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Title: Books and bidders
The adventures of a bibliophile
Author: A. S. W. Rosenbach
Release date: March 27, 2024 [eBook #73272]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Little, Brown & Co, 1927
Credits: Alan, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOOKS AND BIDDERS ***
BOOKS AND BIDDERS
[Illustration: PAGE OF THE GUTENBERG BIBLE, SHOWING THE TEN
COMMANDMENTS]
BOOKS AND BIDDERS
THE ADVENTURES OF A BIBLIOPHILE
BY
A. S. W. ROSENBACH
[Illustration: AN ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS PUBLICATION]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1927
_Copyright, 1927_,
BY A. S. W. ROSENBACH
_All rights reserved_
Published November, 1927
Reprinted November, 1927
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS PUBLICATIONS
ARE PUBLISHED BY
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
IN ASSOCIATION WITH
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
*/
TO
PHILIP H. ROSENBACH
FOREWORD
It is a pleasant duty to record my appreciation of the assistance
rendered me in the writing of these articles by Miss Avery Strakosch
(Mrs. W. K. Denham). It was she who, at the suggestion of the editors
of the _Saturday Evening Post_, persuaded me to dictate the series of
eight articles that appeared in the _Post_ in the first part of 1927.
The ninth was published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ in October 1927.
I cannot tell how much I am indebted to her, not only for the form of
the articles, but for a friendship that began with the first article
and will continue, I trust, long after the last ceases to be read.
A. S. W. R.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I TALKING OF OLD BOOKS 3
II A MILLION DOLLAR BOOKSHELF 35
III SOLD TO DR. R! 68
IV SOME LITERARY FORGERIES 98
V AMONG OLD MANUSCRIPTS 134
VI AMERICAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS 179
VII OLD BIBLES 210
VIII WHY AMERICA BUYS ENGLAND’S BOOKS 243
IX THE COLLECTOR’S BEST BET 264
INDEX 301
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE OF THE GUTENBERG BIBLE, SHOWING THE TEN
COMMANDMENTS _Frontispiece_
MOSES POLOCK IN HIS BOOKSHOP 6
THE INFANT BIBLIOPHILE 10
STAN V. HENKELS 12
MOSES POLOCK 18
GROLIER BINDING 22
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF KEATS’S FAMOUS SONNET TO
HAYDON 41
FROM A LETTER BY SHELLEY SPEAKING OF KEATS 42
BOOKROOM AT 1320 WALNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA 44
A. EDWARD NEWTON 46
LETTER OF DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON TO DAVID GARRICK 48
BOOKROOM AT 273 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK 56
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CHARLES LAMB’S
“THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE” 62
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF HANDEL’S
“MESSIAH” 69
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WAGNER’S “DIE
MEISTERSINGER” 73
BOOK AUCTION AT THE ANDERSON GALLERIES, NEW YORK 76
THOMAS E. KIRBY ON THE ROSTRUM 80
“THE BIBLIO-FIENDS”: DRAWING BY OLIVER HERFORD
FOR DR. ROSENBACH’S “UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS” 82
SOTHEBY’S AUCTION ROOM IN LONDON 84
SHAKESPEARE WINDOW AT 1320 WALNUT STREET,
PHILADELPHIA 86
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF OSCAR WILDE’S SONNET “ON
THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS” 94
CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 94
LETTER OF KEATS TO FANNY BRAWNE 96
LAST PAGE OF LETTER WRITTEN BY CERVANTES 101
ORIGINAL DRAWING BY DAUMIER OF DON QUIXOTE 102
FROM A LETTER IN THE AUTOGRAPH OF GEORGE
WASHINGTON 106
PAGE FROM A LETTER OF THACKERAY TO MRS. BROOKFIELD 110
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF OSCAR WILDE’S
“SALOMÉ” 113
DEDICATION OF OSCAR WILDE’S “THE SPHINX” TO MRS.
PATRICK CAMPBELL 115
FORGERY OF SHAKESPEARE MANUSCRIPT BY WILLIAM
HENRY IRELAND 123
BOOK BELONGING TO THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN, OF WHOSE
COMPANY SHAKESPEARE WAS A MEMBER 126
LETTER OF FRANKLIN FROM PHILADELPHIA, 1775 135
PAGE OF FRANKLIN’S WORK BOOK 138
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CONRAD’S
“VICTORY” 144
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CONRAD’S
“LORD JIM” 145
ONLY UNCUT SHAKESPEARE QUARTO KNOWN 147
PRESENTATION INSCRIPTION TO ELIZABETH BOYLE IN
“THE FAERIE QUEENE,” IN THE AUTOGRAPH OF
EDMUND SPENSER 150
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WALT WHITMAN’S “BY
EMERSON’S GRAVE” 152
PAGE FROM MANUSCRIPT OF DICKENS’S “PICKWICK
PAPERS” 156
OWEN D. YOUNG 158
DICKENS’S RHYME TO MR. HICKS, PREFIXED TO THE
MANUSCRIPT OF “PICKWICK PAPERS” 159
LAST LETTER WRITTEN BY CHARLES DICKENS 160
“THE DYING CLOWN”: ORIGINAL DRAWING BY ROBERT
SEYMOUR FOR DICKENS’S “PICKWICK PAPERS” 160
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF ROBERT BURNS’S POEM
“BANNOCKBURN” 162
VAULT AT 273 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK 164
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF MARK TWAIN’S
“TOM SAWYER ABROAD” 165
LETTER OF POE SUBMITTING “EPIMANES” TO THE “NEW
ENGLAND MAGAZINE,” WITH PART OF MANUSCRIPT 169
PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF JOYCE’S “ULYSSES” 171
STANZAS FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF “THE RUBÁIYÁT
OF OMAR KHAYYÁM,” BY EDWARD FITZGERALD 175
MANUSCRIPT TITLE PAGE OF HAWTHORNE’S “WONDER
BOOK” 180
TITLE PAGE OF “SPIRITUAL MILK FOR BOSTON BABES” 188
WILBERFORCE EAMES 192
TITLE OF “THE GLASS OF WHISKEY” 193
TWO PAGES FROM “THE INFANT’S GRAMMAR” 200
TITLE PAGE OF “THE UNCLE’S PRESENT” 204
PAGE FROM “PETER PIPER’S PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES OF
PLAIN AND PERFECT PRONUNCIATION” 208
FIRST PAGE OF CICERO, “DE OFFICIIS,” PRINTED ON
VELLUM, MAINZ, 1465 216
BELLE DA COSTA GREENE 218
LEAF FROM AN ENGLISH BIBLICAL MANUSCRIPT OF THE
NINTH CENTURY 222
CARVED AND POLYCHROMED WOODEN BINDING OF THE
LIESBORN GOSPELS 224
LEAF FROM BLOCK BOOK, FIFTEENTH CENTURY 227
SPECIAL DEDICATION PAGE TO SIXTUS IV, OF JENSON’S
BIBLE 232
WOODCUT, “JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES,” FROM CAXTON’S
“GOLDEN LEGEND” 233
“JACK JUGGLER,” 1555--THE ONLY COPY KNOWN 247
PAGE OF THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WHITE’S
“NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE” 251
PAGE FROM A FOURTEENTH-CENTURY MANUSCRIPT OF
THOMAS OCCLEVE’S “POEMS,” SHOWING A PORTRAIT
OF CHAUCER 252
HENRY E. HUNTINGTON 254
A CHAUCER MANUSCRIPT IN ORIGINAL BINDING 256
LETTER SIGNED WITH INITIALS OF GEORGE (BEAU)
BRUMMELL 258
THE ENGLISH LIBRARY IN DR. ROSENBACH’S HOME 260
MANUSCRIPT OF ARNOLD BENNETT’S UNPUBLISHED PLAY 262
TEA-SHIP BROADSIDE 266
TANKARD PRESENTED TO GEORGE WASHINGTON BY THE
REVEREND DR. GREEN 268
ENGRAVED TITLE OF CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH’S “HISTORY
OF VIRGINIA” 278
FIRST MAP OF NEW YORK CITY ENGRAVED IN AMERICA 282
GEORGE WASHINGTON’S COPY OF “PROCEEDINGS OF THE
CONVENTION” 285
LETTER SIGNED BY BUTTON GWINNETT, BOUGHT FOR
$51,000 286
GRANT’S TELEGRAM TO STANTON ANNOUNCING THE
SURRENDER OF LEE 298
BOOKS AND BIDDERS
I
TALKING OF OLD BOOKS
“Genius?” The tall old man with the fan-shaped beard looked eagerly at
his companion, then settled back more heavily against the rows and rows
of old books lining the walls to the ceiling on all sides of the room.
“Of course Edgar was a genius, but in spite of being a gambler and a
drunkard--in spite of it, I tell you!”
The other, a thin man of lesser years, his long, inquiring face
meditative in the twilight, nodded.
“You are right,” he agreed. “But what difference did it make? The
only question is, would ‘The Raven’ have been any greater without his
gambling and drinking? I doubt it.”
The argument was on, and my uncle, Moses Polock, would lean forward
now and again, waving his coatless arms--he handled books easier in
shirt sleeves--in an effort to gain a point. His peculiarly young and
penetrating blue eyes glistened. Opposite, George P. Philes, a noted
editor and book collector, twirled a gray moustache and goatee while
balancing in a tilted chair, listening calmly, and patiently relighting
a half-smoked cigar which went out often as the verbal heat increased.
I would watch these two, dazed with their heated words concerning
authors and their works; hear them make bookish prophecies, most
of which came true. A favorite subject was their neurotic friend,
Edgar Allan Poe. Both had befriended this singularly unfortunate and
great writer, and each had certain contentions to make which led
through the fire of argument to the cooler and more even discussion of
reminiscences. But they did agree that it would take less than fifty
years after Poe’s death to make first editions of his works the most
valuable of all American authors.
It was in 1885, when I was nine years old, that I first felt the
haunting atmosphere of Uncle Moses’ bookshop on the second floor of the
bulging, red-brick building on Commerce Street in old Philadelphia.
At that age I could hardly realize, spellbound as I was, the full
quality of mystery and intangible beauty which becomes a part of the
atmosphere wherever fine books are brought together; for here was
something which called to me each afternoon, just as the wharves, the
water, and the ships drew other boys who were delighted to get away
from books the moment school was out. Whatever it was,--some glibly
speak of it as bibliomania,--it entered my bones then, and has grown
out of all proportion ever since. The long walk from the bookshop to my
home in the twilight, the moon, just coming up, throwing long shadows
across the white slab of Franklin’s grave which I had to pass, was
sometimes difficult; but as I grew older I learned to shut my eyes
against imaginary fears and, in a valiant effort to be brave, hurried
past darkened corners and abysmal alleyways, inventing a game by which
I tried to visualize the only touches of color in Uncle Moses’ musty,
dusty shop--occasional brilliantly bound volumes. Running along, I
also cross-examined myself on quotations and dates from books and
manuscripts through which I had prowled earlier in the day, unwittingly
developing a memory which was often to stand me in good stead.
My uncle’s appreciation of books showed itself long before he took over
the publishing and bookselling business established in Philadelphia in
1780, just before the close of the Revolution. Throughout his youth
books had been dear to him, and his father, noting this, encouraged
him to keep together the volumes he prized most. Yet he gained
local attention, not as a book collector but as a publisher, when
with a certain amount of initiative he brought out the works of the
first American novelist, Charles Brockden Brown. But I early had my
suspicions of him as a publisher. It seemed to me that he used the
publishing business as a literary cat’s-paw by which he might conceal
his real interest and love--searching for, finding, and treasuring rare
books.
After all, if one is in a trade, certain expectations are held by the
public; and the older Uncle Moses grew the less willing he became
to meet these expectations. To publish books and sell them was one
phase; but to collect, and then to sell, he considered a different and
entirely personal affair. A poor young man, Uncle Moses had acquired
the business in an almost magical manner. Jacob Johnson, the original
founder, began by publishing children’s books only. But in 1800 he
decided to branch out, and took a partner, Benjamin Warner. Fifteen
years later the firm was sold out to McCarty and Davis. After several
successful years McCarty retired, and it was then that Moses Polock was
employed as a clerk. They had spread out and were now publishing all
sorts of books. Davis became very fond of his clerk, and when he died,
in 1851, left him sufficient money in his will to purchase the business
for himself. Luck was evidently with my uncle, for he made a great deal
of money in publishing Lindley Murray’s Grammar and other schoolbooks
of the time.
First as a publishing house and bookstore combined, Uncle Moses’ shop
became a meeting place for publishers and writers. Here it was that the
ill-fed Poe came in 1835 to talk modestly of his writings and hopes.
Such men as James Fenimore Cooper, William Cullen Bryant, Noah Webster,
and Herman Melville might be seen going up or coming down the narrow
staircase leading to the second floor. George Bancroft, the historian,
came, too, and Eaton, who wrote the Life of Jackson; George H. Boker,
a distinguished Philadelphia poet, Charles Godfrey Leland, of Hans
Breitmann Ballads note, and Donald G. Mitchell, who wrote as Ik.
Marvel, and many others--they found their way along the uneven brick
sidewalks of Commerce Street. Gradually, however, it developed into a
rendezvous for the more leisured group of collectors.
[Illustration: MOSES POLOCK IN HIS BOOKSHOP]
Men--and occasionally a woman--who owned many an interesting
and valuable volume came to browse and talk. Silent or voluble,
enthusiastic or suspiciously conservative, each had in mind some
book, of Uncle Moses’ he hoped one day to possess. For it took
something more than money and coercion to make this old man give up
his treasures. Even when he occasionally fell to this temptation
and sold the precious volume, in place of the original he would
make a pen-and-ink copy of the book, word for word, so that it was
typographically perfect. This would take weeks to do, and only when
he needed money badly did he consent to part with the original. I
have some of these copies and treasure them as curiosities. Not only
months but very often years of tireless perseverance were necessary
to make him sell a favorite volume. Equally interesting was that
other group which came daily--a group composed of impecunious and
peculiarly erratic book lovers, found in book haunts the world over: a
poverty-stricken intellectual class, who in filling their minds often
forget to provide for their stomachs as well.
All the memories of my childhood centre around the secluded and dusty
corners of this shop, where I eavesdropped and prowled to my heart’s
content. My uncle, at first annoyed at having a little boy about the
place prying into musty papers and books, eventually took delight in
showing me rare editions purchased by him at auctions and private
sales. As he grew older he became somewhat eccentric, and, despite
my extreme youth, insisted upon treating me as a book lover and
connoisseur, his own equal. Although he lived to be a very old man, he
retained the most marvelous memory I have ever known. He could tell
without a moment’s hesitation the date of a book, who the printer
was, where it had been found, any physical earmarks it might have, its
various vicissitudes, and how it had reached its final destination.
Among the noted collectors who came to match their wits and learning
with my uncle was a younger man, Clarence S. Bement, who developed into
one of the greatest American book experts. Even at that time he had a
wonderful collection, and I well remember his subtle efforts to add
to it constantly. He would talk in a firm, low, rather musical voice,
obviously toned with persuasion, hoping to make his friend part with
some cherished volume he coveted. As I watched Uncle Moses refuse,
I saw a curiously adamant and at the same time satisfied expression
spread over his features; I noticed, too, the dignity of movement as he
gravely took the volume from Bement’s fingers to look at it, with that
expressive pride in ownership that verges on madness with many people
to whom possession can mean but one thing--books.
Samuel W. Pennypacker, who in later years became governor of
Pennsylvania, was another avid book collector and constant habitué
of the old Commerce Street bookshop. His hobby was anything he could
lay his hands upon from the Franklin press. He also collected all
data relating to the early Swedish settlers of Pennsylvania and his
German and Dutch ancestors, as well as any material concerning the
development of the state. A large man he was, with serious eyes set in
a rather square-shaped head. But his voice fascinated me most of all
as it boomed about the shelves when he grew excited, and took on an
unforgettable Pennsylvania-Dutch twang.
Pennypacker was a fervent admirer of George Washington, and he had once
heard of a letter which General Washington wrote from one of the scenes
of his childhood, Pennypacker’s Mills. He couldn’t seem to forget this
letter, for he was always talking about it, hoping to trace it to its
owner and eventually make it his own.
I shall never forget the day Uncle Moses told him he had found and
bought this letter. He handed it to Pennypacker with a light of
triumphant amusement in his eyes. After reading it, Pennypacker put it
down on the table before him and, without raising his eyes, said in a
peculiarly exhausted way, “Polock, I must have this letter. You can
make any bargain you choose, but I must have it!” Hardly waiting for
the other to reply, he rushed down the stairs, to return a few moments
later with two books under his arm. My uncle’s blue eyes were but
mocking questions as he pushed them aside after glancing at their title
pages. They were two valuable books, but not unusually so. Pennypacker
had by this time unbuttoned his coat, and I saw him take from an inner
pocket a thin, yellow envelope.
“These”--Pennypacker pointed to his two books “and this.” He opened the
envelope and gave my uncle its contents. It, too, was a letter from
George Washington, yet no sign of emotion swept the old man’s features
as he read. But the exchange was made rather quickly, I thought, and
it would have been, difficult to decide which bargainer was the more
satisfied. I have read both letters many times since. The Pennypacker’s
Mills letter was dated September 29, 1777, and addressed: “On public
service, to the Honorable John Hancock, President of Congress,
Lancaster.” George Washington wrote in part:--
I shall move the Army four or five miles lower down today from where
we may reconnoitre and fix upon a proper situation at such distance
from the enemy as will enable us to make an attack should we see a
proper opening, or stand upon the defensive till we obtain further
reinforcements. This was the opinion of a Council of General Officers
which I called yesterday.
I congratulate you upon the success of our Arms to the Northward and
if some accident does not put them out of their present train, I think
we may count upon the total ruin of Burgoyne.
The letter which my uncle received was written four years later from
Philadelphia, in 1781, to Abraham Skinner, Commissary General of
Prisoners, and was easily the more important, historically, of the two,
as General Washington discussed throughout the surrender of Cornwallis
and the exchange of prisoners at Yorktown. He instructed General
Skinner not to consent to the exchange of Lord Cornwallis under any
conditions.
Even I, with but a short experience as a mere onlooker in the
collecting game, realized its greater value. After my uncle’s death
this Washington letter sold for $925, and it rests to-day as one of the
treasures in the Pierpont Morgan collection.
[Illustration: THE INFANT BIBLIOPHILE]
A few years ago I bought back the Pennypacker’s Mills letter for
$130 from Governor Pennypacker’s estate. Because of the incident it
recalls I would never part with it.
When I was eleven years old I began book collecting on my own. My
first purchase was at an auction in the old Henkels’s auction rooms on
Chestnut Street. It was an illustrated edition of _Reynard the Fox_,
and was knocked down to me for twenty-four dollars. My enthusiasm
rather than my financial security swept me into this extravagance, and
after the sale I had to go to the auctioneer, Mr. Stan V. Henkels, and
confess that I was not exactly solvent. At the same time I explained I
was Moses Polock’s nephew, instinctively feeling, I suppose, that such
a relationship might account for any untoward action concerning books.
I had hardly got the words out of my frightened mouth when Mr. Henkels
burst into a fit of laughing which--although I was too young, too
scared and self-conscious to realize it at the time--was the beginning
of a lifelong friendship between us.
When he ceased laughing, he looked down at me, a sombre little boy
with a book under his shaking arm, and said, “I’ve seen it start at an
early age, and run in families, but in all my experience this is the
very first baby bibliomaniac to come my way!” With this admission he
kindly consented to extend credit, and trusted me for further payments,
which I was to make weekly from my school allowance. Giving him all
the money I possessed, ten dollars, I marched from the auction room,
feeling for the first time in my life that swooning yet triumphant,
that enervating and at the same time heroic combination of emotions
the born bibliomaniac enjoys so intensely with the purchase of each
rare book.
Stan V. Henkels--no one dared to leave out the middle initial--was a
remarkable man. Even in his young days he resembled an old Southern
colonel, the accepted picture we all have, a man of drooping moustache,
rather patrician nose, and longish hair which he decorated with a
large-brimmed, rusty black hat of the Civil War period. He insisted he
was an unreconstructed rebel and was always willing to take on anyone
in a verbal battle about the Civil War.
By profession an auctioneer of books, Mr. Henkels was the first person
to make the dreary, uninteresting work of auction catalogues into
living, fascinating literature, almost as exciting reading as fiction.
Previous to this, anyone wanting to find out what was in a collection
had little luck when searching through a catalogue, beyond discovering
names and dates.
Observing this, and that certain items whose contents were of
exceptional interest did not sell well, Henkels decided to find out
for himself what was between the covers of the books he sold, and to
learn what was often told so confidentially in the literary manuscripts
and letters, and then to print the most interesting data he could find
about each item. This was a great work in itself, and how he found
the leisure to give to it was a mystery. Thus he brought in color and
life, a human-interest setting, which added thousands of dollars yearly
to his business, and which awakened feelings of gratitude in many
collectors.
[Illustration: STAN V. HENKELS]
Seven years after buying _Reynard the Fox_ on the installment plan,
I made my first valuable literary discovery. I was studying then at the
University of Pennsylvania, and books enthralled me to a disastrous
extent. I attended book sales at all hours of the day and night; I
neglected my studies; I bought books whether I could afford them or
not; I forgot to eat, and did not consider sleep necessary at all. The
early stages of the book-collecting germ are not the most virulent, but
nevertheless they make themselves felt!
This night I went to the Henkels’s auction room several hours before
the sale. I looked at many of the books with great delight, sighed
when I estimated the prices they would bring, and was beginning to
feel rather despondent, when I happened to see a bound collection of
pamphlets in one corner of the room.
Now for some unknown reason pamphlets, even from my boyhood, have
been a passion with me. I cannot resist reading a pamphlet, whether
it has value or not. The potentialities between slim covers play the
devil with my imagination. It is true that books are my real love,
but pamphlets flaunt a certain piquancy which I have never been able
to resist. One might call them the flirtations of book collecting.
I crossed to the corner, disturbed that I had not seen the volume
earlier in the evening, that I had so little time to devote to it. But
hurried as I felt,--it was almost time for the sale to begin,--I came
upon a copy of Gray’s _Odes_. It was not only a first edition, but the
first book from Horace Walpole’s famous Strawberry Hill Press, printed
especially for him. Walpole had a weakness for gathering fame to
his own name by printing the works of certain famous contemporaries.
Delighted at finding this, I observed the title page of a pamphlet,
which was bound with it. I could hardly believe my eyes! For in my
hands I held, quite by accident, the long-lost first edition of Dr.
Samuel Johnson’s famous _Prologue_, which David Garrick recited the
opening night of the Drury Lane Theatre in London in 1747. Although
advertisements in the _General Advertiser_ and _Gentleman’s Magazine_
of Doctor Johnson’s day announced the sale of this work for the modest
sum of sixpence, no one had ever heard of a copy of this original
edition being in existence before or since. Boswell made an allusion to
it in his _Life of Johnson_, but that was all that was known of this
first issue of the little masterpiece of “dramatick criticism.”
I closed my eyes in an effort to steady myself, leaning heavily against
the wall. I wanted to buy this pamphlet more than I had ever wanted
anything in the world. A wealthy and noted collector entered the room.
I gave up hope. Again I looked at the pamphlet, and as I read Doctor
Johnson’s famous line on Shakespeare, “And panting Time toil’d after
him in vain,” I wished that I might be weak enough to take something
which did not belong to me.
Suddenly my plans were made. I would have the _Prologue_! I would
do anything honorable to obtain it. Having nothing but my future to
mortgage I desperately decided to offer that, whoever the purchaser
might be.
Mr. Henkels announced the usual terms of the sale and I gazed
cautiously about the room; every member of the audience was just
waiting for that volume of pamphlets, I knew. Finally it was put up,
and the very silence seemed to bid against me; when, after two or three
feeble counter bids, it became really mine for the sum of $3.60, I
sat as one in a trance. The news soon spread among the experts of the
exceptional find I had made, and I had many offers for it. Several
years later, during my postgraduate course at college, when I needed
money very badly, a noted collector dandled a check for $5000 before my
eyes. It was a difficult moment for me, but I refused the offer. In my
private library I retain this treasured volume.
One day previous to this I was in the auction rooms when a white-haired
negro said Mr. Henkels had something interesting to show me if I
would go to the top floor. I found him standing by an open window
fronting Chestnut Street, exhibiting to several curious customers a
small gold locket which had belonged to George Washington. It had been
authenticated by his heirs, and also the gray lock of hair enclosed
within it. As I joined the others, Mr. Henkels opened the locket and
held it out for inspection. At that moment an unexpected gust of wind
blew into the room, and, sweeping about, took the curl very neatly
from its resting place. So quickly did it happen it was a moment or
so before we realized that the prized lock had been wafted out of the
window. Then suddenly we all ran to the stairs and raced four flights
into the street below. Up and down, searching the block, the gutters,
and the crevices of stone and brick, we sought the lost lock of the
Father of our Country. After an hour, or so it seemed, we gave it up
as useless. As we returned to the entrance of the rooms the old negro
employé came out.
“Wait a minute!” Henkels exclaimed, as an idea came to him.
He grabbed the ancient and surprised servant by the hair. Selecting
a choice curly ringlet, he clipped it off with his pocketknife, then
placed it carefully in George Washington’s locket, closing it tightly.
Several days later I saw the locket put up for sale. The bidding was
brisk, and the buyer later expressed himself as being exceptionally
lucky. But Henkels, who was the soul of honor, could not listen quietly
for long. He told of his, as well as Nature’s prank with the original
lock of hair, and offered to refund the money. The purchaser refused,
saying he had given no thought to the contents anyway; that his
interest lay only in the locket.
It is almost incredible, the number of stories that circulate about
the civilized world containing misstatements and garbled information
about the values and prices of old books. I am sometimes amused, at
other times annoyed, to read in the daily papers statements of prices
I and other collectors are supposed to have bought and sold books for.
Reporters who descend upon us hurriedly to verify the story of some
unusual sale can be divided into two classes--overenthusiastic and
bored. The former often exaggerate the amount paid for a book and its
value; the latter are likely to be careless about details and set them
down incorrectly.
When I bought a Gutenberg Bible for $106,000 last spring, I was careful
to read and correct the original announcement made of the purchase.
Such an event was too important in the history of book collecting to
be misstated. Even then, many papers carried a story which gave the
impression that this was the only Gutenberg Bible in existence, when
there are about forty-two known copies--differing in condition, of
course. But collectors themselves have often been at fault for the
broadcasting of misinformation, for they seldom take time to go out of
their way to correct wrong impressions.
It is only in the past few generations that collectors have taken great
care of their treasures--a lucky change, too, for had they all pawed
books about, wearing them to shreds in the scholastic manner, few rare
volumes would have been saved for us to-day. Acquisitiveness, that
noble urge to possess something the other fellow hasn’t or can’t get,
is often the direct cause of assembling vast, extraordinary libraries.
Book lovers who were contemporaries of Moses Polock treated him as
though he would live forever. It has been noted that those who collect
things outlive people who do not. No one notices this so much, perhaps,
as the collector himself who has his eye on the collection of another,
or the book collector who cannot sleep well at night for the thought of
a valuable first edition he would like to own. Book collectors, I make
no exceptions, are buzzards who stretch their wings in anticipation as
they wait patiently for a colleague’s demise; then they swoop down and
ghoulishly grab some long-coveted treasure from the dear departed’s
trove.
Two years before my uncle’s death I gave up my fellowship in English
at the University of Pennsylvania to enter professionally the sport of
book collecting and the business of selling. Uncle Moses was extremely
pleased to have me as a competitor. He often said he believed I had
all the necessary requisites for collecting, an excellent memory,
perseverance, taste, and a fair knowledge of literature. Alas, all
requisites but one--money! He thought if I were fortunate enough to
acquire that, I would also have the other virtue--courage: the courage
to pay a high price for a good book and to refuse a poor one at any
price. And I was fortunate. Two gentlemen whose interest in books
was as intense as mine made it possible for me to establish myself
as a bookseller. The first, Clarence S. Bement, possessed a glorious
collection over which he had spent years of constant study and search.
All collectors were eager to secure his volumes, each being fine
and rare. As a silent partner he was invaluable to me in many ways,
and with the second, Joseph M. Fox, spurred me on to collecting the
choicest books and manuscripts as they came on the market, pointing out
the fact that at all times there is a demand for the finest things.
Mr. Fox, one of the most lovable of men, lived in a very old Colonial
house called Wakefield, in the suburbs of Philadelphia, in which he had
discovered wonderful Revolutionary letters and documents.
[Illustration: MOSES POLOCK]
It is difficult to know at what moment one becomes a miser of books.
For many years preceding his death, Uncle Moses kept a fireproof vault
in the rear of his office, where he secreted rarities no one ever
saw. His books were as real to him as friends. He feared showing the
most precious lest he part with one in a moment of weakness. One of
the amusing incidents of his life was that he had sold a copy of the
Bradford _Laws of New York_, published in 1694, to Doctor Brinley
for sixteen dollars, and many years later he had seen it sell at the
Brinley sale for $1600. The money consideration did not cause his
regret so much as the fact that he had felt an affection for this
volume, which had rested upon his shelves for more than thirty years.
By an amusing turn of the wheel of chance, which my uncle might have
foreseen, the same volume would be worth to-day $20,000!
At the death of my uncle, in 1903, I came into possession of some of
his wonderful books; others were purchased by private buyers and are
to-day parts of various famous libraries. I was greatly thrilled when,
as administrator of his estate, I entered his secret vault for the
first time in my life. In the half light I stumbled against something
very hard on the floor. Lighting a match, I looked down, to discover a
curious bulky package. Examining it more closely, I found it was a bag
of old gold coins. A reserve supply cautiously hoarded, no doubt, to
buy further rarities.
