The Book-Hunter at Home. P. B. M. Allan
there is only one copy of Upton's work in the United States at present—that which was formerly in the Huth Library. It was purchased at Sotheby's in July, 1920, by a well-known New York dealer, Mr. G. D. Smith, for ten guineas, the writer of these lines being the underbidder. Mr. Smith had sent "an unlimited commission" to secure it. An announcement in The Bookman's Journal (1920) asking for information respecting other copies elicited but one response.
Since writing the above, the author has secured the splendid presentation copy given by Upton's editor (Bysshe) 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.
[2] No. 16096. See page 164.
[3] Possibly the title was Nigromanser, from niger, black, and manser, a bastard.
[4] 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.
[5] By Edward More of Hambledon, Bucks.
[6] Mr. E. G. Duff.
[7] For this romantic story see Books in Manuscript, by Mr. Falconer Madan, 8vo, 1893, p. 107 et seq.
[8] Book-collectors always speak of The Farringdon Road; why, I know not, but the definite article certainly gives it an old-world tang.
[9] 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.
[10] The Courtier, by Baldassare Castiglione, was first printed at Venice in 1528, folio. This letter was written by the fearless churchman, then of Wolsey's household, on the great Cardinal's 'last lingering journey north.' There is, perhaps, a certain significance in his wish to study a volume which treats of the art of living in courts, and of becoming useful and agreeable to princes, for he was shortly to transfer his services to a royal master.
[11] At the sale of Baron Seillière'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.
[12] A recent (1920) catalogue offers a copy for thirty-five shillings.
[13] I confess that I do, but then I am hopelessly out of date, or I shouldn't be fond of Elzeviers.
CHAPTER II
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.
hat 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.
Each to his taste. Whether we be student, book-hunter, librarian, or precentor,[14] no earthly abode can be compared with that garden of our choice wherein we labour so contentedly. It may be a small room in our own house, it may be