Read Ebook: The Book-Hunter at Home by Allan P B M Philip Bertram Murray

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Ebook has 615 lines and 102183 words, and 13 pages

London, however, has always been the centre of book production in this country, and it is there that any existing copies of these forgotten books are most likely to re-appear. Was not a priceless manuscript, a Household Book of the Black Prince, discovered only a few years ago in the office of a city lawyer? Once, in the course of his rambles by the bookstalls of the Farringdon Road, our book-hunter caught a glimpse of an old box almost covered by books and prints on one of the stalls. Being unearthed, it proved to be a veritable gem of a trunk, about two feet by one, and nine inches deep. It had a convex lid, and was covered with shaggy horsehide, bound with heavily studded leather. The proprietor stated that he had found it in a cellar, full of old books, most of which had already been sold ; and he was amused to think that any one could be so foolish as to offer him two shillings for such a dirty old box. However, it was carried home in triumph, regardless of the great interest shown by fellow-travellers in the train. A year or two ago the same vender produced a similar trunk, rather larger, which was full of ancient deeds relating to property in Clerkenwell. These he sold for a shilling or two shillings apiece, according to size and seals. The box was larger than our bookman wanted, but apparently it soon found a purchaser.

Surely such instances must be common in this great city, and many a trunk must yet linger in cellars and attics in the old parts of the town. Not many years ago our book-hunter chanced to visit an ancient house at the end of a small court off Fleet Street. Inside, it seemed to be entirely lined with oak planking, and it was occupied, or at least that part into which he penetrated was, by a printer in a small way of business. The staircase was magnificent, of massive coal-black oak; and when our book-hunter remarked upon it, the printer informed him he had discovered that the house had once been the town residence of a famous bishop of Tudor times. How the occupant discovered this fact our bookman does not remember; possibly the house is well known to antiquaries, and the occupier may have read about it or have been told by the previous tenant. But it is also within the bounds of possibility that he unearthed some deed or papers relating to the premises. It is strange, too, that one of the few letters of this bishop which have been preserved refers to books. 'Ye promised unto me, long agone,' he writes to Secretary Cromwell, 'the Triumphes of Petrarche in the Ytalion tonge. I hartely pray you at this tyme by this beyrer, . . . to sende me the said Boke with some other at your deuotion; and especially, if it please you, the boke called Cortigiano in Ytalion.'

There must be many such houses still extant in London, and who knows what there may be in their long-disused attics? Hidden away in the darkness beneath their tiles, between joists and under the eaves, it is possible that books till now unknown to us, by sight at least, may still exist. Or who has explored the lumber accumulated in many a disused cellar within a quarter of a mile of the Mansion House? The very existence of the trunks which we have mentioned proves that such things do still linger in the nooks and crannies of this great city.

And I would not confine my surmise in this direction to London alone. Two ancient libraries there are, one in the North Countrie, the other in the West, that to my certain knowledge have never been explored by modern bibliographer. The latter is spurned and neglected, the books are deep in dust and even mildew; the former is also neglected, but at least the house is inhabited. The owner, an old, old woman, will never permit of any volume being disturbed. It is said that her father collected the books many years ago, and that she still guards them jealously for him.

Perhaps one day a copy of the 'Nigramansir' will emerge from its long sleep in some such house as these. Indeed, it is not so much a matter of surprise that such books should have disappeared, as that they should have remained hidden for so long. In 1909 an ancient volume was accidentally discovered in an old manor-house in the North of England, where it had lain undisturbed for generations. It proved to consist of no less than five of Caxton's publications bound up together. Moreover, it was in the original binding, and was bound, probably, by one of Caxton's workmen, whose initials it bore. On being put up for sale at Sotheby's, it changed hands at ?2,600.