My uncle’s estate included several books from the library of George
Washington, the finest of which was a remarkable copy of the _Virginia
Journal_, published in Williamsburg, which I still have. Washington
was one of the three presidents who collected books in an intelligent
manner. There have been presidents who loved books--the late Theodore
Roosevelt, for example--but who were not real collectors. It is always
interesting to hazard a guess at a great man’s personal likes by noting
the titles in his library. In the past years I have bought other
books from Washington’s collection. There is _The History of America_
by William Robertson, in two volumes, Brown’s _Civil Law, Inland
Navigation_, Jenkinson’s _Collections of Treaties_, eight volumes of
the _Political State of Europe_, a four-volume course of lectures by
Winchester on the _Prophecies That Remain to be Fulfilled_--in this
last Washington wrote: “From the author to G. Washington.” These are a
heavy literary diet, somewhat one-sided when placed next to _Epistles
for the Ladies_, which was also his. Each volume has the signature on
the title page--“George Washington”--with his armorial bookplate pasted
inside the front cover. There were doubtless book borrowers in those
days, too, whose memories and consciences might be jogged at sight of
the owner’s name. Another, a gift to Washington, is a collection of
poems “written chiefly during the late war,” by Philip Freneau, one
of the few very early American poets whose work has survived. On the
title page in Freneau’s hand, with his signature, is written: “General
Washington will do the author the honor to accept a copy of his poems,
as a small testimony of the disinterested veneration he entertains for
his character.”
The books belonging to Martha Washington are few, merely because she
was not a great reader, and the common-sense title of the one book of
hers which I have--_Agriculture of Argyll County_--would lead one to
think of her as a practical woman rather interested in rural activities.
The collecting passion is as old as time. Even book collecting, which
many believe to be a comparatively recent development, can be traced
back to the Babylonians. They, with their passion for preserving
records on clay tablets, could hardly go in for all the little
niceties, such as original paper boards or beautifully tooled bindings,
but they were collectors nevertheless.
Among the early individual book collectors such colorful names as Jean
Grolier, De Thou, Colbert, and the Cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin
shine forth. Jean Grolier, a collector of the late fifteenth and the
early sixteenth century, now considered the patron saint of modern book
collectors, showed unusual vision in selecting his books. Though many
libraries of that time are both remarkable and valuable, their worth
varies. But every collector is keen to possess a Grolier volume, and at
each sale the prices increase. He evidently read what he selected, and
his taste showed that he had education and discernment. Aldus Manutius,
the most famous printer of that day, dedicated books to him and
printed certain works for him on special paper. Aldus was the first to
popularize the small-sized book, and that is why many from the Grolier
collection are easier to handle than the more gross volumes from other
early libraries.
Grolier’s generous disposition is indicated by the fact that he has
either written in, or had stamped on the outside of the truly exquisite
bindings, “Io Grolierii et Amicorum”--his books were for himself
and his friends too. Many people have since copied this inscription
on their bookplates. The Grolier family were book lovers, and his
library was kept intact for three generations. Not until one hundred
and sixteen years after his death was it sold, and although many
were bought by other famous collectors, old records show that some
disappeared entirely. It is just such knowledge that keeps the true
bibliophile living in hopes--a long-missing Grolier might turn up any
time, anywhere.
About the time of the discovery of America a book came out called _The
Ship of Fools_, by one Sebastian Brant. In it was an attack on the book
fool: a satire on the passion of collecting, in which the author said
that the possession of books was but a poor substitute for learning.
That phrase which the layman reader asks the book collector so often
with a smirk of condescension, “So you really read them?” undoubtedly
originated then. The real book collector, with suppressed murder in his
heart, smiles acquiescence, assuming an apologetic air for his peculiar
little hobby. His invisible armor is his knowledge, and he has been
called a fool so often he glories in it. He can afford to have his
little joke. So much for this threadbare gibe.
[Illustration: GROLIER BINDING]
Cardinal Richelieu, according to history, sought relaxation from the
cares of state in his love of books. His huge library was got together
in many ways. Sometimes he bought books; he sent two learned men
on the road, one to Germany and the other to Italy, to collect both
printed and manuscript works. Often he would exchange volumes with
other collectors, and one can imagine the covert smile of satisfaction
on this ecclesiastical politician’s lips whenever he got the better of
a bargain.
Of course there was always a way to get a rare work, whether the
owner cared to part with it or not, by an off-with-his-head policy of
intimidation. After the taking of La Rochelle the red-robed Richelieu
topped off the victory by helping himself to the entire library of that
city. Even though he was something of a robber, his ultimate motive was
good--he planned to establish a reference library for all qualified
students. Yet it was his nephew, the inheritor of his library, who
carried out these plans posthumously. He willed it to the Sorbonne,
with a fund to keep up the collection and to add to it according to the
needs and progress of the times.
Cardinal Mazarin had the appreciation of books instilled in him from
his boyhood, when he attended a Jesuit school in Rome. Following in the
footsteps of the famous Richelieu, it was necessary to carry out many
of his predecessor’s policies. One of these was to weaken the French
nobles, who ruled enormous country estates, by destroying their feudal
castles. Thus Mazarin, a great but wily character, took his books where
he found them. Eventually his library grew to be a famous one, which he
generously threw open to the literary men of the day. Fortunately the
men who followed Mazarin kept his collection intact, and to-day, in
Paris, one may see the great Mazarin Library on the left bank of the
Seine.
Colbert, first as Mazarin’s secretary, and later a great political
leader on his own account, also collected a fine library in perhaps a
more legitimate manner than his patron. He arranged for the consuls
representing France in every part of Europe to secure any remarkable
works they might hear of. Colbert not only offered the use of his
collection to such of his contemporaries as Molière, Corneille,
Boileau, and Racine, but pensioned these men as well.
De Thou, also a Frenchman, of the latter half of the sixteenth and
the early seventeenth century, had the finest library of his time.
His thousands upon thousands of volumes included many bought from
the Grolier collection, and collectors’ interest in them has never
lessened. De Thou was the truest type of book lover. He had not one
but several copies of each book he felt a particular affection for;
he ordered them printed on the best paper obtainable, expressly for
himself. His bindings are richly beautiful, of the finest leathers,
exquisitely designed. They are easily recognizable, as his armorial
stamp, with golden bees, is on the sides, and the back is marked with
a curious cipher made from his initials. Most of the contents treat of
profound but interesting subjects. He was a real student, and wrote an
extensive history of his time in Latin. Here is an example of inherited
passion for books. His mother’s brother and his father were both book
lovers.
It is a general belief that books are valuable merely because they
are old. Age, as a rule, has very little to do with actual value. I
have never announced the purchase of a noted old book without having my
mail flooded for weeks afterward with letters from all over the world.
Each correspondent tells me of opportunities I am losing by not going
immediately to his or her home to see, and incidentally buy, “a book
which has been in my family over one hundred years.”
I receive more than thirty thousand letters about books every year.
Each letter is read carefully and answered. There are many from cranks.
But it is not hard to spot these even before opening the envelope, when
addressed, as one was recently from Germany,“Herrn Doktor Rosenbach,
multi-millionaire, Amerika.” Indeed, the greater number of letters
about books are from Germany. One man in Hamburg wrote me of a book he
had for sale, then ended by saying he also had a very fine house he
would like me to buy, because he felt sure, if I saw it, his elegant
garden would appeal to me for the use of my patients! Many people write
me, after I have purchased a book at a high price, and say they have
something to offer “half as old at half the price!”
Yet one out of every two thousand letters holds a possibility of
interest. I followed up a letter from Hagenau not long ago, to
discover--the copy was sent me on approval--a first edition of
_Adonais_, Shelley’s lament on the death of Keats, in the blue paper
wrappers in which it was issued. There are only a few copies known
in this original condition. I bought it by correspondence for a
reasonable price. It is worth at least $5000. On the other hand, I
have often made a long journey to find nothing but an inferior copy of
a late edition of some famous work. I once heard of a first edition of
Hubbard’s _Indian Wars_, in Salem, Massachusetts. When I arrived there
the family who owned it brought out their copy, unwrapping it with
much ceremony from swathings of old silk. Immediately I saw it was a
poor reprint made in the nineteenth century, although the original was
printed in 1677.
But luck had not deserted me entirely that day. As my train was not
due for an hour, I wandered about the city. In passing one of the many
antique shops which all New England cities seem to possess by the
gross, I noticed a barrow on the sidewalk before it. In this barrow
were thrown all sorts and conditions of books. Yet the first one I
picked up was a first edition of Herman Melville’s _Moby Dick_, worth
about $150, which I bought for two dollars.
Speaking of this copy of _Moby Dick_ reminds me of another, a more
valuable one, which I prize in my private library. One day about
five years ago John Drinkwater, the English poet and dramatist, and
I were lunching at his home in London. Talking of books and the
ever-interesting vicissitudes of collecting them, he told me of his
_Moby Dick_, found one day, by chance, in a New York bookstore for
but a few dollars. It was a presentation copy from the author to his
friend, Nathaniel Hawthorne, to whom the book was dedicated, and had
Hawthorne’s signature on the dedication leaf. When Mr. Drinkwater told
me of this I became restless; I wanted this copy as much as I had ever
wanted any other book, and there was nothing for me to do but tell
him so. I offered him twenty times what he had paid for it, and to my
surprise and delight he generously let me have it.
Why age alone should be thought to give value to most collectible
objects, including furniture, pictures, and musical instruments, I
don’t know. However, it is a great and popular fallacy. The daily
prayer of all true collectors should begin with the words, “beauty,
rarity, condition,” and last of all, “antiquity.” But books differ
from other antiques in that their ultimate value depends upon the
intrinsic merit of the writer’s work. A first edition of Shakespeare,
for instance, will always command an ever-increasing price. The same is
true of first editions of Dante, Cervantes, or Goethe. These writers
gave something to the world and to life--something of which one always
can be sure.
Very often the greatness of an author, the value of what he has
written, is not realized until years have gone by. Vital truths
are sometimes seen more clearly in perspective. A first folio of
Shakespeare’s _Comedies, Histories and Tragedies_ was sold in 1864
to the late Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who paid what was considered an
enormous price--£716--for it. Yet only fifty-eight years later my
brother Philip bought the same folio for me at Sotheby’s in London
for £8600, Shakespeare’s writings having increased in value more than
twelve times in a little more than half a century.
The fallacy of thinking that age is of major importance in judging a
book should be corrected by every book lover. Age? Why, there are
many books of the fifteenth century which command small prices in the
auction rooms to-day, while certain volumes brought out a decade ago
are not only valuable but grow more so with each passing year. A first
edition of A. A. Milne’s _When We Were Very Young_, printed two years
ago, is already more precious than some old tome, such as a sermon of
the 1490’s by the famous teacher, Johannes Gerson, the contents of
which are and always will be lacking in human or any other kind of
interest.
The inception of any great movement, whether material or spiritual,
is bound to be interesting, according to its relative importance. The
Gutenberg Bible, leaving aside the question of its artistic merit and
the enormous value of its contents, as the first printed book is of the
greatest possible significance. But it so happens that this wonderful
Bible is also one of the finest known examples of typography. No book
ever printed is more beautiful than this pioneer work of Gutenberg, the
first printer, although it was issued almost five hundred years ago.
It has always seemed an interesting point to me that printing is the
only art which sprang into being full-blown. Later years brought about
a more uniform appearance of type, but aside from this we have only
exceeded the early printers in speed of execution. Enormous value is
added to some of these earliest books because they are the last word in
the printer’s art.
The first books printed on subjects of universal interest are the
rarest “firsts” of all for the collector. These include early romances
of chivalry, of which few copies are found to-day. They are generally
in very poor condition, as their popular appeal was tremendous, and
they were literally read to pieces. They were really the popular
novels of the period. The ones which come through the stress of years
successfully are extremely rare. For instance, there are the Caxtons.
William Caxton was the first printer in England, and the first to print
books in the English language. When he brought out the second edition
of Chaucer’s _Canterbury Tales_ in 1484, with its fascinating woodcut
illustrations, it was literally devoured by contemporary readers. This
and other publications of Caxton were very popular--he evidently had
a good eye for best sellers--and now a perfect Caxton is difficult to
find.
One of the finest Caxtons in existence is _Le Morte d’ Arthur_ by Sir
Thomas Malory, published in 1485. This perfect copy, this jewel among
Caxtons, sold at the dispersal of the library of the Earl of Jersey in
1885 for £1950, approximately $9500. Now this is an excellent example
of a book increasing in value for its pristine, perfect state as well
as for its alluring contents. Twenty-six years later it brought $42,800
at the Hoe sale. It is now one of the treasures adorning the Pierpont
Morgan Library.
The first editions of books which have that quality so glibly called
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.
Certain books have sold for too little in the past. They remind me
of people who plod along for years, then, through actual worth or
a turn of the wheel, suddenly blossom out, much to their friends’
astonishment. As material as it may sound, the increasing wealth in
this country is bringing about a new appreciation not only of books but
of old prints, paintings, and antique furniture. Books are the final
appeal; when the collector is through with the things that decorate his
house, he turns to the things that decorate his mind--and these last
forever.
[Illustration: LETTER OF DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON TO DAVID GARRICK,
SUGGESTING AN EPITAPH FOR HOGARTH WHICH LATER, WITH CHANGES, WAS
ENGRAVED ON HOGARTH’S TOMB]
The formation of university libraries and historical societies also
adds to the value of books. They take them out of reach of the
individual collector and place them in their ultimate home. No wonder
these libraries are considered tombs by the ardent gatherer of books.
New seats of learning, such as Duke University at Durham, North
Carolina, will certainly need adequate libraries. Book clubs, too,
are adding fuel to the flames. The Grolier Club of New York has a fine
library; the Elizabethan Club at Yale is the enviable possessor of a
tiny volume that ranks among the great books of the world. It is a
first edition of Bacon’s _Essays_, printed in London in 1597. Fifteen
years ago, at the Huth sale, it brought £1950--more than $9000. If it
were offered for sale to-day it would bring at least $25,000. There are
only about five copies of this edition known. One is in the British
Museum, Cambridge University has two, and a fourth is in the Huntington
Library. Thus, no private collector has the good fortune to own a
single copy.
Even though many rare volumes have retired permanently from the
salesrooms, it has always been a peculiarity of the collector that he
lives in hope. Just as there has always been a great search for ancient
manuscripts, so there always will be an endless hunt for important
early books. If there were wonderful discoveries in the past, why not
others of equal importance in the future? Within twenty years after
the invention of printing--about 1475--books became so accessible that
even the poorest scholars could afford them. Tracts of various kinds
were marketed for a few pennies which at first had sold for pounds.
There was so much printing done that some printers were ruined because
the supply quickly outgrew the demand. The best printers in Germany
perfected their craft and went southward into Italy, where their work
took on an added beauty. The city of Venice became a regular hotbed of
printing.
When, in the latter part of the fifteenth century, Italian noblemen saw
how common printing had become, they regarded it as vulgar. Although
they had at first been the patrons of printing, now some of them
ignored it and endowed scriptoriums, in the hope that printing would
fall into disfavor. In these scriptoriums men worked tediously on
illuminated manuscripts, trying to make them finer than printed books.
But of course printing went on, continuing its tremendous strides.
Hope springs eternal in the book collector’s breast. He will never
allow himself to believe that the wonderful old volumes of hundreds of
years ago have all been found. To-day, to-morrow, or next week, he must
surely unearth some unrecorded book.
What is known among book lovers as the greatest little find in history
occurred at Lamport Hall in Northamptonshire, England, in 1867. Charles
Edmunds, a London bookseller, while visiting Lamport Hall, the ancient
seat of the Isham family, accidentally came upon the old lumber room.
His curiosity was immediately aroused, for among the piles of wood
and discarded furniture he beheld stacks and stacks of dust-covered
books. There were hundreds of them of various sizes and dates; some
were chewed to bits, having furnished banquets for generations of mice,
descendants of which scampered about as Edmunds searched and hoped for
something interesting. Just as he was beginning to believe that they
all were valueless, he chanced upon a copy of Shakespeare’s _Venus and
Adonis_. Imagine his surprise when he found it to be a hitherto unknown
edition dated 1599, and “Imprinted at London for William Leake,
dwelling in Paule’s Churchyard at the signe of the Greyhound.” Inclosed
within the same vellum cover were _The Passionate Pilgrim_ and Davies’s
and Marlowe’s _Epigrams and Elegies_. The only other copy known of the
former is in the Capell collection at Trinity College, Cambridge. The
third tract in this volume was also an entirely unrecorded edition.
This _Venus and Adonis_ was a fourth edition. It sold at the Britwell
Court sale at Sotheby’s, in 1919, for £15,100--about $75,000. George
D. Smith bought it for Mr. Huntington, and it was the highest price
ever paid for a book up to that time. Whenever a great sale such as
this one is held, prices reverberate throughout the world. Immediately
there follows a cleaning out of old attics, a thorough brushing of odd
closets; cupboards and lumber rooms are scoured; and a general sorting
over of places where odd things have been relegated for years takes
place. Naturally, the enormous price of the _Venus and Adonis_ caused
a sensation when it was sold in London. News of this sale quickly
appeared in every paper in England.
A pretty story is told of how, one afternoon, two young Englishmen were
playing archery on an estate near Shrewsbury. Perhaps they didn’t have
a target, or if they did they mislaid it. Anyway, they picked up an old
book they found somewhere in one of the buildings on the place, and
stuck it against the lower branches of a tree to use for a bull’s-eye.
About to draw his bow, one of them was not quite satisfied with the
angle at which they had placed their target. So he walked forward
and turned it around. As he did so, some of the pages fell back, and
he read the magic name, “Venus.” Looking at the volume further, he
exclaimed to his companion, “I believe this old thing is similar to
that book which sold for £15,100 yesterday!” It soon sold privately for
more than £10,000, or about $50,000. Mr. H. C. Folger of New York, the
greatest collector of Shakespeareana, was the buyer.
With these stories indelibly impressed on my mind, my delight was
unbounded when I espied on the library shelves of Dorchester House,
London, the residence of Sir George Holford, a matchless copy of
_Venus_ in the second edition, 1594, five years earlier than these
famous “fourths.” Only three other copies were known. Be assured that
this was one of the first volumes I selected when, the following year,
I purchased the greater part of his collection. From a monetary point
of view this is the most valuable book that has ever been sold.
To bring these stories down to date, an almost equally interesting
find was made after the sale of a signature of Button Gwinnett, at the
Anderson Galleries in New York last winter, for which I paid $22,500.
Gwinnett was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence
from Georgia. His signature is very rare, as his life was snuffed out
suddenly in a duel with General Lachlan MacIntosh in 1777, when he was
still young. There are but thirty-three of these signatures known. I
bought my first Gwinnett, incidentally the first to be sold in many
years, in Philadelphia two years ago for $14,000. Some wag figured,
at the time, that it was worth exactly $1000 per letter. Mrs. Arthur
W. Swann, of New York, happened to read about my purchase in a morning
paper, and began to think over the various items of a collection of
autograph letters which her grandfather, Theodore Sedgwick, had made,
and which she inherited. The more she thought about it, the more
significant a hazy remembrance became; she believed her grandfather had
secured a Button Gwinnett similar to the one I bought. After carefully
searching through the collection she found, much to her surprise and
delight, a most beautiful example of Gwinnett’s signature. In November,
1926, she sold the entire collection, and I bought the Button Gwinnett
for $28,500. This was then a record price for any signature in the
world’s history, the young signer’s autograph having jumped to $2000
per letter! After a while, selling a famous man’s handwriting by the
letter will be as common as selling antique silver by the ounce.
About four years ago a firm of auctioneers in London was requested to
sell a great mass of ordinary music belonging to the estate of a late
English noblewoman. The manager and his assistants were not very keen
about it, as the music was unsorted and on its face almost worthless.
But they finally agreed to do it on the condition it should not require
sorting. During the sale a dealer bought one of the bundles. Later he
sold some of it to other dealers, saving several sheets for himself to
take home. Some time passed and one night he chanced to glance over the
titles of these songs, catches, and other musical compositions. As
he turned one of the pages he fairly started from his seat. He could
hardly believe his eyes. A quarto pamphlet it was, and most probably
had been placed there years and years before--perhaps as a bookmark--by
someone who did not realize its worth. It was a copy of _Posthumous
Fragments of Margaret Nicholson_ by Shelley! The author’s name was not
mentioned, but it was edited by “Fitzvictor,” one of Shelley’s pen
names. Here it lay before him, in the original wrappers in which it
was first published. Of course, the news of the discovery spread like
wildfire. Later, this work sold for £1210, approximately $6000.
Propagandist pamphlets written by Shelley are extremely rare, and have
turned up in the most extraordinary places. They were generally of an
inflammatory or seditious nature, and he and Harriet had the habit of
throwing them from the windows wherever they might be staying at the
time, in the hope of hitting sympathetic targets. I should like to be
struck by one of those missiles!
Shortly after the War began I was informed of a letter written by
Amerigo Vespucci, to be offered in the Morrison sale in London. It
was the only known letter written by the man who gave his name to two
continents. Previous to its finding, the only record of Vespucci’s own
writing was a receipt bearing his signature. Now, the early stages of
the Great War were not exactly propitious times for auctions or any
other sales. The buying public of England, as well as auctioneers,
dealers, and collectors, all found their minds preoccupied with but one
subject--war. _Objets d’art_, books, and manuscripts were put aside
as playthings of a leisured hour; nor were they to be considered when
relatives and friends were fast becoming a part of the war machinery
daily departing for France. So prices did the logical thing--tumbled.
Although I was aware of the situation, I believed it impossible that
this Vespucci letter could go for a low figure. Here was an unusual,
magnificent autograph more than four centuries old. War? Why, it had
known a hundred wars! With little hope and less expectation, I cabled
a bid of £2500--about $12,500. The arrival of a reply a few hours
later caused me pangs of fear. I tortured myself a few moments with
delectable suspense. Was the letter mine or not? A momentous question!
At last I gathered courage and read words which were too curt, too
few, to seem true. Not only was I the possessor of this most precious
historical letter, but at what a price--a measly £395! It was almost
impossible to realize that I had secured for less than $2000 one of the
greatest bargains in history.
[Illustration: BOOKROOM AT 273 MADISON AVENUE, NEW YORK]
I was under a constant nervous tension until its arrival. When it
finally came I went with it into my library, locked the door, and
settled down to decipher the old and decorative handwriting. Vespucci
had written in Latin a somewhat grave and formal filial epistle to his
father. He was in Trivio Mugelli at the time, October 18, 1476. He
comments on a commonplace book, belonging to his uncle, Giorgio Antonio
Vespucci. These commonplace books were frequently kept in the fifteenth
century. They were used to note down Greek and Latin quotations, the
common information of the period. I had hardly finished reading this
before some mental click went off in my mind. I left my comfortable
chair and walked suddenly to a corner of my bookcase. Quickly I picked
out an old manuscript in a fifteenth-century binding. I held in my
hands an ancient commonplace book. There on the title page was the
written name--Giorgio Antonio Vespucci!
Side by side in my library were Amerigo’s only letter and Uncle
Giorgio’s commonplace book! I was thrilled by it all. In something of
a daze I placed the two on the table before me. Separated for nearly
five hundred years, they were again together. Where had they been those
five centuries? What had they seen and heard? If someone had thrown
a diamond into the middle of the ocean, to recover it years later,
it could not have been a greater miracle than this almost impossible
literary remating. Now the letter and the volume are in the Pierpont
Morgan library, united forever.
Some collectors, to my eternal amazement, are completely satisfied with
small libraries. This desire for a limited number of exquisite books
originated in France centuries ago. Many of the wealthiest and most
meticulous book lovers went in for what is known as cabinet collecting.
They liked small books which they could handle easily, and found no
interest in the first edition of even an important classic if it were
large. Diane de Poitiers was one of the first cabinet collectors. The
beloved of Henry II, she would doubtless be forgotten by collectors
to-day if she had not, like Cardinal Wolsey, loved her books more
than her king. When she became a widow, Diane immediately stamped her
volumes with a laurel springing from a tomb, with the motto, “I live
alone in grief.” But when she began her friendship with Henry she
suppressed both the tomb and the legend.
In her boudoir in the Château d’Anet, just outside of Paris, long
after her death a small case was found filled with the most precious
volumes, all in beautiful bindings of red and citron morocco, decorated
with the crescents of Diana the book huntress. This little nest of
bookish nuggets was not found until 1723, but was in perfect condition.
The diversity of its contents was amusing. The fathers of the Church
nestled close to some of the most risqué stories of that time, and the
poets stood side by side with treatises on medicine and the management
of the household. It has always been of interest to me that in the
small collection of Diane de Poitiers were two books relating to this
country, thus making her one of the earliest collectors of Americana.
The first was Servete’s edition of Ptolemy’s _Geography_, dated 1541,
and the other, _Les Singularitez de la France Antartique autrement
nommée Amerique_, brought out seventeen years later.
Perhaps the man who makes a covenant with himself to buy only a small
number of books, imitating the French collectors, is the happiest and
wisest of us all. He knows in his mind the location of every volume on
his shelves. At least he runs little chance of finding himself in the
position which was forced upon me several years ago. I had purchased
a first edition of Defoe’s _Robinson Crusoe_, published in 1719,
for which I paid $2500. Along with thousands of other volumes on my
shelves, I had not thought for months of poor old Crusoe and his man
Friday.
One day, however, a stranger came to see me, announcing with a great
air of assurance he had a really fine book which he knew would delight
me. Just how much, neither of us realized until it was removed from its
brown-paper wrapping. Then I recognized the binding, and that it was
my own _Robinson Crusoe_! I concealed my surprise as I asked for its
history and how he had come by it. With charming facility he explained
that it was left by his father-in-law to his wife, and I became furious
when he wound up with the worn tale of its having been in his family
“for over one hundred years.”
After he had finished his finely embroidered story I excused myself
from the room for a moment to telephone police headquarters. Returning,
I directly accused him of having acquired the book dishonestly. Looking
me in the eye, more in sorrow than in anger, he stood by his guns. But
when he heard the echo of heavy footsteps beyond my study door he broke
down, and told me a sordid hard-luck story which made me feel rather
sorry for him. I learned then that he had also bought other volumes
from a man who had been employed by me some months before. He paid a
few dollars for each book--I asked him for the names of the others,
and was relieved that they did not compare in value to the _Robinson
Crusoe_--and they were delivered to his junk shop. There was some
wistful quality about this fellow; aside from his dishonesty, he spoke
of books as though he loved them. I could not prosecute him. Again I
left the room, this time to tell the two detectives who were waiting
that I would not press the charge. And it did seem most unfortunate for
him that he came to me, of all people in the world, with that _Robinson
Crusoe_!
The modern book lover who gratifies his taste with a small collection
usually starts off with what he calls a logical reason for his fixed
policy. Some men will collect everything they can find which has been
written by or associated with an author they love, generally some
writer who has had a definite influence upon their lives. Thus there
are men who gather every edition, pamphlet, manuscript, autograph, or
personal relic of Burns, Shelley, Thackeray, or Dickens, to mention
only a few. Other sentimentalists must have every line of verse by
the poet whose rhythmic genius has struck sparks of music or passion
in their own souls. On the other hand, a practical person, such as an
Arctic explorer, will hunt out every known document mentioning the
Arctic, while his colleague, the African explorer, follows suit with
his desires for all works concerning his favorite quarter of the globe.
For years I have had a charming customer who is a romanticist if ever
there was one. Her enthusiasm is for books on those idealistic lands
beyond the mountains or behind the moon about which English writers of
all centuries have delighted to weave strange fantastic tales, such as
Sir Thomas More’s _Utopia_ and Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_. Then
there is another customer, with his vivid remembrance of old vintages,
whose standing order since the passing of the Volstead Act has kept us
busy gathering all editions and early works mentioning ardent spirits.
He smacks his lips with gusto when he obtains a particularly rare
one. Another great amateur’s favorite subject is everything relating
to tobacco. English authors from Ben Jonson to Charles Lamb allowed
their love of tobacco to permeate their works, and it is therefore a
delightful task, especially to an inveterate smoker, to pick up, here
and there, old books in which the authors endearingly mention perique
and “cigars of the Havana.” I recently owned a rare little volume
on which Charles Lamb had spilled some ale, and in which were found
remnants of tobacco. This might have caused a battle royal between the
two friends above mentioned, and, as I could not divide the volume, I,
like King Solomon on a more famous occasion, sold it to a collector who
was interested in gentle Elia for his dear self alone.
Very often these specialists have a change of heart. Their tastes
broaden and they develop into the maddest collectors of all. Perhaps
they suddenly realize the limited span of even a collector’s life, and
find they are missing many enchanting bypaths along the highroad of
books. When Richard Heber, the greatest bibliomaniac who ever lived,
began his library, he was interested only in purely classical works.
This English gentleman, although he has been dead for nearly one
hundred years, still survives, enshrined in every true bookman’s heart.
To recognize in oneself the symptoms of becoming “the fiercest and
strongest of all bibliomaniacs”--so Heber is described--what secret joy
and satisfaction! Heber’s library grew to enormous proportions, and
when he died he left more than one hundred and fifty thousand volumes.
Like Earl Spencer, it was necessary for him to have many houses, just
to hold his books. Eight establishments there were, on the Continent
and in England, each overrun with books. It was he who started the
craze for duplicate copies, explaining that no one could afford to be
without three copies of a book: one for show, the second for use, and
the third for borrowers!
Everybody knows it is never quite safe to lend an umbrella, even to
one’s dearest friend; the very act of lending seems to demoralize the
borrower, who thinks not of the rainy days to come. If there is scant
hope of ever seeing the umbrella again, how much less is there for a
borrowed book--unless it happens to be a rare one! In that case it may
be discovered several generations later, when the worried and loving
owner, who by this time is reclining in some bookish Nirvana, cares
little for earthly treasures. How many great literary finds have been
made as a result of careless borrowers, I wonder!
[Illustration: PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CHARLES LAMB’S “THE
TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE”]
There is the case of a certain Englishman who, several years ago,
“borrowed” some early English books, printed by Caxton and Wynkyn de
Worde, from the libraries of Lincoln and Peterborough Cathedrals.
Lest they should be missed immediately, he left behind him the covers
of the books, stuffed with newspapers and replaced on the shelves;
the contents he carried away in his pockets. But one day someone
browsing about chanced to take down these skeleton books. The fraud was
discovered and reported to all book dealers and collectors in England,
so they should be on the lookout. Some of the volumes, minus bindings,
have already turned up at various sales, but where they all are no one
knows. They may be discovered again somewhere, some day.
One day before the War a stranger called on Quaritch, one of the most
celebrated and astute booksellers in London, to whose shop many rare
books, in those days, naturally drifted. This man said he had an old
book, but didn’t know its value. Quaritch looked at it, and immediately
recognized it as the long-lost and valuable edition of the laws of
Massachusetts, known to collectors as _The General Laws and Liberties
of Massachusetts, collected out of the Records of the General Courts_,
and printed at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1648. Inquiring of the
owner what he thought he should receive for it, the man would not say;
he desired Quaritch to make him an offer.
