for Montmorenci cherries,
as you may have heard, are proverbial for their excellence. I spent a very
agreeable day with mine hosts. Their house is large and pleasantly
situated, and the view of Paris from thence is rather picturesque. But I
was most struck with the conversation and conduct of Madame Treuttel. She
is a thoroughly good woman. She has raised, at her own expense, an
alms-house in the village for twelve poor men; and built a national school
for the instruction of the poor and ignorant of both sexes. She is herself
a Lutheran Protestant; as are her husband and her son-in-law M. Würtz. At
first, she had some difficulties to encounter respecting the _school_; and
sundry conferences with the village Curé, and some of the head clergy of
Paris, were in consequence held. At length all difficulties were surmounted
by the promise given, on the part of Madame Treuttel, to introduce only the
French version of the Bible by _De Sacy_. Hence the school was built, and
the children of the village flocked in numbers to it for instruction. I
visited both the alms-house and the school, and could not withhold my
tribute of hearty commendation at the generosity, and thoroughly Christian
spirit, of the foundress of such establishments. There is more good sense
and more private and public virtue, in the application of superfluous
wealth in this manner, than in the erection of a hundred palaces like that
at _Versailles!_[126]
A different, and a more touching object presented itself to my view in the
garden. Walking with Madame, we came, through various détours, into a
retired and wooded part: where, on opening a sort of wicket gate, I found
myself in a small square space, with hillocks in the shape of _tumuli_
before me. A bench was at the extremity. It was a resting place for the
living, and a depository of the dead. Flowers, now a good deal faded, were
growing upon these little mounds--beneath which the dead seemed to sleep in
peace. "What might this mean?" "Sir," replied Madame Treuttel, "this is
consecrated ground. My son-in-law sleeps here--and his only and beloved
child lies by the side of him. You will meet my daughter, his wife, at
dinner. She, with myself, visit this spot at stated seasons--when we renew
and indulge our sorrows on the recollection of those who sleep beneath.
These are losses which the world can never repair. We all mean to be
interred within the same little fenced space.[127] I have obtained a long
lease of it--for some fifty years: at the expiration of which time, the
work of dissolution will be sufficiently complete with us all." So spake my
amiable and enlightened guide. The remainder of the day--during which we
took a stroll to Montmorenci, and saw the house and gardens where Rousseau
wrote his _Emile_--was spent in a mixed but not irrational manner: much
accordant with my own feelings, and most congenial with a languid state of
body which had endured the heats of Paris for a month, without feeling
scarcely a breath of air the whole time.
ANTOINE-AUGUSTIN RENOUARD, living in the _Rue St. André des Arts_, is the
next bibliopolist whom I shall introduce to your attention. He is among the
most lynx-eyed of his fraternity: has a great knowledge of books; a
delightful ALDINE LIBRARY;[128]--from which his Annals of the Aldine Press
were chiefly composed--and is withal a man in a great and successful line
of business. I should say he is a rich man; not because he has five hundred
bottles of Burgundy in his cellar, which some may think to be of a more
piquant quality than the like number of his _Alduses_--but because he has
published some very beautiful and expensive editions of the Latin and
French Classics, with equal credit to himself and advantage to his
finances.[129] He _debuted_ with a fine edition of _Lucan_ in 1795, folio;
and the first catalogue of his books was put forth the following year. From
that moment to the present, he has never slackened head, hand, or foot, in
the prosecution of his business; while the publication of his _Annals of
the Aldine Press_ places him among the most skilful and most instructive
booksellers in Europe. It is indeed a masterly performance: and as useful
as it is elegantly printed.[130] M. Renouard is now occupied in an improved
edition of _Voltaire_, which he means to adorn with engravings; and of
which he shewed me the original drawings by Moreau, with many of the
plates.[131] He seems in high spirits about the success of it, and leans
with confidence upon the strength of a host of subscribers. Nor does a
rival edition, just struggling into day, cause him to entertain less
sanguine expectations of final success. This enterprising bookseller is now
also busily occupied about a _Descriptive Catalogue of his own library_, in
which he means to indulge himself in sundry gossipping notes, critical
disquisitions, and piquant anecdotes. I look forward with pleasure to its
appearance; and turn a deaf ear to the whispers which have reached me of an
intended _brush_ at the Decameron.[132]
M. Renouard has allowed me free access to his library; which also contains
some very beautiful copies of books printed in the fifteenth century. Among
these latter, his VELLUM VALDARFER is of course considered, by himself and
his friends, as the _keimelion_ of the collection. It is the edition of the
_Orations of Cicero_, printed by Valdarfer, at Venice, in 1471, folio: a
most exquisite book--which may be fairly considered as perfect throughout.
It is in its second binding, but _that_ may be as old as the time of
Francis I.: perhaps about the middle of the sixteenth century. This copy
measures thirteen inches in height, by eight inches and seven-eighths in
width:--almost, I conceive, in its original state of amplitude. I will
frankly own that I turned over the leaves of this precious book, again and
again--"sighed and looked, &c." "But would no price tempt the owner to part
with it?" "None. It is reserved as the bijou of my catalogue, and departs
not from hence." Severe, but just decree! There is only one other known
copy of it upon vellum, which is in the Royal Library[133]--but which wants
a leaf of the table; an imperfection, not belonging to the present copy.