It is difficult to portray in words the sensations of the book-collector when engaged in searching some ancient building or library--especially if he be upon a 'hot scent.' The thrills that he experiences as he handles some rich volume that has lain hid for years, the delicious excitement that pervades him while exploring some huge charter chest or ancient oaken press, these are feelings not to be described in words. 'It was discovered in the library at such and such a place,' we read, and we barely stop to picture the scene of its finding or to imagine the sensations of its finder. The very finding at Syon by 'Master Richard Sutton, Esq.,' of the manuscript containing the 'revelacions' of St. Katherin of Siena, from which de Worde printed his edition, conjures up a whole romance in itself; yet in his eulogy of the work Wynkyn dismisses the matter briefly, merely stating that it was found 'in a corner by itself.' 'We were shipwrecked,' says the mariner, relating his adventures; and in those three words what a world of incident and sensations is comprised!

That decided our friend. He would collect Elzeviers. Moreover, he would continue to collect them until he had acquired both the 'Pastissier Fran?ois' and the 1635 'Caesar.' Such was the confidence of youth! So he sallied forth straight away, determined to ransack the nooks and corners of certain shops of his acquaintance.

The little 'Pastissier' is a far more interesting volume than the 'Caesar.' The latter is a dainty book, beautifully printed upon fine paper, with folding maps and plans of castramentation. The 'Pastissier,' on the other hand, is a disappointing little book in appearance, for it is but indifferently printed upon poor paper. It cannot even claim the merit of originality, being merely a pirated reprint of a volume that appeared in Paris some two years previously. But it is very, very rare, and it has been celebrated by many distinguished pens.

'"Monsieur," said I, "pray forgive me if my question seems impertinent, but are you extremely fond of eggs?"'

Such were the words with which Alexandre Dumas first addressed Charles Nodier, the famous dramatist and bibliophile, whom he found sitting next to him at the Th??tre Porte-Saint-Martin. Dumas' curiosity as to the little volume that was engrossing his neighbour's attention more than the play was at length allayed, and it was a view of the title-page that prompted his unusual question. Looking over his neighbour's shoulder, he read, opposite the engraved frontispiece, as follows:--

But Nodier was far from being the gourmet that Dumas supposed him to be. He was merely a bookhunter devouring a rare 'find'; and the little book, he explained to Dumas, was one of those tiny volumes published in the seventeenth century by the house of the Elzeviers at Leyden and Amsterdam; and of all the many productions of that press, this was the most sought for by collectors.

Elzeviers, however, are no longer fashionable, in this country at least. The Caesar might possibly bring five pounds if it came to the notice of an Elzevier specialist, but I doubt it. Only the Pastissier has retained its exalted price, probably on account of its notoriety. A copy, in modern calf binding, sold recently at Sotheby's for so much as ?130; but Lord Vernon's copy, choicely bound by Cap?, realised only ?70 at the Sudbury sale in June 1918. However, it was a poor copy and much cut down.

Railway-trains, among other things, have killed Elzeviers. Nothing could be more convenient for saddle-bag or knapsack, or the restricted luggage which one could stow in the boot of a coach. But who makes a practice nowadays of putting books into his suit-case or gladstone-bag? Besides, before the advent of railways, there was not the same facility for distributing books, and one might travel many leagues and visit many villages without coming to a place where there would be a bookshop. In travelling nowadays one is continually in the presence of cheap books.

The fate of the little Pastissier was probably that of many popular books. There must have been thousands of copies of it printed. Dumas, in that delightful chapter of 'Mes M?moires' which we have just quoted, makes Nodier say, 'Techener declares that there were five thousand five hundred copies issued, and I maintain that there were more than ten thousand printed'; and he goes on to declare that 'there are probably only ten examples of it left in Europe.' Willems, however, in his bibliography of the Elzeviers published in 1880, enumerates some thirty copies, and states that the highest price yet paid for the Pastissier was 10,000 francs. But that was for a quite exceptional copy. From 4,500 francs to 5,500 francs seems to have been the average value of the book in Willems' time, and, enthusiast as he is, he hesitates not to describe it as a 'bouquin insignifiant et m?diocrement imprim?.'