Quaritch was known far and wide for his fair dealing. Now he took into
consideration various facts, the most important of which was that he
might have to keep the volume for some years before reselling it. He
therefore offered what he felt to be a perfectly fair price--£2500.
The man looked at him in “wild surmise,” then gasped. He would have
accepted fifty pounds for it! But now, he said, as he put on his hat,
with the layman’s suspicious look in his eye, he would have to think
it over. He was too frightened to make up his mind just then. He never
went back to Quaritch, but shopped around a long time, selling it
eventually for £5000--a little less than $25,000. Alfred Quaritch told
me that it was this experience which cured him forever of making offers
on books.
It is amazing how many of these first American editions have been found
across the Atlantic. Several years ago, while in England, I was invited
by a noted collector to inspect his library. We had been talking books
for hours, and as the twilight approached, did not think to turn on the
lights. I got up to leave and stumbled against a folio volume which
someone had carelessly left on the floor. I carried it quickly to the
window to see what it was. Opening the old calf binding in the fading
light, I read the written inscription on the title page: “This book
was used in the Trial of the Earl of Bellomont, Governor of New York.”
It was, to my astonishment, my uncle Moses’ old _bête-noir_, the very
rare _First Laws of New York_, printed by William Bradford in 1694. I
was extremely pleased with this volume, and suggested to the owner that
inasmuch as it was a New York book, and not particularly interesting to
him, he might care to part with it, which to my joy he gracefully did.
Printer Bradford has the distinction of being the first in both
Philadelphia and New York. His earlier works, published in
Philadelphia, loudly proclaim the hatred he had for some of the Quakers
of his day. He was constantly bringing out tracts against them. When
they threatened to jail him he found it necessary to leave the City of
Brotherly Love, and settled in New York. Several years ago I attended a
sale in Philadelphia and came across a book which no one seemed to know
anything about. I showed it to several other collectors, who pushed
it aside, believing it worthless, merely an old book. The name of the
printer or the place was not upon the title page; I recognized it,
however, as coming from Bradford’s famous press.
It was a scurrilous attack on one Samuel Jennings, Quaker, printed
by Bradford in New York in 1693. Entirely composed in rhyme, by John
Philley, it was lengthily titled: _A Paraphrastical Exposition in
a Letter from a Gentleman in Philadelphia to his Friend in Boston
concerning a certain Person who compared himself to Mordecai_. I
could not remember ever having seen an earlier-dated book published
in New York. Here, then, was a first, which was valuable from three
standpoints. It was the only copy known; it was probably the first book
printed in New York; it was the earliest poetical production of the New
York press. I am having a reprint made, so that it will be accessible
to all students of history.
I am sometimes given credit for discoveries which I am not in the
least entitled to. There are many old bookmen, true ferrets, who are
always on the lookout for unusual things. They often bring their finds
to me. In Paris there is a whole tribe of book seekers who infest
the quays along the Seine, where quaint volumes are occasionally
found. Collectors do not often have the good fortune to find great
rarities there, but my friend Mitchell Kennerley has the distinction
of making one of the greatest finds in bookish history. Many years
ago, while walking on the left bank of the Seine, he picked up, for a
few sous, Champlain’s first book on the Indians of Canada, entitled
_Des Sauvages_, issued in Paris in 1603. He kept it in his box at the
Lotos Club in New York for more than two years. The whole matter was
forgotten until someone, accidentally mentioning old books on the
American Indians, recalled to his attention the little volume resting
so quietly in its solitary nook. Mr. Kennerley put it into an auction
sale in 1907, and no one was more greatly surprised and elated than he
when it sold for $2900.
This leads me to remember one of the most colorful incidents of
my collecting career, an experience brought about through the
consideration of a fellow bookman. It happened when I was in Boston,
attending the dedication of the Harry Elkins Widener Memorial Library
in 1914. I had arrived on an early train, so I decided to spend several
pleasant hours on Park Street with my friend Charles Goodspeed. As
I entered his shop he came forward with the exclamation, “I have a
manuscript in which you will be interested, I am sure!” He disappeared
into the back of his shop, and I waited, filled with curiosity. After a
few moments he returned and handed me a small piece of paper. As I read
it I could hardly believe that this was the first draft of Benjamin
Franklin’s famous epitaph, which is so dear to every lover of old
books. At first I was suspicious that it might be a clever forgery. But
when Goodspeed explained that it came from the old and noted Aspinwall
collection, I needed no further assurance. It was absolutely authentic,
and eagerly I purchased it.
This was Franklin’s first attempt at writing his epitaph, dated 1728,
and differed slightly in the wording from the fair copy which has been
for many years in the Library of Congress in Washington. I brought
it back to Philadelphia in great glee and showed it to Eddie Newton.
In an ill-starred moment for him, and to his everlasting regret, he
refused it. This is the only time--with one exception, which is another
story--that I knew him to fall down. This epitaph has found its resting
place in the magnificent Franklin collection of William S. Mason, of
Evanston, Illinois.
Nothing better reveals the great American, the man whose sayings have
helped the destinies of the New World, than this faded sheet of paper,
where the master printer gives, in the parlance of his trade, this
noble colophon:--
THE BODY OF B. FRANKLIN,
PRINTER,
LIKE THE COVER OF AN OLD BOOK,
ITS CONTENTS TORN OUT
AND
STRIPT OF ITS LETTERING & GILDING
LIES HERE
FOOD FOR WORMS.
BUT THE WORK SHALL NOT BE LOST;
FOR IT WILL, AS HE BELIEV’D
APPEAR ONCE MORE
IN A NEW AND MORE ELEGANT EDITION
REVISED AND CORRECTED
BY THE AUTHOR.
III
SOLD TO DR. R!
The gas lamps in Stan V. Henkels’s auction rooms in Philadelphia were
being extinguished. An exciting sale of books had just ended, and I was
left a rather bitter young man. The purchaser of the one book I had
so eagerly hoped to secure was a thin, wiry man, with a face of rare
charm. He was not an auction habitué, at least not at Henkels’s, or I
should have recognized him. One gets used to the same old faces in an
auction room. Earlier that evening I had noticed him two rows ahead of
me, a distinguished-looking person; but once the auctioneer’s hammer
had struck, giving him the final decision on his bid, I changed my
opinion, and he now appeared highly distasteful to me.
As I went to open the street door I passed him. He stood showing the
book to a group of other buyers. I would have died rather than ask
his permission to look at that ancient missal, which I felt he had
deliberately taken from me. And what a copy! As perfect as the day it
came from the scriptorium in Touraine nearly four hundred years ago.
More important still, it had belonged at one time to the exquisite and
altogether enchanting Gabrielle d’Estrées. She may have treated her
lovers negligently, but to her books she gave the gentlest care. If the
truth were known, she had a more tender regard for her books than for
Henry IV. Perhaps she abandoned him to find change and relaxation in
looking at the pictures in this volume. I was nineteen; the ephemeral
love affairs of great court beauties catch the imagination at that age
as they never do in later years.
[Illustration:
And lo, the Angel of the Lord came upon them and the Glory of the
Lord shone round about them and they were sore afraid
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF HANDEL’S “MESSIAH”]
You see, I had been saving every penny I could lay my hands on to buy
this book. I had read about it in the sale catalogue. It is not exactly
clear to me to-day why I so desperately wanted to own this particular
missal. Perhaps it was one of those waxing obsessions which seize book
lovers at all seasons of the year. I remember it was a warm, languorous
spring. The night air was sweet. As I walked along I asked myself many
questions: What good had come of my hoarding every cent to purchase it?
Wasn’t it unfair of wealthy men who attend auctions never to give the
poor student a chance? I had gone to that sale with fifty-seven dollars
in my pocket. It was an enormous sum for me to invest in one book, and
I really doubted that anyone would want this particular volume badly
enough to pay more than fifty dollars for it. Imagine my surprise when
this stranger overbid me by three dollars!
Depressed, I wandered for some time along the ill-lighted street before
I was aware of quick steps behind me. It was my successful competitor.
And from another direction I saw a horse and cab drive toward me. A dim
street light revealed the blurred outlines of a rickety worn-out nag
whose driver slouched above on the box. It was Wee-hicle.
Now Wee-hicle was a coachman of local renown. His thin, emaciated, Don
Quixotic figure had always attracted my attention. Wee-hicle knew more
individuals of prominence in Philadelphia than did the mayor himself.
Further, Wee-hicle had vision. To be carried home in the early hours by
Wee-hicle boded good. In this way he had sponsored the early careers of
more youths who later became distinguished citizens than any Harvard
professor. This night he drove to the curb and recognized me. At the
same time the footsteps in the darkness quickened and an anxious voice
shouted, “Cabby!” Now I wanted to go home with Wee-hicle myself. With a
rude bound, I reached the cab door before the person behind me.
“Which way are you going?” he asked me as he came close to the cab. His
voice was clear and friendly, nor was the dark too thick to hide the
kindliness of his expression. With that forced reciprocal politeness
which often overtakes one in the heat of anger or disappointment, I
battled with a desire to grab the book and run off into the darkness.
“I can take you anywhere you care to go,” I answered. He heard the
vindictive note in my voice, as I meant him to. He looked at me
uneasily. Perhaps he feared I had been drinking.
“I feel like having a bite,” he began. “I’d like to go to McGowan’s.
Perhaps you will join me.” Without waiting for a reply, he leaned
forward and called out our destination to Wee-hicle.
Those were the days when McGowan’s was an all-night meeting place where
convivial souls gathered to eat, drink, and to be quietly merry. It
was famous for its terrapin; in fact, it was at that time one of the
great restaurants of America. Situated at the corner of Fifteenth and
Sansom streets, it had an entrance on either side. When we arrived I
told Wee-hicle to wait.
After ordering supper my host picked up the Gabrielle d’Estrées volume
and exhibited it in a most tantalizing manner.
“You paid a very high price for that little missal,” I ventured.
He looked up, surprised. “How do you know?”
“I was there--at the auction.” At that moment the waiter brought two
long-stemmed glasses filled with a golden-brown liquid. It was bitter
and warming. “I was the underbidder,” I said.
“You bid me up?” The waiter replaced our glasses with others. We drank
silently. “So you wanted this book? Well, well! You love books?” I
nodded. His face seemed to soften. “And what would you have given
for it?” He handed the volume across the table to me and my fingers
trembled.
“All that I have in the world,” I said dramatically. “Fifty-seven
dollars.” The waiter came forward with our supper. It was a beautiful
repast worthy of the skill of Dennis McGowan himself.
As we ate I listened to my new friend through an ever-thickening haze.
He told me of his interest in books and manuscripts. He was not a
collector exactly, he explained, but a man who bought intermittently as
the desire came upon him.
[Illustration: PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WAGNER’S “DIE
MEISTERSINGER”]
“And now,” said he, “since you wanted this book so badly, will you
accept it as a proof of our newly made friendship?” He leaned across
the table and I grasped his hand. He insisted upon my accepting the
volume as a gift! Then we talked of books and bookmen until far into
the night. We walked home in the early morning air.
The next day at noon, as I crossed the campus of the University of
Pennsylvania, I was aware of a familiar figure who waved and attracted
great attention with a coach whip. It was Wee-hicle.
“Say, young Rosenbach,” he holloed, “what do you mean, keepin’ me
waitin’ all night on Sansom Street?” He came toward me on a run,
accusingly. “Sneakin’ out on Fifteenth Street, you and your friend! I
want my money! I waited outside all night long. Twenty-five dollars,
night rates!” To quiet his shouting, I motioned him to follow me to my
room. I had forgotten him completely. Had the preceding night been a
dream or a nightmare? Surely it was neither, for there on my bookshelf
was the missal in its old gilt binding--the book which had been forced
so generously upon me. I paid Wee-hicle gladly and figured his services
cheap at the price. As to the gentleman who presented me with the
volume, it was Joseph M. Fox. He later became my partner in the book
business.
The auction business is an old, old game. Herodotus, somewhere in his
writings, describes the auctions which took place once a year in all
Babylonian villages. In those days, before the advent of the bachelor
girl, despairing parents hopefully offered their surplus maidens
in the auction mart, where they disposed of them in marriage to the
highest bidders. Then there were the auctions which followed military
victories. The Romans solved the problem of dividing captives and other
spoils of war in this popular manner.
But the first book auctions, as far as records show, began in the
latter part of the seventeenth century in Holland. The enterprising
Dutchman who originated the idea of selling literary works by
competitive bid, whether he was a book lover or interested only in cold
commercial hope of gain, should have his memory appreciatively marked
by periods of celebration down the years. Can’t you imagine every true
book lover bowing to the name of this fellow who brought a new and
sharp-edged enjoyment into the book game?
Of all the branches of the sport connected with book collecting, that
of attending book auctions is the greatest, the most stirring. I
presume some patient mathematician knows the number of facets of the
Koh-i-nur diamond, but no one will ever be able to count the emotional
reflections which take place during a book auction in the hearts and
minds of men and women who are enamored of books. The book auction is
an adventure. Other adventures may lose their glamour if you repeat
them, but each experience at a sale of books brings a delightful thrill
never to be duplicated.
Other experiences in your life may have been exciting, and you will
always shrink from repeating them, in the fear, perhaps, that they
may lose some one quality. But the book auction, which includes the
sale of literary manuscripts and letters, continues to offer those
very elements which first fascinated you. Don’t be surprised when
you find yourself one of the habitual adventurers. Unsympathetic,
misunderstanding friends may accuse you of being a book-auction fiend,
but you will listen indulgently and let it go at that.
Most of the great books of the world have found their way to the
auction room at one time or another. Bibliophiles of renown have
sat restlessly out front bidding against one another. It is these,
rare books and the buyers of them, who have given to the auction its
illustrious background. Nearly every collector enters the auction field
to enjoy its seductive pleasures some time during the period of his
fever.
When you first go to an auction you firmly believe that prices are at
their highest. The complaint of high prices is as old as the auction
game itself. The morning after every sale you read the same old story
in your newspaper, of the “crazy,” “mad,” and “exorbitant” prices which
were paid. Present prices always seem high. If you keep a record of
them you will find, in ten years’ time, that these prices are extremely
low. As a matter of fact, prices will never be lower than they are
to-day. Certain items may fluctuate, but in general the great classics
of all literature can be revalued upward every ten years. Very often
you may have the feeling that you paid too much for some book--in other
words, you were stung; and it may be so. But the beauty of it all is
that an auction holds fair play for all sides. Even the experienced
buyer is liable to get stung. You are in good company. And joy of
joys, the auctioneer, your arch enemy, sometimes gets charmingly stung
himself! For who can say when some bargain will drop unexpectedly into
the collector’s maw?
[Illustration: BOOK AUCTION AT THE ANDERSON GALLERIES, NEW YORK, WITH
DR. ROSENBACH ATTENDING]
I remember a case in point. It was during the third part of the Hoe
sale in April 1912. In the catalogue a celebrated autograph play by
Lope de Vega was listed. Entitled _Carlos V_, it had been written in
Toledo and was dated November 20, 1604. Now manuscript plays by this
famous Spanish writer are extremely desirable. Although the greatest
book dealers and collectors of England, France, Italy, and Germany
were present that night, they either slighted or forgot its value. I
purchased it on my first bid, $125.
A collector in Philadelphia had given me a bid of $7500 on it! He was
even then sitting at his telephone impatiently waiting to hear if I had
secured it for him. The above story is at the expense of a New York
house. My next will be on a British concern, in order to balance honors.
At the sale of the Britwell Court Library in London in 1923, I noticed
a little book lying sandwiched between Paice’s _Fortune’s Lottery,
or How a Ship of Bristoll Called the Angel Gabriel Fought Against
the Spanish_, and Pallinganius’s _The Zodyacke of Lyfe_. It was
Philip Paine’s _Dailey Meditations, or Quotidian Preparations for and
Consideration of Death and Eternity_, printed at Cambridge by Marmaduke
Johnson in 1668. As it was passed around the room all my bookman
friends looked at it and shook their heads. Of value, they thought,
comparatively slight. Only a dull theological work. As I reread the
lengthy title something back in my brain made me concentrate more
carefully upon it. Somewhere those printed words struck a vaguely
familiar chord in my memory. All during the sale I kept turning forward
to that page in my catalogue where it was listed. Suddenly I knew!
Marmaduke Johnson it was who printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the
first Holy Scriptures issued for the North American Indians--the Eliot
Indian Bible.
The little book was put up for sale and I asked leave to examine it
again for a moment before bidding. I knew at once it was printed in
Cambridge, Massachusetts, and not England. This made it tremendously
rare, because it was the only known copy, hitherto unrecognized, of
the first volume of verse printed in North America. Those present took
it for granted from the catalogue description that the little work
was printed in Cambridge, England, and as such, was certainly worth
less than the price at which it was soon knocked down to me, fifty-one
pounds. After the sale several people, including a great Americana
expert and the auctioneer, met me and rather twitted me for paying $250
for a stupid old religious tract worth but a few shillings. They were
amazed that I had shown such a lapse of judgment.
When I informed them what the book really was, the auctioneer sadly
asked, “Doctor, what would you really have given for it?”
When I said £8000 or £9000--between $40,000 and $50,000--he was not
any too happy. During the following year, when the little tract by
Baxter in the Indian dialect appeared for sale, they catalogued it
Cambridge, Massachusetts! Thus listed, it sold for $34,000, as I have
mentioned before.
You see, we are always reading of record prices and it is very rare to
hear of the valuable things that slip through unobserved. It is these
latter that give book auctions their zest. And the auction houses, if
they only knew it, benefit also by the chance bargain, for it is this
very thing that attracts the public.
On the other hand, the most experienced buyer never knows when he will
have to pay a really high price. It is the average, after all, that
counts. Yet here is a phenomenon which has always seemed peculiar to
me. When times are bad and prices in Wall Street are tumbling, when
Steel sells far below its worth and the oils go begging, rare volumes
continue to command an ever-increasing price. In 1907, the year of the
panic, books sold for record sums at auctions, while so-called standard
securities dipped sharply in a helpless market. Two years later,
when national finances were again wobbly, when the bears were having
a picnic with the lambs, old books went for higher prices than ever
before.
In the Henry W. Poor sale, held in New York in this same year, record
prices were established, despite the prediction of the wiseacres,
who said that prices must go down. It is for this reason that some
of the most discerning men in Wall Street purchase rare books as an
investment. I know many a captain of industry who quietly hides away in
the secrecy of his strong box rare little volumes, such as Shakespeare
quartos, small pamphlets by Shelley, and even first editions of Joseph
Conrad. These rich men realize--and rightly, too--that such treasures
will always sell at a premium, even though the market is tumbling and
Wall Street is in a panic. Owners of precious books always find they
do not have to wait for the chance buyer. Their volumes can be sent to
the auction mart at any time, where they will realize, as a rule, their
full value.
America has had two really great auctioneers: Stan V. Henkels, of
beloved memory, and the late Thomas E. Kirby. The latter in many
respects exerted the greatest influence of any person in the auction
world of this country. He was the founder of the American Art
Association, and his opinions on objects of art were accepted as gospel
by the most meticulous collectors, including the late P. A. B. Widener,
William A. Clark, and Henry C. Frick. He was really brilliant on the
block, and his remarks were frequently the wittiest imaginable. I
remember as a youth going to his auctions and being fascinated by his
repartee and the rapidity with which he sold.
Stan V. Henkels was the only auctioneer who catalogued every work
himself and cried his own sales too. His humor was irresistible, and
the audience would often break out in guffaws of laughter at his many
bright sallies.
[Illustration: THOMAS E. KIRBY ON THE ROSTRUM]
In 1902 I attended a sale at Henkels’s where the price of a certain
volume caused the book world to hum for months afterward. I was late,
and entered the room as the bidding began on a little book which was
placed in full view of the audience. I asked one of the employés for
its number in the catalogue and found that it was _The Dying Words
of Ockanickon, an Indian King_, and was published in London in 1682.
It did not seem to be a volume of much importance. I was acquainted
somewhat with its history. The highest price it had ever brought was
$52.50, at the Barlow sale in 1890. I leaned forward to whisper to a
friend in the row ahead of me and he said $200 would be an enormous
price for it.
Suddenly the air seemed charged with electricity, and I looked about to
see who was bidding. On one side of the room sat a man I knew, A. J.
Bowden, who represented George H. Richmond and Company, of New York.
On the other I saw Mr. Robert Dodd, of Dodd, Mead and Company. Both
were experienced auction bidders, with the set expression of the mouth
and the feverish, alert look. I did not know at the time that both had
received instructions to buy this particular work at any price. Each
had that most dangerous weapon of the auction game, the unlimited bid.
From sixty dollars the price rapidly jumped. Stan V. Henkels, colorful,
suave, provocative, naïve, and humorous, kept egging them on. Up and
up the price went, until it reached the $900 mark. Then a murmur of
consternation swept the room, followed by a hush. Robert Dodd broke
the silence with a $100 raise. Bowden followed with another $100 and
Dodd added $100 more. When Bowden finally shouted, “Thirteen hundred
dollars,” Dodd smiled.
“Fourteen hundred,” he said sweetly.
Just at this moment poor old Bowden exhibited his first sign of
weakness. He stopped bidding in hundreds and raised the bid twenty-five.
Dodd saw his chance and brought up his battalion with a crash. Little
_Ockanickon_ was wrested from Bowden at the freak price of $1450. When
Richmond read in the paper next morning the price at which he had so
nearly bought _Ockanickon_, he fell out of bed!
Speaking of freak prices, think of my surprise when I went to an
auction one day last year and saw with amused amazement a little volume
of book mysteries I once wrote. I felt self-conscious, uncomfortable,
and pleased, all rolled into one, when the bids on _The Unpublishable
Memoirs_ jumped up, and it finally sold for sixteen dollars. The joke
is that this volume is still obtainable at its published price of $2.50.
The enormous and ever increasing attendance at auction sales in the
established city auction rooms is caused by the hope that sometime a
real bargain will come your way. This is the lure, the real bait. It
has an appeal all its own. But for the young enthusiast it is often
a costly and dangerous game. It is wiser to begin your bidding under
the guidance of an experienced agent. There are several collectors
and owners of great private libraries in this country whose names are
entirely unknown in the auction room. They may enter the salesroom
incognito, to enjoy watching their agent at battle with others, but
they are careful not to run any risks themselves through careless,
inexperienced bidding. One of the greatest book collectors in the
world, Mr. Henry E. Huntington, never bid. In all the years during
which he was buying he never entered the lists to joust for himself.
[Illustration: THE BIBLIO-FIENDS
_Drawing by Oliver Herford for Dr. Rosenbach’s “Unpublishable Memoirs”_]
In the forty years I have been bidding I have found a new thrill in
every sale. From my earliest years at Henkels’s auctions to the most
recent sales in London, Paris, and New York, I have repeatedly known a
fine exhilaration. I sniff the air like an old war horse at the smell
of powder. How often have I felt my pulses race, my temperature rise
with the rising bids! But as I grow older I find I have to fight that
deadliest of maladies--conservatism. This is one thing in the world
that the collector should pray to be delivered from. Of course it is
awfully difficult to pay $500 to-day for a book that in your youth you
could have picked up for only twenty, or to buy a book for $1000 which
two years ago passed through your fingers for one third as much.
The late George D. Smith, a spectacular figure in the auction mart for
more than twenty years, was the only man I ever knew entirely immune
from conservatism. I can remember him at the Hoe sale in 1911-12.
There he was constantly bidding against the sharpest and most astute
members of both the European and the American book trade. How cool
and collected he was in the very midst of battle! The comments of his
competitors remained unnoticed by him when he paid what were then
considered extravagant prices for books and manuscripts. And his
judgment was right. To-day these same items can’t be bought for two or
three times the sums he paid. When he purchased, toward the end of the
sale, a Gutenberg Bible for $50,000, everyone said he had gone quite
mad. They did not realize that the same remarks were made sixty-five
years earlier, when, in 1847, James Lenox had given £500--about
$2500--for it. This copy is now in the New York Public Library. In my
opinion the Gutenberg Bible was then worth every dollar of the $50,000
which G. D. S. paid for it. Ten years from now it will be cheap at
$250,000.
There have been many notable auctions during the past twenty years, but
I shall never forget my first one in England, in 1907. A dear friend of
mine, and a most intelligent collector of exquisite taste, Mr. William
C. Van Antwerp, of San Francisco, had gathered together a small but
delectable library, which he decided to sell at Sotheby’s in March of
that year. I crossed on the Oceanic with Alfred Quaritch, who occupied
a commanding position in the book world.
I was but one of the small fry, out of college only a few years.
Quaritch and I had been drawn to each other by the magnet of books. On
the way over we talked of the sale, and I dwelt with especial emphasis
on the fine first folio of Shakespeare in Van’s collection. In a way,
I was sounding out Quaritch, for I knew instinctively that it would be
useless to bid against this giant of the auction room if he wanted the
folio himself. I grew very nervous as we sat in the smoking room one
evening when we were about five days out. I decided I had hemmed and
hawed long enough. Finally I worked up courage to ask him to execute a
bid for me on the folio.
[Illustration: SOTHEBY’S AUCTION ROOM IN LONDON]
He seemed surprised, and did not answer for some moments. Then he
asked me, “How much do you intend to bid? I warn you, if it’s too low
I’ll buy it myself.”
I answered weakly, “Five thousand pounds.”
He opened his eyes wide. “That _is_ a bid,” he said, “and I’ll get it
for you.”
Then came the day of the auction in London. I remember sitting next to
Quaritch, witnessing the battle of wits and bids at Sotheby’s. I was
shaking like the proverbial aspen leaf, to a degree that I have never
done since. The bidding on the folio opened at £500. After what seemed
an interminable length of time, it was knocked down to Quaritch for
£3600. I was so completely overcome with joy that I had to walk around
the block for air and refreshment to buck me up. This was a handsome
copy, bound in morocco by Bedford, a celebrated craftsman of the 70’s.
I recall, too, Harry Elkins Widener’s pleasure when this folio passed
finally into his possession. I think of all the books of his fine
collection, he valued this one the most. Years later, when we paid
£8600--a little under $43,000--at the Baroness Burdett-Coutts’s sale,
the record price for a Shakespeare folio, I received my brother
Philip’s cable, advising me of our luck, without a tremor.
Fifteen years had rolled by; much water had run under the bridge. Poor
Quaritch, my dearest friend in the book business, had passed away, only
forty-two years old when he died. His death was a great loss to the
world of rare books.
The price of a first folio indicates the trend of values in the English
market, just as the Boucher Molière, 1734, shows the state of the
French market, while the Dante printed in Foligno, 1472, tells the tale
of the Italian market. These books are always rising in value, and it
is the rapidity of their change in price that shows which way the wind
is blowing. To-day, when the condition of a book is everything and
collectors pay more attention to it than to anything else, fine first
folios of Shakespeare are judged by these three points: First, the
copy must have its full number of leaves, each page perfect, without
facsimile. Second, the binding. It is, of course, more desirable in
the original binding, or, next, rebound in the eighteenth century, or,
lastly, in a good modern binding. In years to come the original binding
will be the chief of all desiderata. Third, the folio must be of
adequate size, about thirteen by eight and a quarter inches. A quarter
of an inch one way or another can spell tragedy to the fanatical
collector. If you are lucky enough to find a first folio having all
three of these qualities, the gods are with you. I have been fortunate
to procure such an one, the celebrated copy from Sir George Holford’s
library. It is perfect in every detail. It is exceptional in having the
blank leaves, known in no other copy; its original old calf binding is
without a single blemish.
This is the finest first folio known to exist. It is the cornerstone
of a collection of Shakespeare’s works which I have been gathering
for many years. I remember the excitement when we exhibited in our
Philadelphia show window the four folios, each in its original binding,
the _Poems_, in a similar binding, and forty-one of the early quarto
plays. The passionate interest shown by the man in the street indicated
his never-flagging enthusiasm for anything pertaining to the greatest
writer the world has known.
[Illustration: SHAKESPEARE WINDOW AT 1320 WALNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA]
In 1905, Mr. Bernard Buchanan MacGeorge, of Glasgow, sold four
Shakespeare folios in their original binding to Marsden J. Perry,
of Providence, Rhode Island. He doubtless believed he was using his
cunning Scotch wisdom to a high degree when he steadfastly held out for
£10,000. At this price he figured he was doing himself a neat turn,
because he had paid only £1700 for them six years before. But if he
had been a bit cannier, a little more patient, he would have received
two or three times the sum Mr. Perry paid him. When the balance of the
MacGeorge Library was offered for sale at Sotheby’s in July 1924, all
the bibliophiles in bookdom would have torn one another to bits to get
the Shakespeare folios at the old price. But I was lucky enough to
procure them when I purchased _en bloc_ the Perry Library, and to-day
they are in the library of Mr. Joseph Widener, at Lynnewood Hall, near
Philadelphia.
Thank goodness, they are at least near home, where I can look at them
to my heart’s content.
The history of the Shakespeare folios is an interesting one.
Shakespeare’s genius was so overwhelming that even the least of the
nitwits of his day appreciated him. His greatest contemporaries were
the most eager to preserve his works. Immediately after his death
in 1616 steps were taken to issue a complete edition of his plays.
His manuscripts were probably collected, but, alas, not saved, and
scholars of the time, many of whom had known him well, labored to
procure a perfect text.
Three years passed. Then, in 1619, the English public was surprised to
see issued a single volume containing nine plays. No one knows how many
copies composed this edition, but it is a strange circumstance that
but one copy is in existence to-day. I once owned it, but it finally
passed to Mr. H. C. Folger, of New York, who added it to his remarkable
collection of Shakespeareana. This one surviving copy is in its
original binding. It has an index, too, in the quaint old handwriting
of its first owner, Edward Gwynne, who proudly stamped his name in
gilt on the outside cover. Even though I should not care to be dubbed
a prophet in my own country, I do not hesitate to say that this book
would bring at least $200,000 if it were sold on the block to-day.
This 1619 volume was but a makeshift, playing for its sale upon the
magic name of Shakespeare. John Heminge and Henry Condell, both true
and tried friends of the great Bard, and fellow actors, mentioned in
his will, undertook to give the world a complete and correct edition of
his plays. William Jaggard and his son Isaac were responsible for the
printing, a laborious task when you consider that the volume consisted
of one thousand double-column pages. Thus, the great first folio
was finally issued in 1623, in a plain calf binding. It contained a
portrait of William Shakespeare, with a leaf of verses on the opposite
page by his famous contemporary, Ben Jonson. These are among the finest
lines ever written concerning Shakespeare, and perhaps the greatest
from Jonson’s pen. The original price of the first folio was five
dollars a copy.