The other "great guns," as VELLUM BOOKS, in the collection of M. Renouard,
are what is called the _Familiar Epistles of Cicero_ printed by _Aldus_ in
1502, 12mo: and the _Petrarch_ of 1514, 8vo. also printed by Aldus. Of
these, the _latter_ is by much the preferable volume. It is almost as large
as it can well be: but badly bound in red morocco.[134] The Cicero is short
and sallow-looking. It was on the occasion of his son starting for the
first time on a bibliographical tour, and, on crossing the Rhine, and
finding this Cicero and the almost equally rare _Aldine Virgil_ of 1505,
that a relation of this "fortunate youth" invoked his muse in some few
verses, which he printed and gave to me.[135] These are little
"plaisanteries" which give a relish to our favourite pursuits; and which
may at some future day make the son transcend the father in bibliographical
renown. Perhaps the father has already preferred a prayer upon the subject,
as thus:
[Greek: Zeu, alloi te Theoi, dote dê kai tonde genesthai
Paid emon ôs kai egô per, ....]
There are some few noble volumes, from the press of _Sweynheym and
Pannartz_, in this collection; and the finest copy of the FIRST LUCIAN in
Greek, which perhaps any where exists.[136] It was obtained at a recent
sale, (where it was coated in a lapping-over vellum surtout) at a pretty
smart price; and has been recently clothed in blue morocco. M. Renouard has
also some beautiful copies from the library of _De Thou_, and a partly
uncut _Aldine Theophrastus_ of 1497, which belonged to Henry the Second and
Diane de Poictiers; as well as a completely uncut copy of the first _Aldine
Aristotle_.[137] Few men probably have been luckier in obtaining several of
their choice articles; and the little anecdotes which he related to me, are
such as I make no doubt will appear in the projected catalogue raisonné of
his library. He is just now briskly engaged in the pursuit of _uncut
Elzevirs_ ... and coming to breakfast with me, the other morning, he must
needs pick up a beautiful copy of this kind, in two small volumes, neatly
half bound, (of which I have forgotten the title,) and of which he had been
for some time in the pursuit. M. Renouard also took occasion to tell me
that, in his way to my chambers, he had sold, or subscribed, of a
forthcoming work to be published by him--just _nine hundred and ninety-nine
copies!_ Of course, after such a _trouvaille_ and such a subscription, he
relished his breakfast exceedingly. He is a man of quick movements, of
acute perceptions, of unremitting ardour and activity of mind and body--
constantly engaged in his business, managing a very extensive
correspondence, and personally known to the most distinguished Collectors
of Italy. Like his neighbours, he has his country-house, or rather farm, in
Picardy[138] whither he retires, occasionally to view the condition and
growing strength of that species of animal, from the backs of which his
beloved Aldus of old, obtained the _matériel_ for his vellum copies. But it
is time to wish M. Renouard a good morning, and to take you with me to his
neighbour--
MONS. BRUNET, THE YOUNGER. This distinguished bibliographer, rather than
bookseller, lives hard by--in the _Rue Gît-Le-Coeur_. He lives with his
father, who superintends the business of the shop. The Rue Gît-Le-Coeur is
a sorry street--very diminutive, and a sort of cropt copy--to what it
should have been, or what it might have been. However, there lives JACQ.
CH. BRUNET, FILS: a writer, who will be known to the latest times in the
bibliographical world. He will be also thanked as well as known; for his
_Manuel du Libraire_ is a performance of incomparable utility to all
classes of readers and collectors. You mount up one pair of stairs:--the
way is gloomy, and might well lead to a chamber in the monastery of La
Trappe. You then read an incription, which tells you that "in turning the
button you pull the bell." The bell sounds, and _Mons. Brunet, Pere_,
receives you--with, or without, a silken cap upon his head. He sits in a
small room, sufficiently well filled with books. "Is the Son at home?"
"Open that door, Sir, you will find him in the next room." The door is
immediately opened--and there sits the son, surrounded by, and almost
imprisoned in, papers and books. His pen is in his hand: his spectacles are
upon his nose: and he is transcribing or re-casting some precious little
bit of bibliographical intelligence; while, on looking up and receiving
you, he seems to be "full of the labouring God!" In short, he is just now
deeply and unintermittingly engaged in a new and _third_ edition of his
_Manuel_.[139] The shelves of his room almost groan beneath the weight of
those writers from whom he gathers his principal materials. "Vous voilà,
Mons. Brunet, bien occupé!;" "Oui, Monsieur, cela me fait autant de plaisir
que de peine."
This is a very picture of the man.... "The labour we delight in physics
pain,"--said Lady Macbeth of old; and of a most extraordinary kind must the
labour of Mons. Brunet be considered, when the pleasure in the prosecution
of it balances the pain. We talked much and variously at our first
interview: having previously interchanged many civilities by letter, and
myself having been benefitted by such correspondence, in the possession of
a _large paper_ copy of his first edition--of which he was pleased to make
me a present, and of which only twenty copies were struck off. I told him
that I had given Charles Lewis a carte blanche for its binding, and that I
would back _his_ skill--the result of such an order--against any binding at
that time visible in any quarter of Paris! Mons. B. could not, in his
heart, have considered any other binding superior.