Its scarcity at the present day is, perhaps, not surprising; for, from the very nature of its contents, its habitat must always have been the kitchen rather than the library. How long would such a tiny volume, with its 130 thin paper leaves, bear the rough and greasy handling of chefs and 'pastissiers'? Book-shelves are rare in kitchens, and the little book must have been continually moved from pillar to post. Besides, it is unlikely that copies for kitchen use would be strongly bound in morocco. The very printing and paper of the book sufficiently indicate the use to which its producers at least expected it to be put. So the little 'French pastrycook' gradually disappeared. Those for whose benefit it had been written would soon learn its secrets by heart and confide them verbally to their apprentices; and it would not be long ere the tattered and greasy booklet found its way into the dustbin.

Numbers, also, must have found their way to France. Some years ago our book-hunter happened to stay at an ancient hostel in Rouen. From the outside the building was everything that could possibly be desired by bibliophile or antiquary. It was situated in one of those quaint narrow back streets that lead towards the Place Henri Quatre; and the courtyard was so small as scarcely to allow a baker's cart to turn round in it. Like many of the houses in this ancient town, its crookedness was such that it seemed impossible for it to remain standing much longer. Misgivings arose within him as he ascended the staircase, which seemed to sway as he avoided the broken treads. But the sight of the bedroom he was to occupy, furnished with such furniture and such a bed, all spotlessly clean and polished, sent him into the seventh heaven of delight. Here he could read and write undisturbed for as long as he chose to stay. Surely pleasant surprises must be in store for one in every way in such surroundings as these!

It was not long before he got one.

'Will Monsieur require anything to be cooked for him to-night?' inquired the trim hostess.

It was rather late and our bookman was disinclined to seek a restaurant. Besides, he was anxious to explore his lodging before it got too dark. An omelette would be delicious, provided she could make one properly.

'Eggs, perhaps, and tea, with bread and butter'--could she turn the eggs into an omelette?

To say that our book-hunter started would be to put it mildly. A certain title-page instantly rose before his eyes. There was only one way in which anybody could possibly learn to cook eggs in sixty different ways, and that was by studying the 'Pastissier Fran?ois.' Without the slightest doubt the hostess possessed a copy, and he was at last to look upon the tiny volume that he had sought for so long. But as she seemed so proud of her achievement, could she be induced to part with the precious tome? These and many other kindred thoughts passed rapidly through his mind as he repeated slowly 'en plus de soixante fa?ons?'

He had difficulty in controlling his voice sufficiently to inquire what her book was.

Ah, as usual it would be soiled, perhaps badly, for it was evidently still in constant use; but so long as it were complete one might possibly be able to clean it. What delightful thoughts and anticipations passed through his mind as the hostess slowly descended the rickety stairs to fetch her treasure! At last he had found it, and just in the very sort of house and town where he had always expected to come across it. Well, well, if you make up your mind to have a thing and search eagerly enough for it, you are bound to obtain it in the long run.

Then another thought entered his mind: how much should he offer her for it? Probably she would not part with it unless he named a sum which she could not resist; yet if the sum were at all large she might suspect the book's value and refuse. Ten francs, twenty-five, a hundred? While he was deliberating this important point she was ascending the stairs. Should he turn his back to her, shut his eyes, and tell her to place the volume on the middle of the table, then suddenly turn about and gloat upon the little treasure?

Before he could make up his mind she came in and he got his second surprise that day. It was not as pleasant as the first, for in her hands she held a thick octavo volume bound in shiny black leather. Heavens! . . . a large-paper copy? . . . No, no, impossible. . . .

'Le voici, m'sieu.'