One pound in 1623! And yet in the years between 1700 and 1750 it had
only advanced to ten, which reminds me of a good story. In 1790 the
copy belonging to John Watson Reed was offered for sale. That astute
collector, the Duke of Roxburghe, wanted it and commissioned an agent
to buy it for him. The bidding started at five pounds and rose to the
enormous sum of twenty guineas! Everyone was astounded. The duke’s
agent grew faint-hearted and passed a slip of paper to him suggesting
that His Grace retire from the contest. The duke replied with these
memorable and appropriate words:--
Lay on, Macduff;
And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”
The folio finally fell to the duke for thirty-five pounds. How often,
when I feel myself weakening at a sale, do I think of the old duke’s
quotation from _Macbeth_. It should be the motto of every auction
bidder.
The Duke of Roxburghe’s library was sold at Sotheby’s in 1812, and
it included the first folio. It brought an advance of almost three
hundred per cent, being purchased by the Duke of Devonshire for £100.
It can be seen now in the Henry E. Huntington Library. The sale of
this collection more than one hundred and fifteen years ago provided
a sensation which is still talked about, and was not equaled until
the auction of the Gutenberg Bible a year ago last February. As
Thomas Frognall Dibdin said, it reverberated around the world. The
Valdarfer Boccaccio was the high light in the Roxburghe sale. This
notorious volume was the only perfect copy of the first edition of the
_Decameron_. I have always thought that his flowery description of the
bidding which took place in that “grand æra of Bibliomania,” as he
was so pleased to term it, applies exactly to the tactics used in the
modern auction room. Dibdin wrote as follows:--
The room was crowded to excess; and a sudden darkness which came
across gave rather an additional interest to the scene. At length
the moment of sale arrived. Mr. Evans prefaced the putting up of
the article by an appropriate oration, in which he expatiated upon
its excessive rarity, and concluded by informing the company of the
regret and even “anguish of heart” expressed by Mr. Van Praet that
such a treasure was not at that time to be found in the imperial
collection at Paris. However, it should seem Bonaparte’s agent was
present. Silence followed the address of Mr. Evans. On his right hand,
leaning against the wall, stood Earl Spencer; a little lower down,
and standing at right angles with His Lordship, appeared the Marquis
of Blandford. The Duke, I believe, was not then present; but my Lord
Althorp stood a little backward to the right of his father Earl
Spencer. Such was “the ground taken up” by the adverse hosts.
The honor of firing the first shot was due to a gentleman of
Shropshire, unused to this species of warfare, and who seemed to
recoil from the reverberation of the report himself had made! “One
hundred guineas,” he exclaimed. Again a pause ensued; but anon the
biddings rose rapidly to 500 guineas. Hitherto, however, it was
evident that the firing was but masked and desultory. At length all
random shots ceased, and the champions before named stood gallantly
up to each other, resolving not to flinch from a trial of their
respective strengths.
“A thousand guineas” were bid by Earl Spencer--to which the Marquis
added “ten.” You might have heard a pin drop. All eyes were turned,
all breathing well nigh stopped ... every sword was put home within
its scabbard, and not a piece of steel was seen to move or to glitter
save that which each of these champions brandished in his valorous
hand. See, see! They parry, they lunge, they hit; yet their strength
is undiminished, and no thought of yielding is entertained by
either.... “Two thousand pounds are offered by the Marquis.” ...
Then it was that Earl Spencer, as a prudent general, began to think
of an useless effusion of blood and expenditure of ammunition--seeing
that his adversary was as resolute and “fresh” as at the onset. For
a quarter of a minute he paused; when my Lord Althorp advanced one
step forward, as if to supply his father with another spear for the
purpose of renewing the contest. His countenance was marked by a fixed
determination to gain the prize--if prudence, in its most commanding
form, and with a frown of unusual intensity of expression, had not
bade him desist. The father and son for a few seconds converse apart;
and the biddings are resumed.
“Two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds,” said Lord Spencer. The
spectators are now absolutely electrified. The Marquis quietly adds
his usual “ten” ... and there is an END OF THE CONTEST! Mr. Evans,
ere his hammer fell, made a due pause--and indeed, as if by something
præternatural, the ebony instrument itself seemed to be charmed or
suspended “in midair.” However, at length down dropt the hammer ...
and, as Lisardo has not merely poetically expressed himself, “the
echo” of the sound of that fallen hammer “was heard in the libraries
of Rome, of Milan, and St. Mark.”
The name Dibdin has come to be almost synonymous with “bibliomaniac.”
Although Pennypacker, twenty-five years ago, said that the true
bibliomaniac was a rarissimo,--nearly as scarce as the dodo,--a new
generation of Dibdin men is springing up. There are young men to-day
who find it as difficult to pass an old bookstore or a junk shop
as did those in years gone by; young fellows who will travel miles
to enrich their knowledge of books. I’m afraid it’s the old-timer,
though, who lives among his books, sleeps among them, surrounded by
folios, quartos, books of every size, who thrives in an atmosphere
that is musty, who frowns upon cleanliness as a vice. Of course, such
peculiarities are hardly necessary or desirable, but such men have
lived. The modern Dibdin takes a course in bibliography at college
and attends all book sales. He marks down prices, learns the various
methods experienced bidders use, thus supplementing his college
training with all that he learns in the auction room.
Many years ago I knew a young married man who lived in Orange. He was
auction mad. One New York sale we both attended continued for twelve
evenings. On the twelfth his bride appeared with him and he introduced
her to the other maniacs. In those days it was quite unusual for a
woman to appear at a book auction.
“Why did you bring Mrs. Blank to-night?” I inquired.
“Oh,” said he, “it came to the point where I just had to prove there
were such things as book auctions!”
Although the following tale has nothing to do with book auctions, I am
reminded of it because it has distinctly to do with wives. And wives,
there is no doubt about it, have their niche in the book world, if
only for the influence they have upon their book-mad consorts.
A small man with a shy, walruslike look came to see me one day in
Philadelphia. His meek appearance was in marked contrast to the
determined manner with which he greeted me. He introduced himself as a
piano tuner from Harrisburg.
“I have here, doctor,” he said, pulling out of an inner pocket a
blue envelope, “something which will interest you. I found it in a
secondhand-furniture store among a bundle of papers on its way to
the pulp mill. I rescued it.” He opened the envelope and drew out a
pamphlet in brown paper wrappers. It was Poe’s _Prose Romances. No. I.
Containing The Murders in the Rue Morgue_, published in Philadelphia in
1843. There are only three or four copies known to exist.
“What do you want for it?” I asked him.
“Three thousand eight hundred,” he said quite calmly. Naturally I was
surprised that a man who made his living tinkering with refractory
pianos should know the value of this work. In answer to further
questions, he told me that he spent all his evenings and some of his
days browsing in secondhand stores, in the hope of making a book find.
“And now my dream’s come true. I’m always picking up old books. It
makes my wife wild. She always nags me. Wasting time and throwing away
good cash, she calls it!”
[Illustration: ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF OSCAR WILDE’S SONNET, “ON THE
SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE-LETTERS”]
[Illustration: CHRISTOPHER MORLEY]
I had to have this book. While I wrote out the check I asked him why he
wanted this peculiar sum, and what he would do with it. He answered
without hesitation.
“The first thing I’ll do,” he said, “is to hand over $800 of it to the
missus and let her go to Europe, like she’s always wanted to do. I told
her I’d fix her one day! I guess she won’t nag me any more!”
I recall the crowd present at the sale of the collection of that great
editor of Keats, J. Buxton Forman, in 1920. Students, collectors,
poets, seers, bookmen were there. Suddenly the auctioneer announced
that the next item was a love letter of Keats to Fanny Brawne.
Whereupon my friend Kit Morley was inspired and wrote this exquisite
sonnet, which he dedicated to me:--
IN AN AUCTION ROOM
Letter of John Keats to Fanny Brawne, Anderson Galleries, March 15, 1920
TO DR. A. S. W. ROSENBACH
“_How about this lot?_” said the auctioneer;
“_One hundred, may I say, just for a start?_”
Between the plum-red curtains, drawn apart,
A written sheet was held.... And strange to hear--
(Dealer, would I were steadfast as thou art),
The cold quick bids. (_Against you in the rear!_)
The crimson salon, in a glow more clear,
Burned bloodlike purple as the poet’s heart.
Song that outgrew the singer! Bitter Love
That broke the proud hot heart it held in thrall,
Poor script, where still those tragic passions move--
_Eight hundred bid: fair warning: the last call:_
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
_Sold for eight hundred dollars--Doctor R.!_
CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
[Illustration: LETTER OF KEATS TO FANNY BRAWNE]
IV
SOME LITERARY FORGERIES
“I cast my bread upon the waters, and it came back to me after many
days!”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked the tall white-haired man who sat
opposite me in his luxurious library. The room was an enormous one,
and thousands of fine books lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
My friend seemed in a confidential mood, and I expected to hear
something startling. This Gothic room, with its early Spanish religious
sculptures, had the very atmosphere of a confessional. My companion had
had a somewhat weird career, and as I watched him through the heavy
smoke of our cigars I recalled many strange stories of his youth. Once
he had been a lawyer’s clerk, but now he was a director in many banks,
with financial interests all over the world. The variegated stages by
which he had risen to such eminence, not only in business but as a
collector of pictures and books, were not always clear to the friends
of his later years.
He told me that he had been so poor as a boy he had often known
hunger; that, as a scrivener in the lawyer’s office, he had eked out
a most pitiable existence copying deeds and other legal documents. In
1885 he happened to read in the newspapers of famous auction sales
of autographs in London, and of the first arrival in this country of
representatives of the English book houses. For instance, Bernard
Quaritch was holding his first exhibition in New York at the Hotel
Astor. General Brayton Ives, Robert Hoe, and other great collectors of
the glaring ‘80’s were beginning to form their libraries. My friend
was fascinated, and as he had no capital to invest in great rarities
himself, he thought he would make a few. He determined to try his hand
at imitation.
Just about that period there was an awakened interest in the ill-fated
Major André, who had suffered death as a British informer. In his
grimy boarding house on Grand Street my friend practiced imitating
André’s handwriting. He finally manufactured a splendid letter in
which Major André wrote to General Washington requesting that he
be shot as a soldier and not hanged as a spy. As he described his
youthful fabrication his mouth lighted with a smile of pleasure, and
he confessed that he had been very proud of this forgery; it had been
a work of art! He finally actually sold this pseudo-André letter for
$650! Those were the days when unpedigreed rarities were more easily
disposed of, as there were not so many autograph sharks around as there
are to-day.
Thirty years elapsed. My friend had grown in riches and in reputation.
Now he was a noted collector; forgotten were the peccadillos of his
youth. In 1915, during the Great War, he noticed the advertisement of
a sale in London containing an André letter. He cabled an unlimited
bid, as was now his custom. The letter was bought for him for £280. A
few weeks later, upon opening the package which he received from the
custom house, the inclosed autograph letter looked familiar to him. A
closer scrutiny revealed the fact that he had bought back, at three
times what he had received for it, his own fabrication!
Several years ago I had the remarkable good fortune to secure for my
own library a letter written by Cervantes. It is the only one known
in a private collection to-day. Other letters of his--and they are
few--may be seen only in the Spanish National Library at Madrid.
Cervantes’s autographs are so rare that the British Museum possesses no
example of the handwriting of the author of _Don Quixote_, nor is there
one in the library of the Hispanic Society in New York City, founded
by that great collector, Mr. Archer M. Huntington. From this you may
realize to some extent the desirability and scarcity of a letter of
Cervantes. Written on two pages, and dated February 4, 1593, it is
extremely legible, in a bold Castilian hand, and contains his signature
in full: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, with a fanciful twirling
flourish becoming to a great Spanish author. Many an expert eye has
passed upon it gloatingly in years gone by, for it has been in the
celebrated collections, first of Benjamin Fillon, in Paris, and later
of Alfred Morrison, of London.
[Illustration: LAST PAGE OF THE ONLY LETTER IN THIS COUNTRY WRITTEN BY
CERVANTES]
Some time after acquiring this celebrated autograph I was startled one
day in New York, when an agent from a well-known English autograph
house telephoned me and said he had a wonderful letter of Cervantes.
He asked £3000 for it, which was certainly not too high, when you stop
to consider that Cervantes’s place in literature is second only to
that of Shakespeare. If a Shakespeare letter were found to-day many
collectors would not consider $500,000 too much to pay for it. What,
then, is a Cervantes letter worth? While I sat mulling over these
mathematical problems, the doorbell rang and the dealer came in. His
manner was important, almost condescending. His precious letter was
inclosed in a fine morocco case, elaborately tooled. He removed it from
its costly trappings, and after a moment of suspense, which was really
most effective, he handed the letter to me. I could scarcely believe
my eyes. I looked for the date--February 4, 1593. It was an excellently
forged copy of the one in my possession.
“Where in the devil did you get this?”
His face turned the color of a carnation and his swanky manner of
assurance wilted away.
“Just what do you mean?” he asked me slowly. I motioned him to follow,
and took him into my book vault, where I laid his clever forgery next
to mine the original. For a moment I thought he would crumple up and
fall to the floor. I have never seen anyone so completely nonplussed.
He had really believed his Cervantes letter to be the original, and
had come in all good faith to sell it to me. I proved to him how some
forger, after securing the sheets of old paper, had, through a process
of photo-engraving, cleverly produced the letter which he had so
exultingly shown to me.
The beautiful thing about the book business is that you must be
constantly on your guard. It makes the game exciting to know that there
are beings who, like vultures, would pick your bones if you but gave
them the chance. Thank heaven for them. The chase is more exhilarating
on their account.
The atmosphere of Wall Street is that of a Quaker meetinghouse beside
it.
[Illustration: ORIGINAL DRAWING BY DAUMIER OF DON QUIXOTE]
Forgeries have been in existence as long as the collecting game itself.
During the Renaissance forgers were very active in every field of
creative art. Not only did they make imitations of great Greek and
Latin classics, which were just beginning their popular vogue in
Europe, but they very cleverly copied old medals, and fabricated
old gems too. Of course, the collector himself is in a sense morally
responsible for the forger. The collector’s overdeveloped sense of
acquisitiveness leads him to pay extravagant prices for his favorites;
he will search out and buy every available pen scratch of some great
writer.
A poor wretch in an attic reads in the newspapers that a capitalist has
just paid $2000 for an autograph letter of Robert Burns. He then begins
to “discover” other letters and documents by the same author. This is
the launching of a career that is usually full of excitement and gives
full scope to the imagination. The forger is a picturesque figure until
he, too, is discovered and publicly condemned. This class of men--I
know of no women forgers--is responsible for the literary detective.
There is real sport in tracking these fabrications. An ability to tell
the original from the false, the genuine from the spurious, sometimes
under the most trying circumstances, has developed almost into a fine
art.
There are men who make literary detecting their profession. Their
eyes are so well trained that they are seldom wrong when pronouncing
judgment. They are as fully aware of the thousand and one tricks of the
professional forger’s game as they are alert to the peculiarities of
each author’s handwriting.
These experts could be numbered on the fingers of one hand. When you
stop to consider that there are men even now in dark holes in London,
in obscure garrets in Paris, in flats in Harlem, and in apartments in
Atlantic City, making their livelihood forging autographs, it puts you
pleasantly on your guard. These fellows are very often unsuccessful
authors with a certain amount of erudition, broken-down booksellers, or
other bits of riffraff from the literary world. I once knew a genial
old college professor who turned from unlucrative teaching to make an
honest penny, as he termed it, by forging.
My uncle Moses always told with a chuckle of his experience with an
Englishman by the name of Robert Spring. He called at my uncle’s shop
in Commerce Street one day in the 60’s and said he had an old document
signed by Washington. In fact, it was a military pass issued to some
Revolutionary worthy, permitting him to go through the lines. My uncle
naturally pricked up his ears at the mention of his favorite character,
General Washington, and immediately asked to see this interesting
relic. The Englishman then held it up dramatically, and when Uncle
Moses read it he felt like embracing his visitor. For, lo and behold,
the pass was made out in the name of one of my uncle’s own ancestors!
It had every earmark of age, was written on old paper in faded ink, the
creases were almost worn through, and the edges were frayed. To his
covetous eyes the pass seemed much more desirable on account of its
connection with his forbears. He asked the Englishman what he wanted
for it and how it had come into his possession. He glibly explained he
had found it in an old-fashioned hair trunk in the attic of a house in
old Philadelphia. He wanted fifteen dollars for this pass--a large sum
in those days, when one could buy a full autograph letter of Washington
for that much money. Uncle Moses rose to this thin story as a trout
strikes at a fly.
Some years later Ferdinand J. Dreer, of Philadelphia, a connoisseur,
came to see him. Among other things, my uncle showed him the faded
pass. Mr. Dreer looked at it for a moment, and then, according to Uncle
Moses, turned to him and in that cheerfully disgusted tone which one
collector uses to a brother who has made a foolish deal, said:--
“Mr. Polock, you, of all men, should know better! This thing is an
arrant forgery, and worth less than nothing.”
It later appeared that Robert Spring was the first great forger of
American documents. He had written many such military passes, all of
them with spurious signatures of General Washington. But he was always
foxy enough to look up the name of some ancestor of the man on whom
he planned to prey. Uncle Moses, nevertheless, remained stoical, and
said this outlay of fifteen dollars was one of the most profitable
investments he had ever made. It placed him on his guard as nothing
had before; was, in fact, an investment that would in time be worth
thousands of dollars to him.
[Illustration: FROM A LETTER IN THE AUTOGRAPH OF GEORGE WASHINGTON,
SIGNED BY HIM FOR MARTHA WASHINGTON]
Spring’s career as a forger lasted a surprisingly long time. He reached
a point where he made no effort to conceal from his Philadelphia
customers the almost made-to-order character of these documents of
his. He salved their feelings by saying he would never think of
offering them anything that was not genuine. Of course, he was an
excellent penman. Washington was his favorite model, perhaps because
he had greatest success in copying his handwriting. He sold most of
his productions to persons who lived abroad, who were not regular
collectors. He assumed various names when he wrote to members of the
English nobility, representing himself sometimes as a widow in want,
or as the needy daughter of Stonewall Jackson, thus feeding most
lucratively upon the kind-heartedness of wealthy people thousands of
miles away. He was arrested several times, but finally reformed. Before
dying he grew to be a most proper and meticulously honest dealer in
books and engravings, and, I suppose, rests comfortably now in the
bookmen’s heaven.
I have collected letters and documents of Washington almost from
the beginning of my career. To-day I own an interesting, authentic
collection of more than two hundred, written between the years 1755
and 1799. He was a prolific correspondent. His handwriting is always
legible; the writing of a sensitive, clear-thinking person whose
nerves were under excellent control. Many of these letters are the
charming messages which any leisured gentleman of that period might
write. Others are on military matters of the utmost importance. Another
series deals entirely with agriculture, and shows how well the masterly
general could play the gentleman farmer.
The years which have passed since his death have seen the world flooded
with Washington autographs. But it took a measure of daring and a
fanatical spirit of patriotism to forge letters of his while he was
still alive and fulfilling with vigor the now historical duties of his
military career. It was in May or June of 1777 that a book appeared in
London purporting to contain certain letters of Washington written in
1776 to friends and relatives of his in Virginia. These letters paint
him as a man whose motives were questionable. The false lines in this
book relate his pretended thoughts and feelings about the Revolution
in which he was then engaged. They make him say he is tired of it all;
that he wishes for peace at any price with the mother country. They
reveal him as a military scapegrace with the soul, but not the courage,
of a traitor! Despite the publisher’s preface explaining his possession
of these intimate documents, it was soon proved that the letters were
deliberate forgeries. Nevertheless, they were of grave importance at
the time, for they served as a powerful propaganda against Washington,
and therefore the colonies, and made a strong appeal to the ignorant
and easily biased mind.
Forgers must have, above all, a keen sense of chronology. This is
the first great requisite after their natural skill in imitating
handwriting. For instance, they cannot refer to the discovery of
America in a letter supposed to have been written before that event
took place, or date a letter of Dickens, 1872, two years after his
death, and expect to get away with it. Both these slips, strange to
say, have occurred. In fact, forgers frequently make similar crude
errors, alluding to incidents that hadn’t happened at the time the
letter was dated.
It is plain, therefore, that the master forger must have his chronology
at his finger tips. He should know not only the dates of history, which
he can find in any textbook, but he must be familiar with the history
of costume, of furnishings, and decorations also. I remember reading
the invention of one gentleman’s brain and pen in which he alluded to
hoop skirts ten years before they put in their dreadful appearance.
The literary forger hoping for success should also acquire an almost
endless knowledge of the colloquial language of the period in which he
writes, and must be naturally a student of orthography and spelling. In
fact, he has taken up the one career where he has literally to mind his
P’s and Q’s!
It is fairly easy to imitate the writing of a distinguished character;
the most difficult part is to interpret, as well, the thoughts of the
equally distinguished mind. A forger of Thackeray wrote the name of the
author of _Vanity Fair_ in many volumes, together with a short comment
about the text. He composed a pointed criticism of each work, or
invented what he believed to be some smart phrase about the author. In
this case the signature and the writing itself are so excellent that
they almost defy detection, but the thoughts are no more those of the
great Thackeray than are mine of Shakespeare.
[Illustration: PAGE FROM A LETTER OF THACKERAY TO MRS. BROOKFIELD]
Not many are privileged to see presentation copies actually in the
making. A friend of mine told me of an experience he had in London.
One day he strolled into a little bookshop near the British Museum. He
looked over some dusty volumes for a time, and finally found one which
he wanted to buy. There was no clerk in the front of the shop, so he
walked to the rear, where he discovered a little old man seated at a
large table. Before him was a row of books all opened at the title
pages. The busy old fellow was bent over another and so absorbed in
his work that he heard nothing. My friend looked over his shoulder. He
was committing a little quiet forgery! In other words he was caught in
“fragrant delectation.” On the title page he was painstakingly forming
Lewis Carroll’s autograph. Before my friend left he had an opportunity
to see what was written. He found, much to his astonishment, that
the old gentleman was inditing to long-deceased friends of Lewis
Carroll, copies of _Alice in Wonderland_, each one with an appropriate
inscription. When asked the reason for all this industry, he replied,
“I am making them for the American market!”
Among the many bugaboos which the forger has to face are watermarks
woven into paper. These are the manufacturer’s trade-marks, and often
show the date the paper was made. You can see them if you hold the
paper to the light. Quite recently I was offered three manuscripts
supposed to be in the hand of Oscar Wilde. His exquisite though
affected Greek style of handwriting was well enough imitated. But when
I pointed out to the man who offered the manuscripts to me that they
were written upon paper which bore the watermarks of a manufacturer who
had made it during the Great War, he suddenly remembered an appointment
and hurriedly made his departure.
About twenty years ago a celebrated French firm of book and autograph
dealers cabled my brother Philip that they were offering for sale
the original manuscript of Oscar Wilde’s _Salomé_. Wilde, who was a
literary exhibitionist if ever there was one, gave _Salomé_ to the
world in French, and not such very good French at that. As I had an
extensive collection of Wilde autographs even then, I was extremely
eager to own the original of this famous work also. Before my reply
could reach the firm in France, some luckier collector who was on the
spot at the time bought it. I was very much annoyed, but concealed
my chagrin as best I could, not even inquiring who the buyer was. I
suspected it was some French author. The year before last, when on my
annual pilgrimage to England, a French journalist came to see me one
day at the Carlton Hotel in London, with the news that he knew the man
who owned the _Salomé_ manuscript, and was informed that he would part
with it if paid a sufficiently high price.
[Illustration: PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF OSCAR WILDE’S “SALOMÉ”]
Now, I am never frightened at high prices. I asked my friend to return
to France and buy it for me. Two days passed. Then I received the
news that I was again too late. It was plain that Salomé was playing
hide and seek with me, and placing my head on a charger. After two
months in England I went to Paris. I had hardly arrived before the
collector who last purchased _Salomé_ offered to sell it. I asked
him to bring it immediately to my hotel. With my nerves on edge, I
kept telling myself that this time she should not escape me. Now, the
collector in question was supposed to be a judge of autographs. He
arrived and took the manuscript from its case. I fairly grabbed it from
him, fearing that the evil Salomé would sprout wings and fly out of the
window. I opened the cover to the first page, looked at it, turned the
second, then the third. Quickly I closed it and gave it back to him. A
silence followed during which he regarded me in amazement.
“No, thank you,” I said; “I am looking for Salomé in the flesh, not a
will-o’-the-wisp. Your manuscript is a forgery!”
It was plain this poor fellow had been deceived. He walked up and
down my room, tearing at his hair in the best French manner, for he
had given a good sum for this clever fabrication. I, too, was deeply
disappointed, after tracking over Europe for it. Like the villain in
the play, Salomé still evaded me.
[Illustration: DEDICATION OF OSCAR WILDE’S “THE SPHINX” TO MRS. PATRICK
CAMPBELL]
In Philadelphia a year later I received a cable from a firm of
auctioneers in Paris, offering me the original manuscript of _Salomé_
once more. I naturally paid no attention to the offer, thinking it
another forgery. I was tired of the wiles of this wicked woman. I had
come to the conclusion that this work was not, by some weaving of the
fates, for the house of Rosenbach. No more fool’s errands for me.
A few weeks after, when dining with a well-known American collector in
New York, he said to me:
“Doctor, I have something which will open even your eyes. I have
_Salomé_!”
Naturally, I could not suppress a cynical laugh. “Another forgery?” I
smilingly inquired.
After dinner we went to his library, and he pointed very proudly to
two old copy books on the table. The moment I looked at the pages I
knew that at last I held the original in my hands. How envious I was!
But I now realized this manuscript could never be mine. I felt truly
heartbroken. My friend, seeing I was not exactly elated over his
treasure, but rather downcast, asked the reason. I related the whole
story of my chase.
With great generosity he replied, with the air of a sultan presenting
a favorite slave, “Doctor, I don’t want to stand in your way. If you
want her, she is yours.” He told me its history as far as he knew it;
the manuscript had been purchased by Pierre Louÿs, the eminent French
poet. It was he who had bought it directly from the shop in Paris when
I first tried to obtain it twenty years before. It is far more precious
to-day than it was then. Not only is it the greatest work from the pen
of Oscar Wilde but it is the one work of his that has been translated
into all languages. It has also been used as the libretto by Richard
Strauss for his startling and beautiful opera.
The up-to-date literary forger always keeps his eye upon the market.
Genuine letters of certain famous, or infamous, men and women will
always command high prices. Yet the styles in collecting change as
in everything else. One decade there may be a sudden craze for Byron
letters; the next, autograph letters or documents pertaining to Keats
or Shelley are frantically sought.
So it goes. One cycle begins as another cycle ends. Therefore, forgers’
productions often swarm into the market when the popularity of an
autograph is on the crest of the wave. There are certain historical
characters whose autographs will always sell at top prices. With this
in mind, one of the greatest hoaxes ever planned was, for a time, put
over by a French forger a few years after the middle of the nineteenth
century. Vrain Lucas was his name, and his guileless customer was a
noted mathematician, Michel Chasles. I first knew of Lucas’s wretched
forgeries through hearing my uncle Moses tell of them; in a way, it was
rather humorous, for when he told me the story he became as enraged as
though Lucas had taken him in, rather than Chasles.
Vrain Lucas was a middle-aged man of fair education and rather well
read. By his own confession he had manufactured more than twenty-five
thousand spurious autographs, many of which he sold to Chasles over a
period of eight years. During that time Chasles had doubted his word
only once. Lucas immediately offered to buy back everything he had sold
him, and thus Chasles’s faith was restored.
This charlatan, Lucas, must have had a certain hypnotic influence over
Chasles, plus the assurance and the courage of Old Nick himself.
Chasles’s belief in him, however, proved Lucas’s undoing. For when
he sold him two letters from Charles V to Rabelais, Chasles, in his
excitement and delight, presented them to the Academy of Belgium.
The letters for a time were believed to be genuine. Then Lucas came
again to Chasles, this time with letters from Pascal to Boyle and Sir
Isaac Newton, in which the writer proved that he, and not Newton, had
discovered the law of gravitation.
You can imagine how deeply moved was Chasles, the naïve mathematician.
He rushed with them to the French Academy of Science, and at once
the scientific world was stirred into a commotion. At the height of
this agitation Sir David Brewster came forward and announced that the
letters must be from the pen of an impostor, proving conclusively at
the same time that Newton was a mere child of ten when these pretended
messages of Pascal were written. Thus began the beginning of the end
for the forger.
Certain testimony given by Chasles at Lucas’s trial before a tribunal
of the Seine, in 1870, is almost unbelievable. It seems ridiculous to
me that any man, especially a collector, could have been so simple and
gullible as was Chasles. He spent 140,000 francs, a lot of money in
those days, for a list of autograph letters that is too good to pass
over lightly. Although Monsieur Lucas supplied his customer with the
important names of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries,
including Boccaccio, Cervantes, Dante, Racine, Shakespeare, and
Spinoza, he likewise delved into the remote past and produced letters
from Abélard, Alcibiades, Attila, Julius Cæsar, Charlemagne, Ovid,
Pliny, Plutarch, and Pompey!
Lucas was careful enough to mix an ink for his forgeries which,
when dry, gave the appearance of age. Then he treated the completed
masterpieces in such a way as to make them look worn and of great age.
But his cleverness was only half-witted! He had the audacity not only
to write these ancient epistles on paper from local mills, which showed
the watermarks of Angoulême, but most daringly inscribed them in modern
French!
The late Simon Gratz, in his delightful and authoritative volume,
_A Book about Autographs_, gives translations of several of these
shameless fabrications. Here is the letter which Chasles believed
Cleopatra wrote to Julius Cæsar:--
Cleopatra, Queen, to her very beloved Julius Cæsar, Emperor.
MY VERY BELOVED:--
Our son Cæsarion is well. I hope that he will soon be able to support
the travel from here to Marseilles, where I need to send him to study,
as much for the good air one breathes there as for the fine things
which are taught. I beg you will tell me how long you will still
remain in that country, for I want myself to take our son there and
see you on this occasion. This is to tell you, my very beloved, the
pleasure I feel when I am near you, and meanwhile I pray the gods to
have you in their guard.
The XI March year of Rome VCCIX
CLEOPATRA
Think with what pious glee Monsieur Chasles read the following
priceless letter from Lazarus, the resuscitated, to Saint Peter!
MY DEAR FRIEND PETRUS:--
You tell me you have noticed in the writings of Cæsar and in those of
Cicero that one of the most important parts of the Druids’ religion
consists in sacrificing savage men. It is true they take in an
erroneous sense this principle, that men can only appreciate the life
God gave them by offering Him the life of a man. They have continued
that inhuman and bloody practice until the time of Cicero. This is
why he says they soil and profane their temple and altars by offering
there human victims, and here Cicero is right in insulting a worship
so barbarous, saying it is a strange thing that to satisfy for what
they owe to their religion they must first dishonor it by some murder.
They cannot be religious without being homicides. The infamy of this
horrible maxim has reflected on all the Gauls, even if it has been
practiced only in some places. But the arms and the conquest of the
Romans have wiped out this infamy and I do not believe that it is
practiced anywhere now. Amen.
This X August XLVII
LAZARUS
Lucas’s interpretation of Biblical characters was rather unusual.
Perhaps it was this quality, which so fascinated his generous customer,
that caused him to be blind to obvious discrepancies. Here is rather a
quaint letter purporting to be from Mary Magdalene to Lazarus:--
MY VERY BELOVED BROTHER:--
That which you tell us of Petrus, the Apostle of our meek Jesus,
gives us hope that soon we shall see him here and I dispose myself to
receive him well. Our sister Martha also rejoices of it. Her health is
very tottering and I fear her passing away. This is why I recommend
her to your good prayers. The good girls who have come to place
themselves under our guidance are admirable for us and make us the
most amiable caresses. It is enough said, my very beloved brother,
that our sojourn in these countries of the Gaul pleases us much, that
we have no desire to leave it, also none of our friends suggest it.
Do you not think that those Gauls who were thought barbarian nations
are not at all so, and judging only by what we have learned it must be
from these that the light of science started. I have a great desire to
see you and beg our Lord may have you in favor.
This X June XLVI
MAGDALENE
In this fourth epistle, written by Alexander the Great, Lucas, the
true Frenchman, does not forget once more to let words of flattery for
France--Gaul--drip from the pen of the King of Macedonia. This letter
follows:--
Alexander Rex to his very beloved Aristotle, Greeting.
MY BELOVED:--
I am not satisfied because you have made public certain of your
books which you had to keep under the seal of secrecy, for it is a
profanation of their value; and no more render them public without my
consent. As to what you asked of me, to travel to the country of the
Gauls in order to learn the sciences of the Druids, of whom Pythagoras
made so fine a eulogy, not only do I permit you but I entreat you to
go for the good of my people, as you are not ignorant in what esteem I
hold the nation which I consider as the one that carries the light in
the world. I salute you.
This XX of the Kalends of May, year of the CV Olympiad
ALEXANDER
Old Chasles got all that was coming to him, and the 140,000 francs that
he spent on the Lucas inventions were as nothing compared with the
great joy the world in general, and antiquarians in particular, have
experienced in reading these altogether amusing epistles.
Being sometimes called a pirate myself, I have always been interested
in reading about them. I remember reveling in _Treasure Island_,
soon after it appeared in 1883. But instead of the pieces of eight
and flashing gems which Stevenson conjured up for the boyish mind,
I substituted, in my youthful imagination, rare books. This seems
far-fetched, yet it is absolutely true. Instead of Long John Silver’s
doubloons and sequins, I put in their place first editions and
manuscripts. They were more to me, then and now, than all the treasure
of the Indies. And yet, in the first years of my passion for them,
I rarely gave thought to forgeries. I had that superb reliance upon
instinct which is a part and parcel of youth. I felt that if there were
forgeries about I could sniff them as a dog follows a scent. So I was
not really interested in forgers and their works until I read in a book
for the first time an account of William Henry Ireland, the greatest
fabricator of them all.
Ireland was a youthful scamp, less than eighteen years old, who in
1795 pulled the leg of almost the entire literary world with his
“discovery” of many Shakespearean manuscripts. He was the son of an
engraver in London, and doubtless inherited the facile fingers which
brought him his peculiar fame. Ireland senior reverenced all relics of
antiquity, and especially those which were connected with the memory of
Shakespeare. He was almost a fanatic on this subject and gave his son
to understand that his greatest desire would be satisfied the day that
he was lucky enough to find an autograph manuscript of the Bard of
Avon. I’ve had that feeling myself. After being dragged hither and yon
by his father, who searched every nook and cranny where Shakespeare was
supposed to have stayed, the filial William Henry decided upon a course
of his own to make his father completely happy.
[Illustration: FORGERY OF SHAKESPEARE MANUSCRIPT BY WILLIAM HENRY
IRELAND]
He was apprenticed at the time to an attorney, and it was a part of
his daily work to study ancient documents, such as leases and wills.
He sometimes read in books the histories of various estates in Great
Britain, and occasionally a facsimile of Shakespeare’s signature was
printed in them. One day he came across some unused parchment at the
end of an old rent roll. His imagination began to work, I suppose, as
he studied the Shakespeare facsimile before him, and the echoes of old
deeds, with their quaint phrases, doubtless rang in his ears. Thus he
set about practising the penmanship of an earlier era. Finding that he
wrote with amazing ease, he immediately made up a lease between William
Shakespeare and John Heminge, with one Michael Fraser and Elizabeth,
his wife. When the ink was sufficiently dried he took it home to his
father, who at the sight of it nearly dropped dead with joy. And so
began young Ireland’s notorious performances.
After finding further facsimiles of signatures of the Elizabethan
period, he invented, with the most appalling facility, all sorts of
letters and poems. Naturally, his father and others asked where he had
found these remarkable manuscripts, whereupon he made up a more or
less logical story. He said he had met a gentleman of fortune, whose
name he had sworn not to tell, in a coffeehouse in London, and that
in the course of conversation they had discovered each other’s love
for things antique. The new acquaintance then mentioned having in his
possession a collection of old deeds and papers tied in bundles. The
boy told of his delight at being asked to inspect them; and how he had
gone to his friend’s house and searched through them. Much to their
mutual joy, he had discovered one old paper which clearly established
his friend’s right to a certain property which had been the subject of
litigation for a long time. This friend, he went on to explain, first
swore him to secrecy, then presented him with as many of these ancient
manuscripts as he wished to have.
It is not difficult to understand why William Henry’s father accepted
his boy’s story so easily. Remember, those were the days of stern
virtues. A son brought up to respect his parents was expected to
tell the truth. When the elder Ireland, being a man of substantial
reputation, showed the manuscripts to his friends and repeated his
son’s story, it was accepted. Spurred on by his apparent success in
deceiving his father and many visitors, the young forger began to lose
his head and daily grew more daring. Under cover of secrecy, in a
lonely room where he was apprenticed, he had the temerity not only to
forge Shakespeare’s signature to documents but to invent an autograph
confession of faith for him. This met with success, and he proceeded
to compose love lyrics in the form of letters to Anne Hathaway, signed
with the name of the great poet.
Here is one of them, in which he inclosed a lock of “thye Willys” hair.
It is addressed to Anna Hatherrewaye, and reads as follows:--
DEARESSTE ANNA:--
As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe mye Worde moste trewe soe thou
shalt see I have stryctlye kepte mye promyse I praye you perfume thys
mye poore Locke withe thye balmye Eysses forre thenne indeede shalle
Kynges themmeselves bowe ande pay homage toe itte I doe assure thee no
rude hande hathe knottedde itte thye Willys alone hathe done the worke
Neytherre the gyldedde bawble thatte envyronnes the heade of Majestye
noe norre honourres moste weyghtye wulde give mee halfe the joye as
didde thysse mye lyttle worke forre thee The feelinge thatte dydde
neareste approache untoe itte was thatte whiche commethe nygheste
untoe God meeke and Gentle Charytye forre thatte Virrtue O Anna doe I
love doe I cheryshe thee inne mye hearte forre thou arte ass a talle
Cedarre stretchynge forthe its branches ande succourynge smaller
Plants fromme nyppynge Winneterre orr the boysterouse Wyndes Farewelle
toe Morrowe bye tymes I wille see thee tille thenne Adewe sweete Love
Thyne everre
WM SHAKSPEARE
ANNA HATHERREWAYE
Sometime later he made an almost entire transcript of _Lear_, and a
few leaves from _Hamlet_, too! In _Hamblette_, as he quaintly called
it, he boldly introduced variations in the text, which many of the
most learned men of the time read without doubting their authenticity.
Boswell, Doctor Johnson’s famous biographer, called at the Ireland home
one day, inspected the manuscripts, then knelt down before them,
enthusiastically kissing a paper here and there as he thanked God for
letting him live to see them.
[Illustration: BOOK BELONGING TO THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN, OF WHOSE COMPANY
SHAKESPEARE WAS A MEMBER]
However, there was one doubting Thomas, who refused to believe, almost
from the beginning of the “discoveries,” that there was an iota of
truth concerning their origin. His name was Edmund Malone. He was the
one literary critic who did not make a fool of himself at any time
during a controversy which later developed to a furious pitch, and
resulted in a full published confession from Ireland.
Young Ireland’s final burst of inspiration led him to write a pretended
play of Shakespeare, entitled _Vortigern and Rowena_. This was the
straw which eventually broke the camel’s back, but not until Sheridan
had produced it, with two of the foremost players of the day, John
Philip Kemble and Mrs. Jordan, appearing in the leading rôles.
Ireland appealed to me, not because he was a forger but because of a
certain further cleverness. When he was discovered and his misdeeds
revealed to a curious world, there suddenly sprang up a great demand
to behold the handiwork of this delectable young villain. People in
England, and collectors and curio seekers everywhere, wanted to own
specimens of his fraudulent but interesting papers. They were so much
in demand that he was kept busy from morning to night making forgeries
of his own forgeries.
The sudden demand was not for Shakespeare’s own letter to Anne Hathaway
but for Ireland’s original imaginary manuscript. What, then, could the
poor fellow do? He just had to sit himself down and ply his trade as
long as his supply of old paper and precious ink held out.
It was these humorous and at the same time dramatic facts which touched
my imagination as a collector. I wanted Ireland’s original forgeries,
not his double and triple fabrications. I naturally wanted the
original manuscript of _Vortigern_, the one the lovely Mrs. Jordan had
reverently held in her adoring--and adorable--hands. I thought I knew
where they were--in the collection of the Marquis of Blandford, to whom
they were sold many years ago. Imagine my surprise when I purchased
the library of Marsden J. Perry, of Providence, to discover in his
world-famed collection the actual forgeries not only of _Vortigern_
but of _King Lear_ and _Hamlet_ as well. Here were the original
documents which had deceived some of the choicest minds in England.
Looking further, I also found the first draft of Ireland’s confession.
I have the actual drafts with which Richard Brinsley Sheridan was
so delighted; the very pages from which Kemble studied the part of
Vortigern, and before which Boswell knelt, “a tumbler of warm brandy
and water” at his side.
Ireland was not the first spectacular forger of tender years. In his
confession he speaks of having been influenced by reading of Thomas
Chatterton’s career. Chatterton was an English youth who kept the
literary world titillating twenty-five years earlier. It is a strange
thing, this psychologic kink which sometimes forms in the brains of
very young men. Why they should risk bringing the world about their
ears through impersonating the famous dead, when they have brains and
originality of their own, no one knows.
Poor Chatterton! His is the only great genius which has come to light
through the art of forgery. He began writing when he was sixteen, and
almost from the beginning produced some of the finest poetry in the
history of eighteenth-century literature. Perhaps he was unhappily shy,
as boys often are at that age; or he may have suffered from some gloomy
mental obsession. His manner of screening his identity when these
remarkable poems first appeared has caused many a student to pause and
wonder.
Chatterton’s first writings appeared with an accompanying explanation.
He said his father had found them years before in an ancient chest
belonging to the Church of St. Mary Redcliffe at Bristol. The verses
were supposed to have been composed by Thomas Rowley, a monk who had
lived in that neighborhood during the fifteenth century. Chatterton,
according to his story, had merely copied them. At first, this story
was accepted, while critics praised the undeniable beauty of the lines.
Then some contemporary littérateur called attention to the incorrect
usage of Anglo-Saxon words of Rowley’s day, and suspicion hovered over
Chatterton. It was soon charged that Chatterton had written the poems
of Rowley, using a certain dictionary from which he chose Anglo-Saxon
words in order to create the atmosphere and flavor of antiquity.
Among his critics were Horace Walpole and his two poet friends, Mason
and Gray. The boy was accused of downright forgery when it was further
noted that the poem which Chatterton brought out as the “Battle of
Hastings wrote by Turgot the Monk, in the tenth century, and translated
by Thomas Rowlie,” was wrongly dated. This bit of carelessness on
Chatterton’s part increased the hue and cry of ridicule. The Battle of
Hastings, as every English schoolboy knew, did not take place until the
eleventh century! And here the poetic Turgot was relating its history
one century before it happened. The goading of Walpole and his acolytes
finally drove Chatterton to commit suicide when he was only eighteen
years of age.
What a loss it was to England!
Walpole, seated in his comfortable library at Strawberry Hill,
surrounded by his precious books and his precious ladies, recognized
Chatterton’s works as forgeries, but did not recognize his superb
genius. A few of the inspired lines of Chatterton’s poems are worth all
the famous letters which Walpole so elegantly wrote for a large public,
including himself. Although we wade with zest in the delightful mud
stream that, with its scandal and veiled allusions, runs so naughtily
through Walpole’s correspondence, we can never forgive his treatment of
poor Chatterton.
Not quite in the same class as a forgery, a quaint and equally
difficult sister art has gradually sprung into existence, called the
facsimile page. Not that I mean to imply that the making of such pages
is always done with an intent to deceive. There is a concern in London
which supplies missing pages on order for any book you may have--a
business that is done quite openly. Suppose you own a copy of the first
edition of one of Shakespeare’s folios, in which either the title or
last leaf is missing. If you don’t happen to be too fastidious and have
merely the collector’s love for the complete, without his obsession for
the perfect as well, you could take your first folio to this firm and
in a short time receive a perfect page made to match the others of your
book. Only the connoisseur and you yourself would know the difference.
Owing to the assistance of the camera to-day and the modern processes
of engraving, it is not difficult to reproduce the printed word as
it first appeared several centuries ago. The snag comes, however, in
finding a paper that is exactly contemporaneous with the book itself.
This London house happens to have a large and wonderful collection of
old papers, taken chiefly from the flyleaves of early volumes. There
are many unscrupulous dealers in the world, even in New York, who do
not acknowledge to their customers that a book which they offer as
genuine is made up in this manner. Any reputable firm would immediately
call attention to it. One not quite so particular, with the naïveté of
a child, always pleads, when caught, that he was ignorant of the guilty
leaf, not being an expert himself. And yet he had ordered the damning
page from the London house of facsimiles.
But sometimes it is almost impossible to tell which leaves in a book
are facsimile. About seventy-five years ago there was an expert in this
line in England by the name of Harris. With the greatest dexterity and
cunning, he made leaves for incomplete books, which exactly duplicated
the original ones. In those days such work was tedious and had to be
accomplished entirely by hand, as it was long before the era of modern
photographs. Harris’s work was in constant demand. An amusing story is
told among booksellers of an order Harris executed for a celebrated
collector whose copy of Caxton’s _History of Troy_ had two leaves
missing. Five years later the collector called on Harris. He took this
Caxton from his pocket and showed it to him. It was with the greatest
difficulty that Harris himself could determine which two leaves were
his. In fact, he had to verify them by his records.
If there are great holes or tears in old pages they can be filled in
in such a marvelous manner as almost to defy detection. Here again the
literary detective enters to discover a clew and solve the mystery. The
fellow must have a specialized sense for this sort of thing, just as a
born newspaperman has a nose for news. The true literary detective will
tell you at a glance if anything is wrong with a printed page. This is
a rare faculty, and in the book business amounts almost to genius. Some
booksellers are never able to tell, during their entire careers, which
are facsimile leaves and which aren’t. Only a few are adept at it.
Another trick is to supply original covers when they are missing from
old and precious volumes. Sometimes a copy of an English classic
appears in the auction room minus its blue or gray or yellow paper
wrappers. In the twinkling of an eye brand-new ones are supplied,
aged by the miraculous antiquer, and offered as being in pristine,
immaculate state, “very rare in its original paper binding.”
Then, to enhance the illusion, an old signature is added to the cover
and perhaps the price, “tuppence,” written in an old hand. It takes
Sherlock Holmes himself to detect these impostures.
I know a gentleman in London who is so expert in detecting forgeries
that he goes on a scent like a setter after a bird. But the real
safeguard for the collector is to buy his books, not from the transient
individual who has two or three bargains to offer, but from the man who
is known first of all for his reputable dealing. Then collecting is
sheer delight.
V
AMONG OLD MANUSCRIPTS
The First Folio had lain idly at anchor for two long, sultry days.
Then, as a miniature gale swept the threatening clouds of a summer
storm across Corson’s Inlet just before twilight on the second day,
I bowed to the will of the fisherman’s god, whoever he may be, and
hurried down the beach. Ordinarily I am not the sort of fisherman who
waits for the psychological moment, but here it was upon me. After such
weather, fish were sure to strike.
As I rowed out to my boat, I heard the telephone bell ring in the
house I had just left. It had been an exhausting week for me; every
bibliomaniac in the vicinity of Philadelphia had had a book to show and
sell me, and my office had telephoned upon the slightest provocation.
So when I heard that bell I pulled for the First Folio as though the
devil were after me, and carefully rounding the bow, drew up on the
port side away from the shore. Once aboard, the captain started the
engine and made for the open sea. Even then I could not avoid seeing my
man Harrison waving frantically from the beach.
[Illustration: LETTER OF FRANKLIN FROM PHILADELPHIA, 1775]
Only the born Izaak Walton knows that lazy defiance of the world’s
demands which comes with a rod and reel in one’s hand. Soon I was
fishing; forgotten was the realm of books and manuscripts, forgotten
the boring persistence of telephone bells, forgotten poor Harrison
on the shore--forgotten everything in the world except the delight
of a strike, the thrilling moments of playing my catch, and the
breath-taking suspense of reeling in. How long I fished I don’t know.
The sun emerged again in time to set, as the wind died out completely.
I refuse to tell the number of fish I caught, for no one would believe
me; but with the advent of a fine six-pounder I felt quite satisfied. I
walked to a low deck chair and sat, resting. Perhaps I dozed for a few
minutes; I don’t know. Suddenly I heard my name. I opened my eyes and
was surprised to find the shore close by. We had forgotten to anchor
and were drifting in.
“Doctah--doctah!” Harrison’s voice lost its slow drawl in excitement.
“Mistah Lawlah done phone all dis afternoon! Why fo’ you don’ answah
me, doctah? He say he done fin’ ole Mistah Franklin’s work book.”
How often had hopeful bookmen dreamed of one day discovering this
work book of Benjamin Franklin! From my earliest days of collecting,
I myself had persistently followed all rumors or clews concerning its
whereabouts. None of them led anywhere. I even doubted that it still
existed.
“Harrison,” I replied, “you can tell Mr. Lawler that I am not exactly
partial to a fool’s errand on a hot day. Besides, I want to fish.” He
went indoors, shouted my words over the telephone, then bolted down to
the shore again.
“Oh, Lawdy, doctah, do come to de telephone! He sho am mad if you
don’t.”
When I reached the house I explained once more to the manager of my
Philadelphia place that I wished to be left alone to fish.
“Fish!” Mr. Lawler’s tone was derisive. “Why, if you’ll take the next
train and meet me in Camden, I’ll show you where you can land a fish
bigger than anything you could ever pull out of Corson’s Inlet!”
This was bait for me, if not for the fish, and I asked for fuller
information.
It seemed that after months of patient search Mr. Lawler had located
the proprietor of an antique shop at Mount Holly, New Jersey, who owned
an old copy book which he claimed was the original in which Franklin
kept his accounts. Mr. Lawler had already seen it, and believed it to
be authentic; and though I rather dreaded being disappointed once more,
there was the chance of a find. I left for the station immediately;
there I found no train due for hours. This was doubtless just the
obstacle I needed to egg me on. I quickly hired an automobile and
motored the seventy miles to Camden. Mr. Lawler met me. He seemed
nervous and in a great hurry to make the final lap of our pilgrimage.
We had twenty miles farther to go, and as we sped along we discussed
the printer’s long-lost work book.
Franklin had mentioned its existence in various writings and letters.
He had said that when he was a printer he kept all the records of his
business in it.
At last we came to Mount Holly, and as we followed a quiet country
street to its end I regretted the trip. The heat of the summer night
was oppressive, and the entrance of the shop before which we stopped
was the same as a thousand others scattered over the country. A dull
light reflected against the usual sign, “Antiques,” hanging above
the doorway. As I entered, a sensation of futility came over me. The
rosewood whatnots holding their bits and pieces of glass or china
depressed me; broken-down Windsors, old ships’ lanterns, hooked rugs,
maple chests, and mahogany bureaus--was this atmosphere conducive to
hope? I doubted it, and looked at Mr. Lawler with an accusatory eye.
But so great was his excitement now that he had forgotten my existence.
Suddenly his face lighted.
The proprietor of the shop, a calm, middle-aged man, came forward. He
greeted me, smiling kindly. I must confess this smile revived hope. He
seemed sure of himself in a quiet sort of way. I began to think that
perhaps I hadn’t come on such a wild-goose chase after all. He was at
his desk now, an old desk littered with papers. As his fingers searched
through them I watched closely. Then, when he finally drew a long
narrow book from beneath a pile of letters, I caught my breath.
I took it from him and went to the dim light. As I opened the battered
covers I immediately recognized the work book of “the first civilized
American,” as a recent biographer has so aptly called him. Not a
page had been tampered with; it was entirely as it had been kept for
Franklin, except that it was somewhat yellowed by its hundred and
eighty years of age. Very carefully he had listed each work printed by
his press. The title of every book, the number of copies made, and the
quality of paper used, all commercial details, the costs and selling
prices, were methodically written out. Other expenses, too, were set
down.
[Illustration: PAGE OF FRANKLIN’S WORK BOOK]
I looked at Mr. Lawler gratefully, and he, inwardly gloating, acted as
though the finding of historically invaluable account books was all in
an evening’s work. Of course, I could not leave without it, and I lost
no time in buying it from the owner. Ten minutes later two jubilant
bookmen climbed into the waiting automobile outside, making a triumphal
exit as they carried off their treasure from the town of Mount Holly.
It was impossible to realize, when I purchased it, the full historical
worth of Franklin’s account book. Not until I returned home, where
I found leisure to study every word, to compare the contents with
published facts concerning Franklin, did I recognize its true import
and value to all students of printing in this country. But how did
it happen to be in Mount Holly after all those years? This question
obsessed me for a long time. The former owner, from whom I purchased
it, could tell me nothing. I began searching through the records of
Franklin’s career as a printer, and found he was in business with
David Hall until 1766, at which time they dissolved their partnership.
Then it was that he requested his great friend, James Parker, a noted
printer in New York, to audit the accounts for him. Later Parker moved
to Burlington, New Jersey, probably taking this account book with him.
As Burlington is but a few miles from Mount Holly, it is not difficult
to imagine how it might have been carried there by some one of Parker’s
descendants.
Many people imagine they own things of great worth, especially if these
things are old. They become excited when they run across a letter
in some trunk which has not been opened for years. They are sure
they have found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They are
severely shocked, however, when the experienced dealer’s appraisal of
the ancestral letters is extremely low. Indeed, the dealer is quite
different from the law courts of England, which consider a man innocent
until he is proved guilty. Every expert is more or less suspicious of
any proffered autograph, especially if the so-called originals are
supposed to have been written by celebrated figures of a century or so
ago.
The false scent and the fruitless hunt, these the skillful buyer learns
to avoid. Sometimes the letters are genuine--sometimes! But it is
amazing, too, what tales otherwise honest men and women will fabricate
in their eagerness to sell an autograph letter or document. They will
swear to heaven that they remember that auspicious day, “over forty
years ago, when I was but a mere child,” when the letter was first
shown them. I have had many such experiences. Several times I have
recognized straight forgeries, letters which were actually written
quite recently, and clumsily made to appear old and important. However,
there are times when one is due for a delightful surprise. What you
believe to be idle vaporings turn out to be something delightfully
different.
One day some years ago an old gentleman called upon me in New York.
I happened to be walking through my reception room when he arrived,
and did not catch his name. But in deference to his extreme age--he
appeared to be more than ninety--I immediately invited him into the
library. He was very plainly dressed, almost dingy in appearance.
I entered into conversation with him and he seemed remarkably well
informed. Every celebrity of the past sixty years he appeared to know
intimately. We talked of prominent literary figures, of great political
and financial leaders. He knew them all!
He even told me of an incident which occurred one evening at Windsor
Castle when he dined with Queen Victoria. I looked at him queryingly,
deploring that exaggerated ego which is the pleasure and consolation
of old age. He continued with anecdotes of Palmerston, Gladstone,
Disraeli, and Lord Salisbury. Lincoln had been his friend, he said, as
well as all the Presidents from Lincoln’s time; and every corner and
crevice of the White House was known to him. I thought to myself that
here was certainly an old liar, if ever there was one. A regular Baron
Munchausen!
Then I naturally turned the conversation to old books and manuscripts.
I mentioned a famous volume, and he said he owned it. I mentioned
another; he owned that too! If he had been a younger man I should have
had it clearly understood that I no longer cared to be taken for a
credulous fool. But being a Philadelphian, of course I could not resist
mentioning Benjamin Franklin. The syllables of his name had hardly
left my lips when my visitor announced, with something of regret in
his voice, that he had once owned the manuscript of Franklin’s famous
_Autobiography_!
With unbelieving amazement I stared at him. Then it dawned upon me
that the gentleman before me was a distinguished American diplomat and
everything he said was the truth! As Minister to France many years
ago, he had handled with extraordinary tact several serious political
situations; one time editor of the _New York Evening Post_, he was also
an essayist and historian. I leaned forward and said in a voice which
made no attempt to disguise either my surprise or my pleasure, “Have I
the honor of addressing the Honorable John Bigelow?”
Mr. Bigelow then told me how in an off moment he had been induced to
sell, at what was then considered a high price, but which would be a
mere trifle now, the immortal _Autobiography_ of Benjamin Franklin.
He disposed of it through a New York firm of booksellers to E. Dwight
Church of Brooklyn, and it is now in that bookman’s paradise, the
library of Mr. Henry E. Huntington, at San Marino, California.
Speaking of manuscripts recalls a rather pretty story of how I
unexpectedly secured an autograph essay by a favorite modern.
I remember one day in London, when I was calling upon my dear friend,
H. W. Massingham, the beloved editor of the _Nation_. His editorial
offices in Adelphi Terrace were directly beneath George Bernard Shaw’s
apartments in the same old Georgian building. Knowing he was a good
friend of Shaw, I asked if he had any of his manuscripts. Massingham
looked at me oddly for a moment, as though my request had brought to
his mind an entirely new train of thought, then replied, “Oh, yes!” He
ran his hand to the bottom of an enormous waste-paper basket under his
desk; it was filled to overflowing, as though it had not been emptied
for days. He drew out a manuscript which he had thrown away, written
in a familiar hand--Shaw’s article on the censorship of the press!
He offered it to me as a present, and you will well understand that
I accepted it eagerly. This little story should delight Bernard Shaw
himself.
To-day it is unfortunate that almost all manuscripts are typed. There
are, however, rare exceptions. The late Joseph Conrad was one of the
very few authors who worked almost entirely in longhand. When I bought
the manuscript of his book, _Victory_, at the Quinn sale in New York in
1924, I paid the highest price--$8100--ever given at auction for the
manuscript of a living author. It was closely written on sheets that
fill two bulky cases.
The average writer nowadays, after he has corrected the final draft
of his work, has it copied by a competent stenographer and then makes
any further correction on it he wishes. Many writers find it easier
to create their stories directly upon the typewriter, while others
dictate. The typewriter--what a curse it has become to the collector!
A century from now it will be almost impossible to find the original
autograph manuscripts of writers of to-day who stand the test of time.
Who knows but that the styles will have changed, and the machine upon
which a masterpiece was brought to life will be considered even more
precious!
[Illustration: PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CONRAD’S “VICTORY”]
[Illustration: PAGE FROM ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF CONRAD’S “LORD JIM”]
No one knows exactly why there is hardly a scrap left of the original
manuscripts of most of the writers of the Elizabethan period. Perhaps
publishers in those days had one fault that is prevalent to-day. They
may have been too close to their writers to be able to appreciate the
value of the original draft, or perhaps they had scrap baskets like
Massingham’s. Of Shakespeare’s writing only six or seven signatures are
known, and these are attached to his will and other legal documents.
They are priceless, and have been kept with great care at Somerset
House and at the Record Office in London. How unfortunate it is that
not a single line of his original work remains. What would collectors
not give now for just one page of _Hamlet_, or even a short note in
Shakespeare’s own handwriting! Surely, $500,000 would not be too much.
Nor is there any manuscript left of either of his noted contemporaries,
Christopher Marlowe and Robert Greene. Of these two, who opened the
way for the greatest dramatist of all time, not even a signature
remains. I was successful this year, however, in obtaining a letter
of John Fletcher, who very probably collaborated with Shakespeare in
the writing of _Henry VIII._ Fletcher addressed this rhymed epistle to
the Countess of Huntingdon. For years it had been in an old English
muniment room neglected and unsung; and it is really the nearest
approach to Shakespeare I have been fortunate enough to find. When you
think that hitherto not a signature of Fletcher’s had been known, it
makes this find the more remarkable. There are, however, many relics of
his great contemporary, Ben Jonson, early drafts of his celebrated
plays, and many books are known in which he inscribed comments and
notes.
[Illustration:
THE
Historie of Troylus
and Cresseida.
_As it was acted by the Kings Maiesties_
seruants at the Globe.
_Written by_ William Shakespeare.
[Illustration]
LONDON
Imprinted by _G. Eld_ for _R Bonian_ and _H. Walley_, and
are to be sold at the spred Eagle in Paules
Church-yeard, ouer against the
great North doore.