Our poor book-hunter's feelings almost overcame him, and he opened the dirty manuscript volume mechanically, feebly muttering 'tr?s int?ressant.' She watched him closely, and from that moment considered him slightly mad. However, the book certainly did contain sixty-two recipes for cooking eggs as well as receipts for making fancy pastry and cakes. Whether it was copied out of the 'Pastissier' I know not; but certain it is that the hostess had no knowledge of, nor had ever seen, that volume.

There must be many book-treasures lying hid in all these ancient towns of Northern France, towns also that lie far off the restless tourist's track, small country towns in which the majority of the houses are slipshod timbered relics of a bygone age. No striking or unusual feature can they offer to the curious, and so for the most part they are dismissed in brief by the guide book. Yet there is many an aged building in Brittany where old books do still lie hid, as our bookman knows from the library of a friend who lives in Finisterre. St. Brieuc, Guingamp, Morlaix, Quimper, even Brest, all these must harbour long-forgotten books.

But there are other towns which no power on earth shall force our book-hunter to disclose. One there is far off the beaten track, where the houses, painted with bright colours, lean all askew, supporting each other and sometimes almost toppling across the narrow winding streets. So that, entering it, one seems to have stepped suddenly into some such fairy town as exists in the pages of Grimm or Hans Andersen; and, half ashamed, one peers curiously at the dwellers in this goblin town, as though expecting to find that they have pointed ears and narrow elfin feet. They never seem to move about, and, sitting at almost every doorstep, watch one intently from weird nooks and crannies. Hurry and bustle are here unknown, and though they will reply to you in the best of French, yet to each other the townsfolk speak a strange and uncouth tongue.

Once, rambling in the narrow alleys about the ancient church, our book-hunter ventured through a gothic doorway along a broad passage that was guarded by a huge and ancient iron grille and presently he found himself in a small courtyard paved with moss-grown cobbles. About it was a timbered gallery, roofed, once doubtless level, now gently and gracefully undulating so that it seemed about to fall from off the wall to which it was attached. But the walls had also subsided with the gallery, so that the whole still showed a symmetry that was pleasing to the eye. Above the gallery and across the front of the building had been painted the legend HOTEL DU LION D'OR, and a dim weatherbeaten shield above the doorway still bore the trace of a rampant lion. It seemed a large building, judging by the number of its windows, far larger than its present-day custom could possibly warrant.

Yes, it was very old, and madame had been born in it; but now that she was left alone with Jeanne it was very lonely, and there was little custom. Did they have many travellers there? Oh no, not for a long time, the house was not easy to find, and as the old customers died none came to fill their places. But sometimes Messieurs So and So came in of an evening and took a 'petit verre,' and then the neighbours were very friendly, so it was not so bad.

So the hostess prattled on, only too pleased to impart the news of her little world to a newcomer from the greater one, while all the time fantastic visions rose before him. He pictured old hide-bound trunks that had been left behind by travellers who had never returned, trunks which, opened, would prove to contain priceless black-letter books: boxes, stored in attics and cellars and in concealed presses, which would contain ancient apparel with copies of the 'Pastissier' in the pockets: small travelling bags, tendered by needy scholars in lieu of payment, which he would find stuffed with rare Elzeviers: rusty iron-bound chests enclosing missals, books of hours and antiphonals: in short to such heights did his imagination soar that he resolved to sojourn there till he had explored the old house from attic to cellar.

That decided our book-hunter. Enthusiasm can be carried too far. Even the possibilities of a rich trover would not compensate for having rats running about one's bed at night. Moreover the vermin would surely have gnawed, if not devoured, any copies of the 'Pastissier' that might have been lying about, even if these were innocent of bacon-grease stains. And so consoling himself, he took another 'petit verre' and departed, casting more than one regretful glance backwards at the old Lion d'Or.

FOOTNOTES:

Since writing the above, the author has secured the splendid presentation copy given by Upton's editor to the great Parliamentary leader, Sir Humphrey Mackworth, of Neath, in Glamorganshire. It had remained at Glen Uske until the dispersal of the Mackworth Library in 1920.