1609.
ONLY UNCUT SHAKESPEARE QUARTO KNOWN, PUBLISHED IN SHAKESPEARE’S
LIFETIME]
I have always been deeply interested in all that remains of the
literary lights of the Elizabethan era, and especially in Edmund
Spenser, another of the great masters of Shakespeare’s magnificent day.
Last year, when I was crossing to England on the Berengaria, another
bookseller, truly a friendly enemy, met me on deck one morning, and by
way of greeting, said: “Speaking of association copies, what would you
give to own a presentation copy of the first edition of _The Faerie
Queene_?”
“Why talk nonsense?” I replied. “It’s impossible. It doesn’t exist.”
About two weeks later an eminent scholar who has made many great and
outstanding discoveries in early English literature called at my
hotel to see me, and invited me to go with him to inspect his fine
collection. He spoke of one book in particular, which he was sure would
interest me, but purposely neglected to say what it was. I arrived at
his home and had hardly got beyond the front door when he placed in my
hands a volume in its original binding of old calf. It was Spenser’s
own copy of _The Faerie Queene_, dated 1590, with an inscription in his
handwriting on the title page in Greek: “From the author to himself.”
He had also presented this volume to Elizabeth Boyle, whom he married
four years later. On a blank page toward the back of the book he
gallantly wrote in French, “A sa mistresse,” and under this elegant
heading had inscribed the complete first sonnet from his glorious
_Amoretti_, beginning:--
Happy ye leaves when as those lilly Hands
That houlds my life in hir dead-doing might,
Shall handle you and hold in Love’s swete bandes
Like captives trembling at ye victors sight.
The _Amoretti_ was not published until five years later, in 1595.
As I stood looking at _The Faerie Queene_ I became quite speechless
with surprise and delight, as no other presentation copy of Spenser was
known to me. Almost before I could regain my equilibrium my host handed
me another, a smaller volume. This was bound in old vellum, a quaint
little English travel book. With a gasp I read upon the title page a
presentation address to Gabriel Harvey, the poet’s dearest friend,
and incidentally, the bitter literary enemy of Ben Jonson. It read:
“The gift of Edmund Spenser, clerk to the Archbishop of Rochester,
1578.” What enhanced its preciousness was that Harvey had made notes
throughout, commenting upon his happy friendship with Spenser. After
such a startling introduction to his collection, I looked upon my
friend, this learned book lover, with even greater admiration than
before; and if he had further offered me a presentation copy of
_Hamlet_ I should not have been amazed. To-day these marvelous mementos
of the Elizabethan era are treasured among the outstanding volumes in
my library.
[Illustration: PRESENTATION INSCRIPTION TO ELIZABETH BOYLE IN “THE
FAERIE QUEENE” IN THE AUTOGRAPH OF EDMUND SPENSER]
One week later my friend the American bookseller called upon me at the
Carlton Hotel in London.
“Hello,” I began. “You’re just the man I want to see. I’ve found a
presentation copy of _The Faerie Queene_.”
“You unholy liar,” he said, not knowing whether to believe me or not.
“Yes,” I replied; “it is at your hand.” His hands trembled as he lifted
the book from the table, and I could see his face change color as he
read the magic lines in Spenser’s autograph.
An author’s manuscript will reveal just how his work was planned
and built, as well as the fluid state of his mind at the time. Very
often it reflects his attitude toward his subject, whether he wrote
meticulously, carefully, or with assurance and ease. The early
manuscripts of great writers are curiously alike in that they seldom
show any large amount of correction or rewriting. When these men are
young their very passion sweeps them along. But as they grow older they
develop a certain attitude of critical acuteness which study brings,
the experiences of life itself also cause them to be less sure. Very
often they become the worst faultfinders, and tear their work to pieces
to build and rebuild glorious phrases that later become household
words. The bugaboo of rewriting comes with the years, accompanying the
stern virtues of maturity.
In his later manuscripts you can almost see the author at work, bending
over his pages, writing lines, whole paragraphs, then deleting them.
These later manuscripts of noted men and women show not only blotted
lines but entirely new readings. However, the notable phrase in the
verses prefixed to the first folio of Shakespeare by his editors, John
Heminge and Henry Condell, dated 1623, does not apply to most of the
modern manuscripts. “And what he thought,” they wrote, “he uttered
with that easiness, that we have scarce received from him a blot on his
papers.”
[Illustration: ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WALT WHITMAN’S “BY EMERSON’S
GRAVE”]
There is also some impalpable quality in a great man’s handwriting
which draws one to it; people who have never dreamed of collecting,
who never heard of the collecting mania, will suddenly react to old
letters and documents. They are mad to own them. Some human attraction
exists in the written word of other years quite different from the
appeal made by printing. This appeal is primarily emotional, rather
than intellectual. Especially is this true of autograph letters. They
naturally hold a more personal message, in that they interpret the
spirit and reflect the period of the writer, who in informal letters
is off his guard, quite unlike the mood that an author brings to his
work when he knows it may be published. I have known people to weep
with delight at the sight of one of those charmingly familiar letters
written by Bobbie Burns. Indeed, I once became rather dizzy with joy
myself, when I bought the Harry B. Smith Library, which included that
famous letter of Charles Dickens about the inception of _Pickwick_,
which he writes to his publishers, Chapman and Hall. It is dated 1836,
and was written one Thursday evening from Furnival’s Inn, London. It
says:--
DEAR SIRS:--
Pickwick is at length begun in all his might and glory. The first
chapter will be ready tomorrow.
I want to publish The Strange Gentleman. If you have no objection to
doing it, I should be happy to let you have the refusal of it. I
need not say that nobody else has seen or heard of it.
Believe me (in Pickwickian haste)
Faithfully yours,
CHARLES DICKENS
[Illustration: PAGE FROM MANUSCRIPT OF DICKENS’S “PICKWICK PAPERS”]
This great letter is now in the collection of that famous man of
affairs, fast becoming equally well known as a bibliophile, Mr. Owen D.
Young.
When I read Dickens’s wonderful living message,--isn’t there a
tremendous thrill in those words: “Pickwick is at length begun in
all his might and glory,”--I never dreamed I should one day own all
that is left of the original manuscript of the master’s greatest
work, the _Pickwick Papers_. This, which Dickens wrote when he was
but twenty-four years old, is without doubt the most valuable modern
manuscript in existence. An earlier owner, the late Mr. W. A. White,
abstracted from it a single leaf and presented it most generously to
the British Museum. What a gracious tribute this was from an American
collector!
When so many of the great English treasures have come to this side
of the water, how ingratiating was so splendid a gift! There the
_Pickwick_ page lies, in a glass show case, in the British Museum,
and any day one may see Dickens’s never-failing admirers crowding in
front of it to read and thrill to the broadly penned words, now browned
and a bit faded. How rapidly the words seem to fly across the pages
of this manuscript! You can’t but feel, as you read, that Dickens was
almost divinely chosen to give to the world a fount of humor which in
its very humanity will delight man, woman, and child throughout the
years. All that is left of the manuscript is thirty-two leaves, which
Dickens himself arranged into two chapters. When I read them I feel the
closest union with Dickens the author; in these pages the period just
before the coronation of Queen Victoria is made alive and vivid to us,
bridging the world of yesterday to that of to-day.
The _Pickwick Papers_ first appeared in serial form in 1836, issued
monthly. I think he became weary writing them, although, heaven
knows, there is nothing in the story which would give the reader the
slightest inkling of this. But prefixed to my manuscript is a hitherto
unpublished verse. Dickens marks it “Private and Confidential,” and it
is written for the benefit of one Mr. Hicks, as follows:--
Oh, Mr. Hick
--S, I’m heartily sick
Of this sixteenth Pickwick
Which is just in the nick
For the publishing trick,
And will read nice and slick,
If you’ll only be quick.
I don’t write on tick,
That’s my comfort, avick!
_July 26, ’37_
At the auction sale of the library of the late Baroness Burdett-Coutts
in 1923, in London, I paid £3700 for the manuscript of Dickens’s _The
Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain_. He had given it, the fifth and
last of his series of Christmas books, to the baroness in 1850. Ten
years after _Pickwick_, Dickens wrote this story, and the manuscript
demonstrates what I have said earlier about the painstaking and less
spontaneous work of an author as he grows older. The manuscript of _The
Haunted Man_ is filled with blottings, deletions, and corrections. It
is now in the choice collection of Mr. Carl H. Pforzheimer of New York.
[Illustration: OWEN D. YOUNG]
[Illustration: DICKENS’S RHYME TO MR. HICKS, PREFIXED TO THE MANUSCRIPT
OF THE “PICKWICK PAPERS”]
I do not hesitate to prophesy that in time the works of Dickens will
be the most valuable after Shakespeare. He is one of the few English
authors whose appeal is universal. Even in translation his works are
wonderful, and they have been translated into almost every language,
keeping their peculiar raciness, though they must sacrifice their
English idiom. Dickens will be read always, by the man in the street as
well as by the scholar.
[Illustration: LAST LETTER WRITTEN BY CHARLES DICKENS]
Speaking of the generosity of Mr. White in presenting the _Pickwick_
leaf to the British Museum recalls to my mind the magnificent gift of
Mr. John Gribbel of the Glenriddel Burns manuscripts to Scotland. The
great liberality displayed by this Philadelphian should do much to
cement international relations. All the friends of Bobbie Burns in
Scotland--and they are legion--gave up hope when these manuscripts were
purchased by Mr. Gribbel, believing them lost to the homeland forever.
You can imagine the thrill in every Scotchman’s heart, from Sidney to
Edinburgh, when the stirring news came, hot over the cable, that they
were to be returned to their native land.
[Illustration: “THE DYING CLOWN”: ORIGINAL DRAWING BY ROBERT SEYMOUR
FOR DICKENS’S “PICKWICK PAPERS”
(_Seymour committed suicide after finishing this drawing_)]
When Mr. Gribbel bought this collection in 1914, I was naturally
disappointed that I did not secure the Glenriddel manuscripts myself.
But I was as delighted as any bra’ laddie directly descended from the
celebrated ploughboy when I learned of Mr. Gribbel’s gift.
However, there are always compensations in this game if you have the
patience to wait. I recently secured probably the greatest collection
of Burns manuscripts, the one formerly belonging to that fine student
and most charming of men, Mr. R. B. Adam, of Buffalo, New York. I had
known of this collection all my life, but never dreamed that I should
one day own it.
It includes the original manuscripts of the great poems of Burns that
are enshrined in the souls of every lover of true poetry. Perhaps the
foremost is the original draft of “Tam o’ Shanter,” written on twelve
leaves, which Burns presented to Cardonnel Lawson in 1790. There is
also the appealing “There Was a Lass and She Was Fair”; the beautiful
poem, “The Last Time I Came O’er the Moor”; the exquisite lyric, “To
a Woodlark”; and that lovely characteristic poem, “Wilt Thou Be My
Dearie,” in which Burns himself especially delighted. Indeed, these
original drafts truly give Burns “an immortal life in the hearts of
young and old,” and when I read and reread in the poet’s own hand
Burns’s “On Hearing a Thrush on a Morning’s Walk,” the magnificent
“Address to Edinburgh,” and the sonorous “Lament of Mary, Queen of
Scots,” I am thrilled to the marrow.
[Illustration: ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF ROBERT BURNS’S POEM,
“BANNOCKBURN”]
It is difficult to describe the emotions aroused when I read the
original of that stirring battle song, the address at Bannockburn of
Robert Bruce to his troops, which begins, “Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace
bled.” This manuscript the poet presented to his sister-in-law, with
the inscription, “To Mrs. G. Burns, from her brother, the author.”
Burns used to wander through Leglen Wood, supposed to be the haunt
of Wallace, and confessed having visited it “with as much devout
enthusiasm as ever a pilgrim did the shrine of Loretto.”
My collection contains poems of noble sublimity and heart-melting
tenderness, such as the first poem known to have been written by Burns,
and one of his most charming, entitled, “Once I Lov’d a Bonnie Lass.”
There are two, however, which make a terrific appeal to me. One is
the poem in which he was inspired by the American Revolutionary War,
beginning:--
No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Eolian I awake,
’Tis Liberty’s bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take.
The other is in some respects the favorite one of all lovers of Burns,
the magnificent “For a’ That and a’ That.” I keep this collection
and the poet’s priceless letters under lock and key in my vault in
New York, lest the whole Scottish nation awaken one day, rise up, and
demand them.
It is sad that Burns received very little money for his poems when
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!
You will find early American children’s books difficult to obtain.
There are but few left in good condition to-day, but it is great
fun tracking them. In the first place, very few were published by
our Colonial presses. Such venerable gentlemen as Cotton Mather and
Governor Winthrop kept the printers too busily occupied issuing
theological works or acts of provincial assemblies; too seriously
engaged with statutes, laws, almanacs, prayer books, catechisms, and
sermons, to print many books for children. Lost in a theological web
of their own weaving, the leaders of the day cared little about the
intellectual amusement of their girls and boys.
But most of the young book fanciers, lucky enough to obtain the few
books issued, mauled them about or destroyed them entirely. They
are generally found with torn and missing leaves--these charming
atrocities have made many copies quite worthless to the collector. I
have been told that it is but normal for a bouncing bibliophile of
twelve months to teethe on the hard board corners of, for instance, a
copy of _Cinderella_. Indeed, a young child’s attitude toward a book
is not unlike that of a cannibal toward a missionary. Very young
children--this is on record, if you doubt me--have been known to eat
their books, literally devouring their contents.
When I was about seven years old another little boy of the same age
came from a suburb of Philadelphia to spend the day with me. We quickly
struck up a friendship. Although it was raining and we were forced
to remain indoors, we played together quite happily. Everything went
smoothly until late in the afternoon, when our inventive faculties
began to give out. It was then, after we had taken apart most of my
toys, that my little friend’s eyes lighted upon my books. I watched
him cross the room to the low shelf which held them so neatly, and I
remained quiet even as he began to paw them over. But when I saw him
take a pencil from his pocket to write crude letters of the alphabet
along the margins, I flew at him like a wildcat. Only the immediate
intervention of our combined families saved him from annihilation.
We have met many times since, and we always laugh at the story of my
juvenile wrath.
He still insists, after forty years, that his was a perfectly normal
action in a child. I believed in treating a book as something sacred,
even at that age. The germ had evidently entered my system with my
first vaccination!
In 1902 my uncle gave me his wonderful collection of children’s books.
Among them was his “damn rare” pamphlet, _A Legacy for Children, being
Some of the Last Expressions and Dying Sayings of Hannah Hill, Junr. Of
the City of Philadelphia in the Province of Pennsylvania, in America,
Aged Eleven Years and near Three Months_, which was printed by Andrew
Bradford, at the sign of the Bible, in Philadelphia, in 1717. Little
Hannah took several days to die, and she insisted upon having the
undivided attention of every member of her family. She gave them moral
advice, told them what they should do and what they should not do after
she had departed. “The Council which she gave, to her Dear and only
Sister and Cousin Loyd Zachary, whom she dearly loved, was very grave
and pithy....”
To-day I have nearly eight hundred volumes, which date from 1682 to
1840. They reveal with amazing fidelity the change in juvenile reading
matter, the change, too, in the outward character of the American
child. They depict the slow but determined growth from the child of
Puritan New England to that of our own day. It is a delightful change
from _Virtuous William the Obedient Prentice_, and _Patty Primrose_, to
_Tom Sawyer_, _Huck Finn_, _Penrod_, and _Winnie-the-pooh_. If Robert
Louis Stevenson had had the temerity to publish _Treasure Island_ in
the good old days of Governor Winthrop he would have been a fit subject
for the common hangman! I do not mean to imply that the New England boy
of the seventeenth century was the goody-goody thing which his parents
tried to make him. If he was choked with the Bible and threatened
with the catechism and the prayer book, if the creed and Bunyan were
ruthlessly thrust down his innocent young throat, he nevertheless could
think of Captain Kidd, Sir Henry Morgan, the Indians, and the whole
machinery of the boyhood imagination. Free thought was permitted him
because there was no way to suppress it.
The little Puritans! My heart aches for them when I read an example
such as _The Rule of the New-Creature. To be Practiced every day in
all the Particulars of which are Ten_. This is the earliest book in my
collection. It was published in Boston for Mary Avery, who sold books
near the Blue Anchor, 1682. Imagine the weary little child who had to
listen throughout a long Sunday afternoon to the contents of a book
which started off in this manner:--
“Be sensible of thy Original Corruption daily, how it inclines thee to
evil, and indisposeth thee to good; groan under it, and bewail it as
Paul did.... Also take special notice of your actual sins, or daily
infirmities, in Thought, Word, Deed. Endeavor to make your peace with
God for them before you go to bed.”
There is, too, one of the most famous of all juveniles, the equally
inspiriting and nourishing _Spiritual Milk for Boston Babes. In either
England: Drawn out of the breasts of both Testaments for their Souls
nourishment. But may be of like use to any Children. Printed at Boston,
1684_. My copy is the only one known of this date. John Cotton, the
great and influential Puritan minister, had written this many years
before, and it was first published in England in 1646, to settle a
growing dissension among the Puritans, who could not decide which
catechism of the many then in use was best for their children. This
volume grew very popular and from it the little ones learned to die
with much grace, and, therefore, eternal glory. Yet it was found very
difficult to teach the young of New England the proper way to die;
of all knowledge it is the most difficult to impart, as there are no
really good textbooks.
[Illustration:
_Spiritual_
MILK
FOR
_Boston Babes_.
In either _ENGLAND_:
Drawn out of the breasts of both
_TESTAMENTS_ for their
Souls nourishment.
But may be of like use to any
_CHILDREN_.
By _John Cotton_, _B. D._ Late
_Teacher_ to the Church of _Boston_ in
_New England_.
[Illustration]
Printed at BOSTON,
1684.
TITLE PAGE OF “SPIRITUAL MILK FOR BOSTON BABES”]
The ecstasy over the departure of a pure young child is one of the most
remarkable manifestations of the Puritan spirit. No book shows this
more clearly than the Rev. James Janeway’s _A Token for Children, being
an Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives and Joyous
Deaths of several Young Children_. This book passed through edition
after edition in England and her colonies, and was the certain means
of saving many children from hell and damnation. My copy is the only
one extant from Benjamin Franklin’s press, and is dated 1749. Janeway
states in his Preface, which is addressed “to all Parents, School
Masters and School Mistresses or any who have any Hand in the Education
of Children:--
“Remember the Devil is at work hard, wicked Ones are industrious,
and corrupt Nature is a rugged, knotty Piece to hew. But be not
discouraged.”
The author then goes on to relate the wicked bringing into this world
of little children, and dwells lovingly and tenderly upon their wise
and glorious deaths at the age of six or seven or even ten years. An
early death in purity and virtue was a thing to be coveted and desired,
and Janeway requests in his Preface that the teacher should impress
upon the little ones the advisability of imitating the early demise of
these sweet children whose short and devout lives are narrated by him.
Cotton Mather, who wrote a continuation of Janeway, and described the
brilliant, joyous, matchless deaths of New England children--Janeway
described the demise of the children of Old England--died at the age
of sixty-five years, thus prudently neglecting to follow the example
of his beautiful and obedient pupils who passed away, in all holiness,
at the hoary age of six. We shall select a passage from the celebrated
little book, which bears this title:--
_A Token for the Children of New England, or some Examples of Children,
in whom the Fear of God was remarkably budding before they died;
in several parts of New England. Preserved and Published for the
Encouragement of Piety in other children._
The selected passage is as follows:--
Elizabeth Butcher, Daughter of Alvin and Elizabeth Butcher, of Boston,
was born July 14th, 1709. When she was about Two Years and half Old;
as she lay in the Cradle she would ask her self that Question, What is
my corrupt Nature? and would make answer again to herself, It is empty
of Grace, bent unto Sin, and only to Sin, and that continually. She
took great delight in learning her Catechism, and would not willingly
go to Bed without saying some Part of it.
She being a weakly Child, her Mother carried her into the Country for
Health; And when she was about Three Years old, and at Meeting, she
would set with her Eyes fix’d on the Minister, to the Admiration of
all that Sat about her, who said that grown up People might learn and
take Example of her. She took great Delight in reading, and was ready
and willing to receive Instruction.
She was not contented with the bare reading of God’s Word, but would
frequently ask the meaning of it. And when she was at her work, she
would often ask where such and such Places in Scripture were, and
would mention the Words that she might be directed to find them.
It was her Practice to carry her Catechism or some other good Book to
Bed with her, and in the Morning she would be sitting up in her Bed
reading before any of the Family were awake.
Such goodness could not last, and on the thirteenth of June, 1718, poor
little Elizabeth departed this life, “being eight years and just eleven
months old.”
It is related of another child, Daniel Bradley, the son of Nathan and
Hester Bradley of Guilford, Connecticut, that when the said child was
about three years old, “he had one Night an Impression of the Fears of
Death, which put him into Crying; his Mother told him, if he died he
would go to Heaven; unto which he replied, He knew not how he would
like that Place, where he would be acquainted with no body!”
It is curious how you run unexpectedly upon things which you have long
desired. I always wanted a copy of George Fox’s _Instructions for Right
Spelling_, printed by Reinier Jansen, in Philadelphia, in 1702. One day
I stopped at Travers’s Bookshop in Trenton, New Jersey. Now Clayton L.
Travers is a true bookman; he knows the business thoroughly. In fact
he was an old crony of my uncle. I said to him that I had been looking
several years for Fox’s book. When I told him the title, he thought for
a moment, then disappeared to the back of the shop. Two minutes later
he returned with a little volume which was in an old sheep binding, the
title page decorated with an elaborate woodcut border. I opened it and
read the great Friend’s simple description of a comma:--
“Comma,” wrote George Fox, “is a little stop or breathing; as Behold O
Lord.” Please note that he placed no comma after Behold! The discovery
of Fox’s old spelling book was a delight to me, but what made it still
more pleasant was Travers’s generosity in letting me have it for about
one quarter its worth. Collector’s luck!
“They be darned small, but the flavor am delicious,” said an old
Southerner to me of the quail in his part of the country. The same can
also be applied to these children’s books. I suppose many people will
wonder why I, an old bachelor, prefer them? I can only answer with
another question. Why is it that old bachelors also write the best
children’s stories? There is no answer. But, thank heaven, I am not
alone in my crime. Another confirmed bachelor, a dear friend of mine,
is quite as enthusiastic on this youthful theme. Dr. Wilberforce Eames,
of New York, one of the greatest students of books this country ever
had, abets me; especially when he casually informs me of the probable
whereabouts of some rarity that I have been seeking for years.
[Illustration: WILBERFORCE EAMES]
Another bookman, my genial colleague, Mr. Lathrop C. Harper, also
of New York, and a great specialist in Americana, has been as much
interested in these little books as I myself. Instead of selling them
to me, Mr. Harper gives me all the tiny juveniles that he can find. He
has just presented to me a little book published in Boston in 1714,
which contains embedded in a waste of theological discussion for
infants, the following priceless gem:--
“O Children of New England, Poor Hearts; You are going to Hell
indeed: But will it not be a dreadful thing to go to Hell from New
England?”
[Illustration:
THE
GLASS OF WHISKEY.
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
No. 146 Chestnut Street.
TITLE OF “THE GLASS OF WHISKEY”]
Mr. Eames, with generosity equaling Mr. Harper’s, has filled many of
the crevices of my collection with the most interesting gifts. I can’t
say that I altogether approve of the generous impulses of these two
gentlemen--except when it applies to myself! It is very bad for the
book business. If bookmen were encouraged to go about giving away their
precious finds, what would we poor booksellers do?
This reminds me of the long chase I had for _Heavenly Spirits for
Youthful Minds_ some time ago. A customer in Yonkers wrote to me saying
he had this very rare book, supposed to have been issued by an old
Kentucky press in 1800. I was very keen to see it, so I motored to his
home at my first opportunity. When I arrived he pointed toward the
shelves at one end of his library. I saw with delight and envy the
long-sought volume, but when I took hold of it I was chilled. It felt
decidedly clammy. Then, as my friend burst out laughing, I realized it
was a porcelain jug made in the exact shape of a book! The joke was on
me.
My disappointment was not too great, however, as the _Heavenly Spirits_
was filled with mundane ones--Old Crow whiskey. I accepted it as
gracefully as I could, but I no longer use this imitation volume
for whiskey--I want something larger. Nor would I want to fill it
from the _Glass of Whiskey_, a tract published for youthful minds in
Philadelphia in 1830. This tiny yellow-covered pamphlet is but two
inches square. The artist who drew the illustrations indicated, with
his picture of a bunch of grapes beneath the title, that he knew
little or nothing of the inspirational sources of whiskey. Perhaps his
innocence secured him the job. Small boys freely imbibing, and the
resultant fruits thereof, are neatly portrayed. With what fascination
and horror little children must have read:--
There is a bottle. It has something in it which is called Whiskey.
Little reader, I hope you will never taste any as long as you live.
It is a poison. So is brandy, so is rum, so is gin, and many other
drinks. They are called strong drink. They are so strong that they
knock people down and kill them. They are sometimes called ardent
spirits, that is burning spirits. They burn up those who drink them.
The appropriate ending must have sent many a tot in search of a pencil
to sign the pledge: “O, how shall I keep from being a drunkard? I will
tell you. _Never drink a drop of anything that makes people drunk._”
I made my first find in children’s books when I was but a child
myself. A playmate of mine had an aunt who lived on Broad Street in
Philadelphia. We passed her house daily, on the way to and from school.
Sometimes we were invited to stop for lunch. One day I happened to
notice a pile of small books on her sitting-room table. She said she
kept them there to amuse the younger children of her family. Although
she knew I came from bookish people, she seemed surprised that I, a boy
of twelve, should be interested in old volumes. As I could hardly put
them down, she was evidently impressed; she offered them to me. You
may well believe that I took them and rushed out of the house, lest
she change her mind. When I reached home and my uncle saw what I had
been lucky enough to receive, he exclaimed at their rarity. My treasure
trove comprised three wonderful little volumes. They were _Black
Giles_, _The Cries of Philadelphia_, and a rare edition of _Babes in
the Wood_.
For thirty years I tried to obtain Benjamin Franklin’s _The Story of
a Whistle_. “_Le grand_ Franklin,” as they called him abroad, wrote
and published this fascinating story in 1779, when he had his press
at Passy, just outside of Paris. He had printed it in French and in
English, on opposite pages, in a charming pamphlet which he presented
to his friends. He used the little Passy press mainly to run off
official documents and other matters connected with his mission as the
American Minister to the Court of France. In 1923, I bought one of the
two copies that have survived, at an auction sale in London. It had
been briefly catalogued--lucky for me!--as A printed sheet in French
and English, “On Paying too much for a Whistle.” Although I would have
gladly paid £1000 for it, it was knocked down to me for less than one
tenth of this sum.
When discussing printing in this country, it is impossible not to refer
to Benjamin Franklin. He originated almost everything original in
America. His projects are more talked about to-day than when he lived.
Franklin, as a child in Boston, had had a taste of the dull literary
offering of the Pilgrim Fathers. The _New England Primer_ was then
the best seller. When he became a printer he published edition after
edition of it. Although Franklin himself records the sale of 37,100 of
these primers, there is but one copy known to exist to-day. Mr. William
S. Mason, of Evanston, Illinois, is the owner of this unique copy.
Surely, in some New England attic there must be another. The collector
can but hope! I have the only one known printed by his successor, David
Hall--shall I ever obtain one from Benjamin’s own press?
In 1749 Franklin wrote and published _Proposals Relating to the
Education of Youth in Pensilvania_. This work greatly interests me
and all those who claim the University of Pennsylvania as their Alma
Mater. It was soon after Franklin issued this that he and twenty-three
other citizens of Philadelphia banded together as an association which
soon completed plans to establish an academy for young men. It opened
in 1751. So this little book is a part of the actual foundation of the
University of Pennsylvania. When he was an old man, eighty-two, to be
exact, Franklin was still keenly interested in new books for children.
He had already given his favorite grandson, Benjamin Franklin Bache, a
fine printing press with types, and set him up as a printer. Under the
guidance of his celebrated grandfather, young Bache printed _Lessons
for Children from Two to Five Years Old_.
The older man was so delighted with his efforts that he decided, with
a business acumen not diminished with the years, to market the books
for him. Believing Boston to be a good commercial outlet, he wrote, on
November 26, 1788, to his nephew Jonathan Williams:--
LOVING COUSIN:--
I have lately set up one of my grandchildren, Benja. F. Bache, as a
Printer here, and he has printed some very pretty little books for
children. By the sloop Friendship, Capt. Stutson, I have sent a Box
address’d to you, containing 150 of each volume, in Sheets, which I
request you would, according to your wonted goodness, put in a way of
being dispos’d of for the Benefit of my dear Sister. They are sold
here, bound in marbled Paper at 1 s. a volume; but I should suppose
it best, if it may be done, to Sell the whole to some Stationer, at
once, unbound as they are; in which case, I imagine that half a Dollar
a Quire may be thought a reasonable price, allowing usual Credit if
necessary.
My love to your Family, and Believe me ever,
Your affectionate Uncle
B. FRANKLIN.
The original of this letter is in the collection of Miss Rosalie V.
Halsey.
Competitors and collectors have often complained that I have frequently
purchased at auction rare books that they especially desired and that
I did not give them a chance. Quite true! But I have often tasted the
same bitter medicine myself. I recall, very vividly, a certain day in
May 1913, when the Crane sale was being held in New York and there was
a tiny _Royal Primer_ included among the items, which I felt belonged
to my collection of children’s books. Printed in Philadelphia in 1753
by James Chattin, this _Royal Primer_ was the only one of its kind in
existence. In the good old days when George D. Smith was czar of the
auction rooms, all other dealers and collectors were under a terrific
strain the moment he appeared. We knew it was almost hopeless to bid
against him.
At that time Mr. Smith represented Mr. Henry E. Huntington. He entered
the auction room armed with as many unlimited bids as a porcupine has
quills. Mr. Smith seemed to take a peculiar delight in running up
bids on the little juvenile books I craved. And I had set my heart on
the _Royal Primer_ from the moment it was shown to the audience--a
beautiful copy in its original sheep cover. I was prepared to pay as
high as $200 for it, but as I watched Smith, the very shadow and
auction voice of Mr. Huntington himself, I had serious doubts of
obtaining it. The bidding started at ten dollars. Imagine my emotion
when it rose rapidly to $1000! I felt a complete bankrupt. It was no
small task to bid against this octopus of the game, and when the _Royal
Primer_ was finally mine at the absurdly high sum of $1225 I arose
quickly and went out for air.
The contents of the primers are generally the same. They begin with a
rhymed alphabet with illustrations, words, and syllables for spelling
lessons. Many of the earliest ones contain verses which were supposed
to have been written by the English martyr, John Rogers, just before
his execution, for the benefit of his “nine small children, and one at
the breast.” Mrs. Rogers and the children are depicted calmly watching
the head of the family at the stake as he is about to go up in flames.
Their little faces are like so many cranberries.
Later primers are equally amusing, sometimes with frontispieces of
George III, and others have dubious likenesses of Our President. Not
even the mother of George Washington could have recognized her boy’s
features in these crude pictures. But the primers were very popular,
and the Puritans continued to issue them. The _Beauties of the Primer_
was followed by the _Primer Improved_ and the _Progressive Primer_, a
more elaborate departure, which boasts colored illustrations.
It was during the early part of the eighteenth century that the Puritan
taste began to broaden a bit. In addition to the early primers and
catechisms, children were encouraged to read the Holy Bible in verse
and semireligious books which had come into fashion. A friend--Mr.
Thomas E. Streeter, of New York, a most discriminating collector--found
in a volume of pamphlets, _Some Excellent Verses for the Education of
Youth_, to which is added _Verses for Little Children, by a Friend_,
Boston, printed by Bartholomew Green, 1708. It was the only copy
extant, having miraculously escaped the rough usage of tiny hands. I
despaired of obtaining it, when one day Mr. Streeter generously sent it
to me with his compliments. Here is a sample of the Biblical verse as
it was written to impress the small reader. Imagine the youth of New
England, born with all the lively desires of a modern child, spending a
Sunday afternoon memorizing such rhythms as:--
Though I am Young, yet I may Die,
And hasten to Eternity.
Another melancholy book of poetry for children was printed in 1740
in New Haven by T. Green. My copy is the only one known to-day. Its
pleasant beginning must have charmed the small reader; thus: “Children,
you must die in a short time. You will soon go to a Heaven of Joy or a
burning Hell.” There are seven poems in each. The author cannot resist
depicting a lugubrious future. Imagine your own child memorizing this
sample, called “The Play”:--
Now from School I haste away,
And joyful rush along to play;
Eager I for my marbles call,
The whistling top or bouncing Ball.
The changing marbles to me show,
How mutable all things below.
My fate and theirs may be the same
Dasht in an instant from the Game.
The Hoop, swift rattling on the Chase,
Shows me how quick Life runs its Race.
My hoop and I like turnings have.
So fast Death drives me to my Grave.
[Illustration: THE VERBS.
Some Actors of eminence made their appearance,
And the servants, Nouns common, with speed made a clearance
Of tables, chairs, stools, and such moveable things,
As, wherever it goes, the Noun always brings.
And these actors the VERBS, when they’d room to DISPLAY,
Both WRESTLED and TUMBLED; and GAMBOL’D away;
They PLAY’D and they RAN, they JUMP’D and they DANC’D,
FRISK’D, AMBLED, and KICK’D, LAUGH’D, CHATTER’D and PRANC’D.
VERBS ACTIVE AND PASSIVE.
The company, laughing, now stood up in ranks,
Whilst the ACTIVE VERBS play’d on the PASSIVE their pranks.
But some were so lazy they SLEPT on the floor,
And some were so stupid they STOOD by the door.
In short, all the actions that mortals can DO,
Were DONE by these VERBS, and ENDUR’D by them too.
TWO PAGES FROM “THE INFANT’S GRAMMAR”]
Among all the books I have seen that were published at this period in
the Colonies, I have found but one which might be taken seriously if
issued to-day. It treats upon an international problem, good behavior,
which, alas, is the bugaboo of children the world over. Personally I
have always felt that it is the most terrible and obnoxious of all the
moralities--but then, I’m only an old bachelor! _The School of Good
Manners Composed for the Help of Parents in teaching their Children
how to carry it in their places during their Minority_ was brought
out in Boston, reprinted and sold by T. and J. Fleet at the Heart
and Crown, in Cornhill, 1772. It begins with “Twenty mixt Precepts,”
such as “Honour the Magistrates,” and tells little children plainly
what and what not to do. Under a heading of “Behaviour at the Table,”
it admonishes: “Spit not, cough not, nor blow thy nose at the table,
if it may be avoided.” “Behaviour When in Company” is a little less
stringent, perhaps, than one might expect. It reads: “Spit not in the
room, but in the corner.” Further: “Let thy countenance be moderately
cheerful, neither laughing nor frowning.” “For Behaviour at School” one
must “Bawl not aloud in making complaints,” and “Jog not the table or
desk on which another writes.”
It is not probable that these righteously exemplary books could be all
things to all children. What a welcome change the _Prodigal Daughter_
must have been! Isaiah Thomas, of Worcester, printed her history in
1771, in Boston, before he became famous as the publisher of simpler
children’s books such as _Goody Two Shoes_. In many of these early
books the title page relates practically the entire story in scenario
form. A case in point is the _Prodigal Daughter, or a strange and
wonderful relation, shewing how a gentleman of vast estates in Bristol,
had a proud and disobedient Daughter, who, because her parents would
not support her in all her extravagance, bargained with the Devil to
poison them. How an Angel informed her Parents of her design. How she
lay in a trance four days; and when she was put in the grave, she came
to life again._ Quite a happy ending for an eighteenth-century prodigal!
The gradual change which took place in juvenile literature was brought
about partly by the captivating whimsicalities of Oliver Goldsmith.
The finest collection of Goldsmith’s books is in the beautiful library
of my dear friend, William M. Elkins, but I have a few of Goldsmith’s
juveniles that even he has been unable to obtain. Goldsmith’s
delightful books for children, which his publisher, John Newbery, had
bound in gilt paper and adorned with woodcuts, were sent over here from
his far-famed shop at the corner of Saint Paul’s Churchyard in London.
When they were reprinted in staid New England, they were a startling
innovation to the book trade. Then old ballads began to return to
the market, each with some striking change also. Contrast the stern
outpourings of the learned Cotton Mather with Doctor Goldsmith’s “Elegy
on that Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize”:--
Good people, all, with one accord
Lament for Madame Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word--
From those who spoke her praise....
She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways--
Unless when she was sinning!...
The _Royal Battledoor_, the _Mother Goose Melodies_, _A Pretty Book for
Children_, and some of the best verse ever written for juveniles then
came into being. “Bah, Bah, Black Sheep,” “Pease-Porridge Hot,” “Little
Tommy Tucker”--have they since been improved upon? I doubt it.
BAH, BAH, BLACK SHEEP
Bah, bah, black sheep, have you any wool?
Yes, sir; yes, sir, I have three bags full.
One for my master, one for his dame,
But none for the little boy who cries in the lane.
PEASE-PORRIDGE HOT
Pease-porridge hot,
Pease-porridge cold,
Pease-porridge in the pot,
Nine days old.
Can you spell that with four letters?
Yes, I can: T-H-A-T.
LITTLE TOMMY TUCKER
Little Tommy Tucker
Sings for his supper;
What song will he sing?
White bread and butter.
How will he cut it
Without e’er a knife?
How will he be married
Without e’er a wife?
I was spending a week-end last summer with some friends who have a
large library consisting chiefly of the classical English authors. I
had been out one afternoon, and as I returned to the house, was met
halfway by my hostess. She had a distraught look, and before I could
inquire what had happened, she said, “I am frightfully upset! What do
you think I found Tommy doing just now in the library? Reading that
nasty old book, Fielding’s _Tom Jones_!”
Her son Tommy was twelve years old. “What have you done about it?” I
asked, trying to suppress a smile.
“I took it from him and put it in the stove!”
She refused to believe me when I told her that _Tom Jones_, _Clarissa
Harlowe_, and _Pamela_ were read aloud in the evening to all members of
the family in Puritan New England, and Miss Rosalie V. Halsey relates
that when certain passages became too affecting, the more sensitive
listeners retired to their rooms to weep! Sometime later I showed her
my copy of _Tom Jones_, abridged especially for youthful reading, with
its crude little woodcut facing the title page, and this explanatory
verse beneath:--
This print describes a good man’s heart
Who meant to take the orphan’s part,
And may distress forever find
A friend like him to be so kind.
[Illustration:
The Uncle’s Present,
A NEW BATTLEDOOR.
Published by Jacob Johnson, 147 Market Street Philadelphia.
TITLE PAGE OF “THE UNCLE’S PRESENT”]
The moral of _Tom Jones_, as translated for its youthful readers, seems
to boil down to this: If you are a good child you will never annoy
your neighbors! Fancy Henry Fielding’s amusement when _Tom Jones_
appeared abridged for children! What a marvelous leap this was from the
dry-as-dust New England primers and Protestant Tutors, from austere
catechisms to--_Tom Jones_!
Printers early discovered that books for children should be made in
proportion to their little clients--small. Miniature volumes have
always held a great fascination for children of all ages. Their
very neatness and compactness make them seem the more precious and
desirable. Perhaps it was with a view to making Bible stories valued
more highly by their small readers that they were printed in tiny
volumes called Thumb Bibles. These adorable wee volumes, illustrated
with crude woodcuts, are extremely rare. Not long ago a lady came
to my Philadelphia office with an old-fashioned hand bag--the silk
gathered sort, roomy if not beautiful. I noticed that it stuck out in
little points, and wondered what on earth she could have brought in
it. My curiosity was more than gratified when she emptied it upon my
desk--some twenty Thumb Bibles! When I asked her what she wanted for
these little charmers she shook her head and said that anything I cared
to offer would be acceptable. I suggested $300. She looked at me aghast.
“Why,” she said, “I would have been willing to take twenty-five!”
Children began to assert themselves, beginning with the last quarter
of the eighteenth century. They became individuals rather than so much
parental property. Thomas Bradford must have realized this when, in
1775, he placed such juvenile delights upon the market as _The Scotch
Rogue_, _Moll Flanders_, _Lives of Highwaymen_, _Lives of Pirates_,
_The Buccaneers of America_, and _The Lives of the Twelve Cæsars_.
At the beginning of the nineteenth century shockers began to appear.
Lurid tales of dastardly deeds were read by children who hitherto
knew life through such stories as _The Prize for Youthful Obedience_,
_The Search After Happiness_, _Little Truths_, and other edifying
concoctions. The colorful experiences of _Motherless Mary, A Young and
Friendless Orphan who was eventually Decoyed to London_, appearing from
the presses of a New York house in 1828, interpreted life in a new if
less safe way. John Paul Jones’s _Life_ was issued with a terrifying
frontispiece and in a dress to attract small boys with an admiration
and envy for buccaneers and their fierce and bloody lives. Even Noah
Webster, that staid dictionarist, wrote _The Pirates, A Tale for Youth_.
The interest in American history began at the close of the Revolution.
The scenes of all the juvenile histories were formerly laid in foreign
countries. The American Colonies now had their own history, and some of
the rarest, and perhaps the most attractive to the student, are those
dealing with this subject. _The History of America abridged for the use
of Children of all Denominations, adorned with cuts_, Philadelphia,
Wrigley and Berriman, 1795, is engaging and wonderful. The little
illustrations are marvelous examples of the illustrator’s skill. On
account of the expense, the publisher duplicated the portraits, and one
cut served for several worthies. Thus Christopher Columbus, General
Montgomery, and His Excellency Richard Howel, Governor of New Jersey,
were depicted exactly alike, the American eighteenth-century military
costume looking picturesque and fearful on Columbus.
The _New York Cries_, printed and sold by Mahlon Day in 1826, is
particularly entertaining. According to the introduction of this little
book: “New York island is 15 miles long, and from one to two miles
broad. It is laid out in spacious streets and avenues, with large
squares and market places. The circuit of the city is about eight
miles, and the number of buildings which it contains is estimated at
30,000, and the inhabitants at about 172,000.”
I cannot resist quoting the cry of Sand, as it is a reflection of the
time when New Yorkers used sand on their floors, instead of costly
Oriental rugs:--
Sand! Here’s your nice white Sand!
Sand, O! white Sand, O!
Buy Sand for your floor;
For so cleanly it looks
When strew’d at your door.
This sand is brought from the seashore in vessels, principally from
Rockaway Beach, Long Island. It is loaded into carts, and carried
about the streets of New York, and sold for about 12½ cents per
bushel. Almost every little girl or boy knows that it is put on newly
scrubbed floors, to preserve them clean and pleasant.
But since people have become rich, and swayed by the vain fashions
of the world, by carpeting the floors of their houses, there does
not appear to be so much use for Sand as in the days of our worthy
ancestors.
_Peter Piper’s Practical Principles of Plain and Perfect Pronunciation_
was published in Philadelphia by W. Johnson in 1836. Issued nearly
a century ago, it is still enshrined in our hearts. Although there
were many editions issued in America, few have survived the tooth of
time and the voracity of these youthful readers. The Philadelphia
edition had perfect pictures properly painted, and it is one of the
most charming morsels ever devised “to please the palates of Pretty,
Prattling Playfellows.” Two quotations are given in order to bring us
all back to the time long ago when Peter Piper meant so much to us.
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
Did Peter Piper pick a peck of pickled peppers?
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?
Villiam Veedon vip’s his Vig and Vaistcoat;
Did Villiam Veedon vipe his Vig and Vaistcoat?
If Villiam Veedon vip’d his Vig and Vaistcoat,
Vhere are the Vig and Vaistcoat Villiam Veedon vip’d?
The publisher’s excuse of presenting Peter Piper to the public is
worthy of the book itself:--
He Prays parents to Purchase this Playful Performance, Partly to Pay
him for his Patience and Pains; Partly to Provide for the Printers and
Publishers; but Principally to Prevent the Pernicious Prevalence of
Perverse Pronunciation.
[Illustration:
P p
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled Peppers;
Did Peter Piper pick a peck of pickled Peppers?
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled Peppers,
Where’s the peck of pickled Peppers Peter Piper picked?
PAGE FROM “PETER PIPER’S PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES OF PLAIN AND PERFECT
PRONUNCIATION”]
The book will always remain attractive to us, but when we think of the
youthful minds it has mixed, the jaws it has dislocated, the tongues it
has tied, we can only remark that we love it for its faults!
When I look into these old editions, these picturesque little volumes,
which reveal so charmingly the quickening change from the days of the
Pilgrim Fathers, I am surprised that some enterprising publisher does
not reissue them to-day. Such stories as _Pug’s Visit to Mr. Punch_,
_Who Killed Cock Robin_, _The History of Little Fannie_, _Little Eliza
and Little Henry_, as well as the droll _Old Dame Trudge and Her
Parrot_, would go as well now as one hundred years ago. I think they
would make a fortune for someone--although I do not guarantee it!
Two specially made miniature bookcases house my whole collection of
children’s books. On either side of a large sixteenth-century Spanish
bookcase they hang against the wall, and visitors to my Philadelphia
home take delight in looking at their quaint illustrations and the
still quainter text. But alas, my library is now like a nursery without
children. The whole family--eight hundred--have traveled to New York
and are on exhibition in the New York Public Library, where they may be
seen by all who are interested.
VII
OLD BIBLES
What is the greatest discovery in the history of books? This is the
question with which I am constantly bombarded. In letters from all
parts of the world the embryonic bookman, the novice collector, the
casual lover of books, the intelligent, the stupid--they make this
their leading question. And although I have never been accused of
unseemly virtue, I rejoice that the answer is exactly as it should be:
the first printed Bible.
The momentous recognition of the now famed Gutenberg Bible occurred
in the middle of the eighteenth century. Book collecting was already
beginning to discard its sombre, conservative guise as an occupation of
the religious in monasteries, or as a pastime of the old and very rich.
Now this discovery came like a flaming meteor against the literary sky.
So many astounding finds have been made in out-of-the-way places,
it is somewhat surprising that this first and greatest printed work
should have been identified in the very heart of Paris. In a preceding
article I have related the remarkable manner in which several other
rare books turned up. There was the copy of _Pilgrim’s Progress_ which
made its way from obscurity in the barber shop of a small English town
to international fame in a London auction room. And another valuable
book, Shakespeare’s _Venus and Adonis_, hid unsuspected for years in
the lumber room of an English estate before it was brought to light;
and a similar copy, equally rare, was used as an archer’s target at
Shrewsbury before its value was accidentally recognized. What irony,
then, that this, the greatest book of all time, the Gutenberg Bible,
should have rested in the very centre of a literary stronghold perhaps
centuries before its unique preëminence was detected!
Thousands of eyes during that time had gazed uncomprehendingly upon
this marvel of the printer’s art in the celebrated library of Cardinal
Mazarin in Paris. How often it was read by strangely undiscerning eyes,
eyes of students, eyes of connoisseurs, looked upon by true lovers of
the antique! They saw nothing in it but a Bible--one more early Bible.
Such men as Descartes, Voiture, and Corneille doubtless turned its
pages many times. Certainly it must have been something of a curiosity,
even in those days. But what scant imaginations they had! The very idea
chills me!
It will forever remain a mystery, that Gutenberg Bible in Paris. How
did it get there from Germany? Who brought it? How did it happen to
be in the Mazarin Library? Did some serious-minded book agent of old
France, if there were any then, bargain quietly with the scarlet-robed
Cardinal, or was the road to its destination one of intrigue, of
dishonor, and finally violence? Alas, that we book lovers will never
know! A little pilfering here and there was never known to upset
Mazarin, if the book he coveted was worthy of it.
Often I have wondered, when visiting his musty library, what the
ancient walls behind the shelves could tell were they suddenly given
the power of speech. As the old proverb runs, “Walls have ears.” Nor
is it difficult in that majestic palace to watch through half-closed
eyes, veiled, of course, by your imagination, the proud old churchman
as he pridefully surveys his magnificent books. Perhaps you can see him
lingering before the provocative loveliness of gleaming parchment and
morocco covers; observe him as he tenderly removes from its resting
place some diabolical work of Machiavelli; or he may pace elegantly
between the ancient lecterns and reading posts to bend in silent
tribute before the disquieting beauty of some massive old missal. I
have easily pictured not only His Eminence but many assistants as well,
searching among the ancient tomes; sandaled monks, learned scholars
and librarians, poets and courtiers, they have all passed me in that
renowned library, unconscious of my presence. And how the chains
still jangle which for centuries have held captive certain small and
attractive volumes on shelf and table. Some sophisticated doubters may
sigh as they read these lines, thinking: “Poor Rosenbach, what the
vineyards of France must have done to him!”
After I purchased the Melk copy of the Gutenberg Bible last year, I
learned, from the hordes of visitors who came to see it and through the
letters of congratulation and inquiry with which I was flooded, that
most people thought this the only copy in existence. As a matter of
fact, about forty-three copies have been discovered thus far, ten of
which are now in public and private libraries in this country. Perhaps
there are others in hiding; there is always that glorious chance. But
the very fact that there were these other copies, scattered in various
libraries in the old centres of Europe, copies which were there,
doubtless, from the time Gutenberg accomplished his stupendous work,
makes the more remarkable the first disclosure of this Bible, nearly
three centuries after its publication.
Think of the many wise graybeards who spent their lives searching for
knowledge in the vast libraries of Vienna, of Berlin, of Göttingen,
of Prague, and at Oxford and Cambridge, those centuries ago; men who
saw and read these volumes and yet did not question their strange
peculiarity. For although the Gutenberg Bible gives the effect of
a fastidiously written manuscript, it is not only the earliest but
actually the most beautiful work of printing the world has ever known.
It was the first work to come from any press using movable types.
Whether these were cut from wood or moulded in lead can never be
conclusively proved. This is immaterial, however, except to the student
of typography. The type itself is a large Gothic one, and the ink, now
nearly five centuries old, is to-day as black and glossy as the hair of
a Japanese beauty. The majestic Gothic lettering was the prevailing one
used in Germany for ecclesiastical works at that time, and therefore it
was but natural to use it as a model. The pages of the Gutenberg Bible
are perfectly spaced in double columns.
The great work was published in two states; some copies were printed
on paper, others on vellum. The feel of the paper always fascinates me,
so firm it is, so beautiful in appearance. It seems alive, yet there is
something definitely final about it. It is as though the paper of the
Gutenberg Bible had proudly indicated from its inception that nothing
finer, nothing more perfect ever could be made. Nor is the vellum of
any other old book of finer texture than that which Gutenberg, the
master printer, used. The rarest vellum is from the thinnest, the most
velvety part of the inner skin of the sheep. This Gutenberg was careful
to select, and his Bibles printed on vellum are much more valuable
to-day than those printed on paper.
It thrills the lover of books when he observes the superb taste Johann
Gutenberg showed in the year 1455. A decade later, printers, his
pupils, began to be patronized by princes of Church and State. It was
they who ordered the most beautiful books, made especially for their
private gratification. But there is no record of Gutenberg having any
such incentive as wealth or approbation. He must have followed some
compelling desire of his own which led to the creation of the perfect
book.
It was about 1750 that Guillaume-François de Bure, a young Frenchman,
proved himself a veritable prodigy among discoverers. At that time he
employed every moment he could spare, working in the Mazarin Library,
which, since the death of its founder, had fortunately been in the
hands of intelligent and appreciative men. It happened that De Bure
one day stumbled upon two old volumes he could not recall having
seen before. He glanced at them as he passed, and was so taken by
their unusual beauty that he resolved to return to study them as soon
as possible. Almost the first thing De Bure observed was that there
were forty-two lines on the page. He had seen, in those magnificent
ecclesiastical surroundings, many wonderful Bibles. In a state of
hopeful excitement he looked for and finally located another copy of
the glorious book similar to the one in the Mazarin Library, in the
Electoral Library in Mainz. This is the copy which is now in the French
National Library. De Bure read the inscription in an ancient hand at
the end of each volume, several lines stating that the books had been
rubricated and bound in the year of our Lord 1456. With these slender
facts as a basis, he set about further to establish the authenticity of
the greatest bibliographical discovery of all time.
There were two issues of the Gutenberg (or, as it was originally
called, the Mazarin,) Bible. The first contains forty, forty-one, and
forty-two lines to the column. But this, as a rule, is at the beginning
of the book, where it is apparent that Gutenberg was experimenting; he
was trying to evolve to his own satisfaction the form of what has since
been acclaimed the greatest monument of the printer’s art. To obtain
the very first issue of the Gutenberg Bible--that is an achievement!
Of all books in the world it is the most important to possess in its
elemental state, for it was in this condition that it first saw the
light of day. It is true that there is nothing nobler, nothing finer,
nothing more beautiful than the Gutenberg Bible in its last completed
phase, but to me the embryonic stage of the first printed book is the
most important. Only the first “gathering,” as we say technically,
comprises the first printed book.
I believe Gutenberg began printing his Bible a little before 1450,
and devoted the first three or four years to perfecting the movable
types. But I doubt if it could have been much earlier than 1455
when he finally completed the first copy. In all probability he was
assisted by his friend, Johann Fust, who supplied the money with which
Gutenberg bought materials for a press and types. Aided, too, by
Fust’s son-in-law, Peter Schöffer, they brought eternal fame to the
name of their already famous city, Mainz. Later many apprentices from
Gutenberg’s and Fust’s atelier went southward to France, Italy, and
Spain, where they established the first presses in the great cities of
Paris, Rome, Florence, and Seville. These specimens of early printing
are known to the specialists as incunabula, or books representing the
cradle of printing. The term has been extended so as to include all
works printed before 1500.
[Illustration: FIRST PAGE OF CICERO, “DE OFFICIIS,” PRINTED ON VELLUM,
MAINZ, 1465, WITH MINIATURE OF CICERO]
Some authorities have questioned the claim of Gutenberg as the
inventor of printing. Coster of Haarlem has been put forth as the real
discoverer. There are fragments of early printing with Gothic types
that students of typography have dubbed Costeriana. I cannot enter here
into a discussion of this controversy. Perhaps both sides are right. At
any rate, I have read reams and reams on the subject and have become
sadder if not wiser at each perusal. Mademoiselle Pellechet, a
celebrated bibliophile of the nineteenth century, studied the question
deeply. In the end, as bibliography is a science in which women have
distinguished themselves, a woman will probably say the last word!
Perhaps the best person to give an opinion on the subject to-day is
Miss Belle da Costa Greene, the learned director of the Pierpont Morgan
Library.
When I visited England two or three years ago I was invited to
Windsor Castle to see the beautiful library belonging to King George.
The librarian, the Honorable John Fortescue, the authority on the
history of the English Army, showed me many magnificent volumes and
manuscripts. Among them was that glorious rarity known to the initiated
as the 1457 Psalter, printed on vellum by Fust and Schöffer. There are
in the royal library many works of great historical importance, and I
listened with delight to his fascinating stories relating to them.
Often during the afternoon I stood before the windows of the library
to look out upon the vista of green lawns, the winding Thames, and
Eton College a few miles in the distance. I thought of Thomas Gray and
others who had known so intimately the country about me, of famous men
whose names were connected with famous books, and a sudden desire came
over me--a desire to see and pay homage to the most beautiful book in
the world. By the time I was ready to leave the Castle I had decided to
motor over to Eton.
When I arrived I immediately went to the library attendant and asked
him to let me see the Gutenberg Bible. This copy in the library of
Eton College is to my mind the most noble specimen of all. It is in its
contemporary binding of old leather decorated with the original metal
clasps and bosses, and it bears the name of the binder, Johann Fogel,
who goes down in history as the binder of the first printed book.
At the very time of my visit to Eton the newspapers in England were
running editorial comment about several purchases I had just made
privately and at auction sales. They complained I was taking away the
greatest monuments of literature from their shores. The old attendant
at Eton, noting my enthusiasm as I turned the pages of this beautiful
Bible, said to me, in a tone tickled with pride, “Wouldn’t that Doctor
Rosenbach like to carry off this Gutenberg Bible too?”
Gutenberg’s Bible was set up from the Latin manuscript version
designated by scholars as the Vulgate. Previous to its issue most
manuscript Bibles were written either in Greek or Hebrew. Now, for the
first time, it appeared available to all who could read, translated
into Latin, the “vulgar” or common language of the Church.
[Illustration: BELLE DA COSTA GREENE]
During the past few years I have purchased four copies of the Gutenberg
Bible. The first, at the Hoe sale in 1912, was an edition printed on
paper, and with Alfred Quaritch I later sold it to the late P. A. B.
Widener, of Philadelphia. It is now in the collection of his son, Mr.
Joseph Widener. The second copy, in a superb binding by Fogel, and now
in the greatest private collection of Bibles in this country, came
from the library of the late James W. Ellsworth, of Chicago. It was
in a strange manner that I bought this copy. I was halfway across the
Atlantic. Before sailing I had been treating for its purchase, along
with the rest of his splendid library. I completed the transaction by
wireless. It was thus that the fifteenth century and the twentieth
met in mid-ocean! To buy a Gutenberg Bible by radio--it seemed almost
sacrilegious.
And this recalls another story. I met for the first time aboard one of
the great liners a distinguished collector, a man of great taste and
judgment. He said to me in the smoking room, fifteen hundred miles out
of New York, “Have you a set of the four folios of Shakespeare?”
“Yes,” I replied, “a fine one, the Trowbridge set; at least, I have if
it has not been sold.”
He asked me to verify it by wireless, which I did, and on receipt of
the message he purchased it in mid-Atlantic. No man that ever lived
had the prophetic foresight of Shakespeare; yet even he could not have
pictured such a thing. And the price? That is still another story.
I purchased another Gutenberg Bible, printed on paper, at the Carysfort
sale in London, four years ago, and paid £9500--a little less than
$50,000--for it. To-day it rests, with other great examples of printing
and literature, in the library of Mr. Carl H. Pforzheimer, in New York
City.
The Melk copy, which I bought at the Anderson Galleries last year,
was as exciting an acquisition as I have ever made. Of course there
were many collectors and dealers besides myself who yearned to own
it. The price I paid for it--$106,000--was like the first shot of the
Revolution, heard around the world. Mrs. E. S. Harkness bought this
copy from me and most graciously bestowed it upon the Library of Yale
University, in memory of Mrs. Stephen V. Harkness. It is certainly one
of the greatest gifts ever made to a university in this country. So
many copies have passed into public institutions during the past few
years, it is unlikely that many more perfect ones can come into the
market. What will its price be in the future? One could as well stem
the tides as to block its steady and irresistible march. It is only
a matter of time. To-day it sells for more than $100,000; more than
$1,000,000 will some day be a reasonable price for it.
Although much stress has been laid upon the value and rarity of the
Gutenberg forty-two-line Bible, and it is generally thought to be the
most valuable in the world, I believe the thirty-six-line Bible (known
as the Pfister, or Bamberg, Bible) is infinitely rarer. It also was the
work of a Mainz printing press, and was probably made under Gutenberg’s
supervision, after he had finished the one which now bears his name. In
the old days it was thought to have been printed before the Gutenberg
Bible, but scholars have proved by long study that mistakes are made
which could only have been the result of using Gutenberg’s for copy,
instead of one of the written texts. There are only fourteen copies
of this thirty-six-line Bible known; four are in England, seven in
Germany, one is in Belgium, one in France, and another in Austria. Yet
in all this broad land there is not one copy. But I rejoice in having a
single leaf of it, which, I assure you, I prize greatly.
Probably the most beautiful Bible after the Gutenberg is in two
volumes, forming what is known as the 1462 Bible. It is the first one
that is dated, and was issued at Mainz, printed by Fust and Schöffer,
August 14, 1462. The copies on vellum seem to be more numerous than
those on paper. I bought the last copy, belonging to the Earl of
Carysfort, for £4800. It is not only the first dated Bible but the
earliest example of a book formally divided into two volumes. But it is
not considered a rare edition of the Bible in any sense of the word,
as more than sixty copies are known. In fact, we had two copies of
it at one time in our New York vault, both of which were illuminated
with grotesque birds and beasts, probably by the same artist. It is
odd that, although there are few collections of incunabula in South
America, there are two copies of this Bible in the National Library at
Rio de Janeiro.