No. 16096. See page 164.

The perfect copy was purchased by Mr. Pierpont Morgan at the sale of the Hoe Library, in 1911, for ?8,560. It formed originally one of the twenty-two Caxtons which were dispersed in 1698 with the library of Dr. Francis Bernard, Physician to King James the Second, when it realised two and tenpence! It became the property of the great Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, and was acquired later by the Countess of Jersey for two and a half guineas. Passing thus into the Osterley Park collection, it was purchased, when that library was sold in 1885, by Bernard Quaritch for ?1,950, becoming the property, the same year, of Mrs. Abby E. Pope, of Brooklyn, U.S.A.

Mr. E. G. Duff.

Alas for romance! Truth compels me to add that as the Great Fire swept across this very court, the existing house must date at earliest from King Charles' reign. But the site and tradition as to its former owner may well be true.

At the sale of Baron Seilli?re's books in 1887, a copy of this prototype of the Elzevier volume, printed at Paris 'chez Jean Gaillard,' 1653, brought only ?6, 10s. It was described as 'a beautiful copy, red morocco, super extra, gilt edges, by Petit.' It is exceedingly rare, but--it is not an Elzevier.

A recent catalogue offers a copy for thirty-five shillings.

I confess that I do, but then I am hopelessly out of date, or I shouldn't be fond of Elzeviers.

THE LIBRARY

'Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes: Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he findes, He to his studie goes.'--SPENSER.

WHAT magic there is for the book-lover in that word 'library'! Does it not instantly conjure up a vision of happy solitude, a peaceful seclusion where we may lie hidden from our fellow-creatures, an absence of idle chatter to distract our thoughts, and countless books about us on either hand? No man with any pretensions to learning can possibly fail to be impressed when he enters an ancient library, older perhaps by generations than the art of printing itself.

'With awe, around these silent walks I tread, These are the lasting mansions of the dead: "The dead!" methinks a thousand tongues reply, "These are the tombs of such as cannot die!" Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time.'

They are delicious retreats, abodes of seasoned thought and peaceful meditation, these ancient homes of books. 'I no sooner come into the library,' wrote Heinz, that great literary counsellor of the Elzeviers, 'than I bolt the door, excluding Lust, Ambition, Avarice, and all such vices, whose nurse is Idleness, the mother of Ignorance and Melancholy. In the very lap of Eternity, among so many divine souls, I take my seat with so lofty a spirit and sweet content, that I pity all great men and rich to whom this happiness is unknown.'

Happy indeed are those days when the book-lover has been accorded the freedom of some ancient library. A delicious feeling of tranquillity pervades him as he selects some nook and settles himself to read. Presently the mood takes him to explore, and he wanders about from case to case, now taking down some plump folio and glancing at the title-page and type, now counting the engravings of another and collating it in his mind, now comparing the condition of a third with the copy which he has at home, now searching through the text of some small duodecimo to see whether it contains the usual blanks or colophon. But presently he will chance upon some tome whose appeal is irresistible. So he retires with it to his nook, and is soon absorbed once more with that tranquillity which is better than great riches.

Dearly, however, though we may treasure the benefits and conveniences which these libraries of ancient foundation afford, for most of us there is another library that is nearer to our hearts; that cosy chamber with which we are accustomed to associate warmth, comfort, soft chairs and footrests, a wide writing-table that we may pile high with books, with scribbling-paper, foolscap and marking-slips in plenty. In short, a room so far removed from earthly cares and noise, that the dim occasional sounds of the outside world serve but to accentuate our absolute possession of ease. Here we may labour undisturbed though surrounded by a thousand friends. Or, if the mood take us, we may abandon ourselves to idle meditation

'Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,'

and, lying back at our ease, may gaze contentedly upon the faithful companions of our crowded solitude, gathering inspiration from their silent sympathy.

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