Probably the greatest sport of all is the collecting of Bibles in
manuscript. It takes a king’s ransom to-day to secure a really fine
one. I do not mean the ordinary late-fifteenth-century ones, which
are quite common, but those executed from the ninth to the twelfth
century, especially when they are illustrated. Of course, the earliest
codices, the very foundation stones of the history of the Bible, such
as the Codex Vaticanus in Rome, the Alexandrinus in the British Museum,
and the Sinaiticus at Leningrad, are safely beyond the purse of the
richest collector. The Pierpont Morgan Library contains the finest
collection of illuminated Bibles in America. The vault at 33 East
Thirty-sixth Street, New York, is an achievement almost unequaled in
the history of collecting. It is like a view of Paradise. The latest
acquisition by Mr. J. P. Morgan of some of the Holkham manuscripts
from the library of the Earl of Leicester is a notable triumph in the
history of great libraries.
Some years ago I was talking with Mr. Henry E. Huntington in his old
library at 2 East Fifty-seventh Street, New York. I said most humbly,
although with proper pride, “How would you like to own the original
Conqueror Bible of the architect of the Tower of London?”
“There ain’t no sich animile,” quoted Mr. Huntington.
I thereupon produced from a cavernous Gladstone bag two large folio
volumes, elegantly bound in blue morocco. “This is it,” I said. The
Bible was written in the eleventh century for Gundulph, 1024-1108,
Bishop of Rochester, who came over with William the Conqueror and
later became the designer of the Tower of London. On the first leaf of
each volume the bishop had written an elaborate curse, excommunicating
anyone who should destroy, mutilate, or carry it off. When I showed Mr.
Huntington these fatal words, he said to me, with a twinkle in his eye,
“You old rogue, this applies to you, too, you know. I will take the
Bible, but without the curse!”
[Illustration: LEAF FROM AN ENGLISH BIBLICAL MANUSCRIPT OF THE NINTH
CENTURY]
I recall one day several years ago when I visited the library of the
late Sir Thomas Phillipps, at Thirlestaine House, Cheltenham. His
grandson, Mr. T. FitzRoy Fenwick, and I were looking over the precious
volumes, and we talked of Sir Thomas’s ardent love of manuscripts. For
more than fifty years he had been the world’s greatest gatherer of
everything written by the hand of man. His knowledge was equal to his
love, and he succeeded in forming an unrivaled library of manuscripts,
which included some of the greatest specimens in existence. He did not
confine himself to Continental examples alone, but was the first great
collector of manuscripts relating to America. Sir Thomas Phillipps was
the patron not only of Lord Kingsborough, whose researches on Mexico
are well known, but of George Catlin, who depicted so graphically
the life of the American Indian. Mr. Fenwick, who inherited from his
grandfather his appreciation and love of fine things, and who possesses
an almost unequaled knowledge of old manuscripts, asked me if I had
ever seen a manuscript containing Anglo-Saxon writing. I said that
I had not, and he thereupon produced the Four Gospels, an English
manuscript written in West Anglia in the time of King Alfred, A.D.
850-900, which contained splendid full-page illustrations of an unusual
type. There upon the margins were characters in Anglo-Saxon, written
long before the Conqueror came to the shores of Britain.
Nothing, however, surprises me at Thirlestaine House. One day Mr.
Fenwick showed me the Liesborn Gospels, a superb manuscript made in
the ninth century for King Widekind, the only successful opponent of
Charlemagne. It was in its old binding of carved wood, and is one of
the few very early manuscripts in existence giving the name of the
scribe who wrote it.
He also showed to me the famous French Historiated Bible of the
fourteenth century, in two magnificent volumes, which contained almost
a hundred illustrations, quite in the modern manner, more like William
Blake than an artist of old Touraine. I now have these three precious
Biblical manuscripts, and I doubt whether there is a nobler assemblage
in existence.
To my mind the most inspiringly beautiful and important early Hebrew
manuscript of the Bible is that in the remarkable collection of Mr.
David Sassoon, of London. It should be reproduced in facsimile so that
all students here and abroad might study not only its unique text but
its glorious illustrations as well.
One of the great discoveries in the history of these early Bibles
occurred right here at our place in New York, seven years ago. Mr.
Sydney C. Cockerell, the great student of manuscripts, called upon me,
and I showed him six pictures from the Bible and said that they were by
a Spanish artist of the thirteenth century.
He looked at them for a moment and said, “No, they’re English!” I could
scarcely believe him, although no one knows more about manuscripts than
he. “Let me take them to my hotel and study them. I think they are the
work of the earliest known English illuminator, W. de Brailes.”
[Illustration: CARVED AND POLYCHROMED WOODEN BINDING OF THE LIESBORN
GOSPELS (IX CENTURY)]
He took them with him. If they were English they would be immensely
valuable--worth far more than I, old Captain Kidd, asked for them. You
bet I awaited anxiously his return.
Finally he showed up one day, and said, “The only trouble with you,
Doctor Rosenbach, is that you do not use the eyes God gave you.” Lo and
behold, he pointed to the halo on one of the saints, and there in neat
characters were the magic words: “W. de Brail(es) me f(e)cit.” It was
one of the greatest attributions ever made by a scholar, and they were,
now beyond even the shadow of a doubt, the work of the very artist he
had named. According to Mr. Eric G. Millar: “There has never been a
more triumphant vindication of connoisseurship.” These six drawings
are now in England in the collection of Mr. A. Chester Beatty, who has
one of the choicest libraries of Oriental and European manuscripts.
Every year when I go to England I renew, through the kind offices
of Mr. Beatty, my acquaintance with the spirit of that doughty old
illuminator, W. de Brailes.
Very few forgers have had the courage to try their hands at duplicating
Biblical manuscripts. I have always been amazed at the enormous amount
of self-confidence a man by the name of Shapira must have had when
he offered the British Museum several important-looking manuscript
scrolls. They contained the text of the Pentateuch, and were, he
claimed, from the very hands of Moses! Of course, every expert and
noted scholar who happened to be in London at the time went to see
these scrolls, which were placed on exhibition at the Museum. They
were scrutinized carefully, admired as works of curiosity, but no one
believed for a moment that they were genuine. Any Semitic scholar knows
perfectly well that writing for literary purposes was unknown at the
time of Moses. Yet even though Shapira had used an alphabet belonging
to a much later period in history, his handiwork was decidedly
interesting. Finally he was informed that his offerings were considered
a fraud. He left England bitterly disappointed and went to Belgium. Not
long after he arrived there the continental newspapers announced that
Shapira had committed suicide. Even then, when certain of his victims
read the lines, they wrote to the papers protesting that the man could
not be dead, and openly accused him of fabrication even in connection
with his own demise. Such is fame!
The most interesting experiments in the history of pictorial art were
the attempts to produce picture books for the use of the middle and
lower classes of Europe in the fifteenth century, most of whom could
not read. The few specimens of the Block Books, as they are called,
extant to-day, indicate they were made up of single leaves printed on
one side of the paper only. These blocks were all cut by hand from a
slab of hardwood, such as that of the pear or apple tree. When the
impressions were finally made, the pages were pasted back to back and
bound in rough parchment. It is believed by some authorities that the
earliest Block Books date from 1440, although others were undoubtedly
printed fifteen to thirty years later.
[Illustration: LEAF FROM BLOCK BOOK, FIFTEENTH CENTURY]
The _Biblia Pauperum_, or the Bible for the Poor, is one of the
most interesting examples among the block books. It is composed
almost entirely of crude illustrations with doses of text or short
explanations and sayings of the Prophets above and below the pictures,
much in the manner of the tabloids of our own time. No attempt was made
to reproduce the whole Bible or even a complete chapter. It was the
portions familiarly known to the people which were set down. Thus the
story of St. John--“Apocalypsis S. Joannis”--was one of the favorite
subjects, as was Solomon’s “Song of Songs.”
Block books are, of course, among the most desirable and the most
difficult to obtain of all the treasures of the bibliophile. Even a
single sheet torn from a block book is valuable. I recall vividly,
when in England many years ago, my first visit to an old library which
contained four perfect block books, all in magnificent condition. The
margins were uncut and, in fact, they appeared to be exactly the same
as when they left the hands of the unknown printer in the fifteenth
century. Year after year I returned to this library especially to see
them. Imagine my satisfaction and joy when I was finally rewarded by
the owner, who had decided to part with them.
There are only three great collections of block books in this country.
One may be seen at the New York Public Library; another, also in New
York, in the library founded by the late J. Pierpont Morgan; and the
third in the Huntington Library in California.
The very first type-printed book with illustrations was a Latin edition
of the _Biblia Pauperum_, printed by Albrecht Pfister, of Bamberg, in
1461. There are only two copies known: one in the John Rylands Memorial
Library at Manchester, England; the other in the French National
Library at Paris.
Savonarola, the Billy Sunday of his day, was quick to see the appeal
of block books. He had his own sermons printed and illustrated with
woodblock-printed pictures, which he distributed among his followers.
It was he who drew the masses to religion at the time when Florentine
art was almost at its peak. He converted Botticelli, caused him to
destroy all the sensuous secular pictures he painted previous to his
conversion, but happily made up for his loss by inspiring him to paint
religious subjects. What would I not give to possess the charred
remains of the Bible to which Savonarola clung when he died!
There is perhaps a greater lack of knowledge concerning old Bibles than
of any other subject pertaining to books. To make matters worse, most
people believe they have accumulated many worthwhile facts when all
they pick up is some chance misinformation. At least thirty per cent
of the 30,000 letters I receive annually are about Bibles or other
religious works, which, according to my correspondents, “have always
been in the family.” The largest number of letters come from Germany.
But among people of all nationalities the hoary idea still prevails
that age adds value to a Bible. Some people who are not interested in
any book, old or otherwise, become excited the moment they find a
Bible more than fifty years old. Clasping it to the family bosom, they
often rush to my library, either in New York or Philadelphia, buoyed up
by an inflated notion of their treasure’s value, believing they have
sighted a rainbow with a pot of real gold at the end.
Almost everyone in the world owns or has owned a Bible. It is the
one work which has been translated into every language; it is the
world’s best seller, and because of this, edition after edition has
appeared in every country. No one knows how many millions of pounds
the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge have received to date in the
revenue which has always flowed into their coffers as a perquisite
on printed Bibles. The Bible rests beside one’s bed to-day in hotel
rooms throughout the country. The Gideons’ Bible is the only volume
the stealing of which is considered a virtue instead of a crime! The
Bible is a book which has touched the hearts of us all at one time or
another. When it does not appeal as a religious work its fascination
is felt in the inexhaustible fund of stories and anecdotes which have
never been matched by the contents of any secular book ever written.
Such tales as those of Joseph and his brethren, David and Goliath,
Solomon and the two mothers, will never be excelled.
A very old Bible is valuable because of its age only if it was printed
between the time of the Gutenberg edition, 1455, and the year 1476.
Although there were hundreds of editions of the Bible issued in Europe
before 1500, only a small portion of them may be considered very
valuable to-day. After 1476 Bibles must show certain characteristics to
make them sufficiently desirable to the collector’s roving eye. It goes
almost without saying that all first editions are worth something.
The first Bible printed in Italy, in France, or in Spain--these are
all of great value and rarity as well. The first Bible printed in one
of the secular languages, in the old days known as the vulgar tongues,
for instance, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Icelandic, Swedish,
Slavonic, Bohemian, or Basque, these, too, are valuable. Others are
the first printed Bible of Strasburg, issued by Mentelin before 1460;
another printed by Eggestyn in 1466; the celebrated R Bible, probably
published by Adolf Rusch in 1467 at Strasburg; the Great Bible, a
most beautiful specimen of printing, by Sweynheym and Pannartz, 1471;
and the Great French Bible, made, oddly enough, in Paris five years
later by three Germans: Gering, Kranz, and Friburger. Hebrew being the
original language of the Old Testament Scriptures, it is only natural
that the first printed in the Hebrew language--Soncino 1488--should be
one of the cornerstones of any collection of Bibles.
One of the most glorious productions of the Bible is the Jenson
edition, printed in Venice in 1479. I have a superb copy on vellum,
with a special page of dedication to Pope Sixtus IV. All Bibles with
dedications to or from noted persons immediately become significant in
the estimation of the book lover.
Sometime after the printing of the Vulgate version, certain editors,
shrewd enough to discern the public mind, offered a Bible complete with
three versions. In the centre of the page they printed the Vulgate,
while on one side a Hebrew text was printed, and on the other, a Greek.
But it is to the first English printer, William Caxton, that the
honor should go for the first printed appearance of any part of the
Scriptures in English. Caxton came from Kent, and in his youth went
to Bruges and Cologne to learn the trade of printer. He was the first
to introduce printing into England and the first to print any works
in English. He was a scholar of parts, as well as a printer with fine
taste, and himself translated into English many of the works which he
later published. In 1483 he issued the _Golden Legend_, which includes
lives of Adam, Abraham, Moses, and other characters of the Old and New
Testaments. Thus it contains nearly all of the Pentateuch and portions
of the Gospels. If this were generally known and appreciated, I feel
certain the _Golden Legend_ would approach a price more nearly like
that of the Gutenberg Bible. But as the book game is one of magic and
alchemy, this may happen unexpectedly any time.
Among the fourteen or fifteen Caxtons in my New York vault, I am happy
to say I have a beautiful copy which contains, unmutilated, the account
of the murder of Thomas A. Becket, as a friend of mine once wrote it,
which has been entirely deleted from most copies.
[Illustration:
BIBLIA
SACRA
CUM PROLOCIS
S. HIERONIMI
PRESBYTERI
SPECIAL DEDICATION PAGE TO SIXTUS IV, OF JENSON’S BIBLE, VENICE, 1479]
[Illustration: WOODCUT, “JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES,” FROM CAXTON’S “GOLDEN
LEGEND,” 1483]
Of course almost everyone knows that the first complete Bible in the
English language was the work of Miles Coverdale. He finished his
translation in 1535, and it was printed that same year at Zurich.
Although as a work of scholarship it may not rank particularly
high,--it is “translated out of Douche and Latyn,” according to the
title,--you will find many of Coverdale’s memorable and sonorous
phrases preserved in the authorized version in use to-day.
Ten years previous to the appearance of Miles Coverdale’s work, a
contemporary of his, William Tyndale, had made a valiant effort to
translate and have printed certain portions of the Bible. Perhaps he
was inspired by some spiritual force within himself; at any rate he
believed he could best serve his fellow countrymen by translating the
New Testament into their language. His ambition grew when one day in
heated dispute with an eminent churchman of England he was appalled
at that worthy’s ignorance of the Scriptures. His vow, made then and
there, has triumphantly echoed in the ears of all theological students
ever since. “If God spare my life,” said Tyndale, “ere many years I
will cause a boy that driveth his plough to know more of the Scriptures
than thou dost.”
But Tyndale’s radical project naturally needed strong financial and
political backing. He went to London, where he believed he had a
powerful ally in his friend, Bishop Cuthbert Tunstall. In this he soon
found he was mistaken; nor could he find any patron with a sympathetic
ear and a sympathetic purse as well. This circumstance was not strange,
however, because it was just about this time that the powerful Cardinal
Wolsey began to lay plans to prevent the “invasion of England by the
Word of God.” Discouraged, Tyndale decided there was little hope of
accomplishing his work in his own land, and made up his mind to try his
luck abroad, even though it meant exile.
In Hamburg, Tyndale completed his translation of the New Testament
into English from the original Greek. He went on to Cologne, where he
hoped to find a printer. It is believed that work on the book was then
really started, but that the Senate of Cologne grew suddenly enraged
and shocked at the thought of so profane a business going on within its
gates. An order was issued to Peter Quentel, the printer, to prohibit
its continuance, but before it could be carried out Tyndale had fled in
panic to Worms. He took with him his beloved translation, and perhaps
certain pages of the printed work as well. In Worms, Luther was then
at the very height of his popularity. This must have been a relief to
Tyndale, to find himself in a place where he would have to undergo no
further religious persecution. And so the New Testament was printed for
the first time in English in a little German city.
Tyndale’s followers doubtless smuggled it into the home country,
because almost immediately this New Testament began to appear in
England. It filled the clergy with fury, and Bishop Tunstall, Tyndale’s
former friend, even went so far as to have it burned publicly at St.
Paul’s Cross in London. It was destroyed in other places as well,
before gatherings of ignorant, superstitious, and infuriated people.
Indeed, the public burning by the churchmen of Tyndale’s New Testament
became a popular if serious pastime. And the destruction of Tyndale’s
precious books was a prophetic prelude to his own martyrdom at the
stake a few years later.
All the earliest English Bibles are extraordinarily rare and worth
almost any amount. It is strange to speak of money in connection
with the greatest spiritual work of all time, but as Bibles are the
cornerstones of any outstanding collection it follows that they must be
bought at a price.
Only a fragment exists of the first edition of Tyndale’s translation of
the New Testament, from the press of Peter Quentel in Cologne, in 1525.
The second edition, printed also on the Continent, by Peter Schöffer
at Worms, probably late in 1525, is almost equally rare, as only two
imperfect copies survive. I would cheerfully give more than $50,000 for
a copy of the first appearance in print of this portion of the English
Scriptures. Perhaps some book scout will eventually unearth another. Of
the Tyndale Pentateuch, probably printed at Malborow by Hans Lufft in
1530, only three perfect copies have resisted the sharp usages of time.
The finest of these is in the Pierpont Morgan Library.
As to the first complete Bible in the English language, translated by
Coverdale and printed in 1535, not a single absolutely perfect copy
exists. There are two or three almost perfect examples in England,
none so good in America. There are, however, copies of this book,
more or less defective, in libraries in this country, such as in the
collections of Pierpont Morgan and Henry E. Huntington, the New York
Public Library, the Free Library of Philadelphia, Carl H. Pforzheimer,
and A. Edward Newton. This great volume is not of excessive rarity, but
of excessive importance. I would risk my chances in this world and the
next to obtain a perfect copy.
Of the so-called Great Bible, seven editions were issued within two
years, 1539-41. They are all valuable, but not nearly so much so as the
earlier English Bibles. Splendid examples of printing, they are much in
demand by collectors, especially when perfect.
One of the great monuments of our civilization, the first edition of
the Authorized Version, printed in London by Robert Barker in 1611, is
in every respect one of the finest things a collector can ever hope
to acquire. The influence of this Book upon the world has been simply
enormous. There were two editions in 1611, known as the He and She
Bible, the He (quite naturally!) being the earlier and more in demand.
No stones, fair ladies! The distinction comes from a variant reading
in the Book of Ruth, iii, 15. In the first version it reads “He went
into the citie,” in the second, the later printing, “She went into the
citie.” This change of a single letter makes all the difference in
the world to the collector, and he has to pay for it. The first issue
is worth several thousands more than the second. This is a rare and
momentous thing, a perfect He bringing more than a perfect She! It can
only occur in the case of the Bible. I am quite sure that in this even
clergymen will agree with me.
The price of the first edition of the Authorized, or King James,
Bible, has not been large in the past. The Huth copy sold at auction in
1911 for only £164, or about $820, but the future, I feel sure, will
tell another story. Indeed, I think the time when the collector will
give $8000 or $10,000 for a really fine copy is hovering dangerously
near. It is truly a volume so dear and precious to everyone that it
must soon take its place among the stars.
I remember one day when I was visiting the late J. P. Morgan many years
ago. We sat and talked in his office in the old building at the corner
of Wall and Broad streets, which in those ancient days bore the sign,
Drexel, Morgan, and Company. Of course, we vied with each other in a
genial way, relating stories of our quests in discovering rare books,
of purchases we had made at what we considered the proper prices then,
and in general confiding to each other those tales of adventure so dear
to the heart of the bookman. We talked about old Bibles, especially
those which had belonged to celebrated people. Of these Mr. Morgan
already had a remarkable collection. His nephew, Mr. Junius Spencer
Morgan, had from the first been a great help to his uncle, with his
genuine flair for really fine books and works of art generally, and his
uncle often took his advice. The elder Mr. Morgan was a man of great
imagination, who enjoyed book collecting as much as anyone I have ever
known. Suddenly, during our conversation, his face clouded, and he
turned to me and said in a regretful tone, “Doctor, there is one Bible
I have missed. The last time I was in London, Quaritch told me about
it. He sold it, he said, on his first trip to this country in 1890. It
is the great He issue of 1611, and is enriched with the annotations of
the translators of the King James version. The explanations of the Holy
Text were probably made for the use of Prince Henry. What would I give
to have it!”
Now I knew of this Bible, but hadn’t the faintest idea at the moment
where it was or who owned it. It had been extended to five volumes and
bore on the binding the feathers of the young Prince of Wales. But when
I secured the library of Clarence S. Bement, one year later, there
it was. What luck! Mr. Morgan, it is unnecessary to state, bought it
immediately.
Among the hundreds of Bibles offered to me each year there is one type
which blooms eternal. It is the bullet-hole Bible: the Bible which
saved grandpa’s life in the Civil War, or the Revolution--as you will.
For a time I was shown such a succession of these that my very dreams
were haunted by them. Many a night my rest would be broken when whole
armies charged me, each soldier wearing a protecting copy of the Holy
Scriptures over his heart.
Some people have fondly believed that a tale of sentiment, plus a dash
of bravery, mixed with their own simulated reverence, would bring value
to the family Bible. The bullet-hole Bible has become such an old story
that every time I hear a shot I think it is someone aiming at the old
family Scriptures in the back yard.
But this is nothing to the Genevan, or Breeches, Bible, the commonest
of all. It is so named because of the seventh verse in the third
chapter of Genesis:--
Then the eyes of them bothe were opened & they knewe that they were
naked; and they sewed figtre leaves together, and made themselves
breeches.
The first edition was printed at Geneva in 1560 and copies in good
condition are scarce and valuable. In fact, they are really worth more
than the price they sell for to-day. It was for years the household
Bible of the English race. Although translated by the English exiles
at Geneva during Queen Mary’s reign, it was dedicated “To the Moste
Vertuous and Noble Quene Elisabet, Quene of England, France, and
Ireland.”
At least two hundred editions of the Bible and New Testament were
issued before 1630, consequently for centuries it was in almost every
home. The later editions of this Bible have therefore become the
_bête noir_ of every bookseller. They turn up everywhere, their proud
possessors asking fortunes for copies hardly worth the value of old
paper. The copies published after 1600 are the worst offenders. It is
a pity, for the peace of mind of the booksellers, that they were not
all destroyed in the Great Fire of London. They still exist to torment
the souls of bookmen, and although the language of the Genevan Bible
has always been considered good, homely English, the language of the
biblio-fiend, when he receives one on approval, with charges collect,
is certainly more vigorous and expressive.
Not long ago a woman came to my Philadelphia library with a Breeches
Bible. True, it was rather ancient, authentically dated 1629. From the
moment I met her I realized she suffered from suppressed emotions
of some sort. Although I am accustomed to prospective sellers with
queer symptoms, I was rather alarmed. Her hands shook violently,
she was deadly white one moment and a flaming pink the next. When I
inquired what she wanted for her Bible she replied in quick, nervous
tones, “Fifty thousand dollars!” Now I am always amazed at these grand
ideas of value evinced by the layman. I hope I do not always show my
surprise. Indeed, some people accuse me of having a poker face. This
Bible was certainly worth no more than twenty dollars. But before I
apprised her of the distressing news, which I always hate to impart, I
was cautious enough to call in one of my assistants to aid me should
she collapse on my hands.
It is to the eternal credit of bookmen that the sense of humor has
been the ruling passion with them all. They all see the joyous, the
fantastic, the capricious side. They are never _sérieux_, never unduly
bowed down with the gravity of their calling. Although they are
ardent, nay, passionate lovers, they always remain gay and debonair.
The history of old Bibles bears eloquent witness on this point. Why
do Bug Bibles, Vinegar Bibles, Wicked Bibles, tickle the fantasy of
collectors? For instance, Matthew’s Bible of 1551 contains the reading
in Psalm xci, 5: “So that thou shalt not nede to be afraid for any
bugges by nighte, nor for the arrow that flyeth by day.” Or think how
the Christian world would have been disrupted if it had followed the
Commandments of the 1631 Bible, which leaves out entirely the “not”
in the Seventh. This terrible, wicked book reads: “Thou shalt commit
adultery.” Only four copies escaped the public executioner, and the
poor printer was fined £300 by Archbishop Laud.
Baskett’s Oxford Bible of 1717 is a mine of magnificent errors, the
most amusing being that of “the parable of the vinegar,” instead of
“vineyard.”
There are three tremendously important American Bibles: the Eliot
Indian Bible, the Saur, and the Aitken Bible. John Eliot, Apostle
to the Indians, translated the Bible into their language and had it
printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1661-63. Thus the first Bible
issued on this continent was, appropriately, in the tongue of its
natives. And the second was in German, the first in a European language
printed in America, from the press of Christopher Saur, at Germantown,
Pennsylvania, in 1743. The third, at last in English, was printed in
1782 by R. Aitken “at Pope’s Head, three doors above the Coffee House,
in Market Street,” Philadelphia. The great demand for early Americana
will surely raise these three treasures to heights at present undreamed
of in the bookman’s philosophy.
VIII
WHY AMERICA BUYS ENGLAND’S BOOKS
During my frequent visits to England I have often been asked why
Americans are so persistent, even voracious, in acquiring the great
literary treasures of Great Britain. I have been accused in its public
prints of being the greatest offender. I have been likened unto the
ogre of ancient times. Perhaps it is pertinent, therefore, to know the
reason why Americans are so anxious to obtain, at almost any price, not
only the choicest English books and manuscripts, but the outstanding
contemporary documents that chronicle so faithfully and so inexorably
the political and literary history of England.
According to some of the English newspapers that bewail the loss to
England of her great monuments of the past, it is a new thing, this
interest in things English on the part of the American public. On the
contrary, it has been going on, increasing in volume, it is true,
from about the year 1840. Before the Civil War those two farsighted
collectors, John Carter Brown of Providence, Rhode Island, and James
Lenox of New York, were scouring England for volumes relating to the
early history of this country, and incidentally gobbling up such
rarities as the first folio of Shakespeare. They were ably assisted in
their raids by an American who had taken up his residence in London,
Henry Stevens of Vermont, the Green Mountain Boy, who, among the
string of titles after his name, included the cryptic letters, BLK BLD,
ATHM CLB, meaning “Blackballed by the Athenæum Club!”
It is extremely gratifying to note the extraordinary love of books
persisting in one American family for almost a century. In England the
Huths and many others have shown the tendency, the collector’s instinct
passed on from father to son for many generations. In this country
it is rare. The remarkable exception, however, is evidenced by the
Browns of Providence. The great library founded by John Carter Brown,
with its glittering array of superb volumes--among the finest in the
world--bears eloquent testimony to a continual devotion to books and
learning. The family of the original founder has never for a moment
flagged in its interest, and the volumes added to the collection since
its establishment bear silent witness, unequaled in America, of a
loving regard for books.
In 1847, James Lenox brought to this country from England the first
Gutenberg Bible. The earliest first folio of Shakespeare in America was
purchased in London about 1836. Since then they have flowed to us in a
constant and ever widening stream, until to-day there are far more of
them in the United States than in the British Empire.
England need not complain, however, or consider it such a serious loss,
as some of her statesmen do. She has within her narrow boundaries
superb volumes that America can never hope to possess. The British
Museum and the great libraries of Oxford and Cambridge, to say nothing
of the wonderful Spencer collection, now in the John Rylands Library in
Manchester, are treasure houses that luckily can never be despoiled.
They will be able to resist the American invader and they will remain
always at the service of students and scholars. It is not generally
known that the libraries of England have left no stone unturned to
increase their already stupendous hoards. The British Museum has added
constantly to its collections and to-day it is a greater library, in
many respects, than the Bibliothèque Nationale, which long held the
leadership. I think it is actually the largest and most important
library in the world.
Under the able direction of Mr. Alfred W. Pollard, formerly Keeper of
Printed Books, the British Museum acquired many books and manuscripts
of great intrinsic value, and it is to the extraordinary genius of this
man that the British public owes much. Not only is he a bibliographer
of remarkable ability, but, when in charge of the books, he developed
the rare faculty of finding the very volumes that would complete a
certain series; he was, therefore, ever on the alert to secure for
the Museum the things that were most needed. And this in the face of
American competition! As to the latter, it is worthy of note that the
late J. P. Morgan, and his son as well, in forming their memorable
collection, whenever possible never bid against the Museum. If the
authorities particularly desired a certain manuscript that belonged of
right to the Museum, the Morgans gracefully refrained from bidding.
In fact, Englishmen have always taken a greater pride in their national
library than Americans in theirs. Ever since its foundation, the
British Museum has received important bequests from collectors, such
as the superb gifts of George III and the Honorable Thomas Grenville.
Recently when it was found that there was in the Museum no first folio
containing the portrait of Shakespeare in its first state, several
patriotic and discerning Englishmen secured it for the Nation.
True, a few citizens have made noteworthy gifts to our national library
in Washington, but in the main it has been sadly neglected. Americans
have given wisely and well to their own local foundations, but the
Congressional Library, which should be the pride of every American,
has never received the encouragement it deserves. Dr. Herbert Putnam,
the gifted Librarian of Congress, is making every effort to remedy
this glaring defect in our national armor. The Right Honorable Ramsay
MacDonald told me, during his recent visit to Philadelphia, that an
organized effort was being made by friends of the British Museum to
secure the invaluable things that the Museum required. Why not form a
society of friends of the Library of Congress, in order to purchase for
it, while we have still the opportunity, the many volumes of Americana
and the precious holograph documents that bear directly upon our
country’s history?
[Illustration: “JACK JUGGLER,” 1555--THE ONLY COPY KNOWN]
It is a curious thing that rare books and the precious things of the
collector follow the flow of gold. When the United States became the
great creditor nation, taking the place of England, at least for the
time being, it was but natural that the various objects of art and
interest should gravitate to this side. During the last twenty years
rare books and literary documents have left the shores of Albion at an
alarming rate (for England). Most of them are now in the private and
public libraries of the United States. I should hate to state how much
I assisted in this magic exodus.
England was the great offender in this same sort of thing a century
ago. It is the old threadbare saying, which must have first been
uttered by Methuselah, that history repeats itself. In the eighteenth
century, Italy, France, and Spain were complaining of the raids made
on their artistic resources by Englishmen, as England is complaining
of us to-day. The extraordinary increase in gold in England during
the Napoleonic Wars was responsible for this. It was the era when the
great collectors, Richard Heber, Earl Spencer, the Duke of Roxburghe,
the Duke of Sussex, the Duke of Devonshire, Sir Mark Sykes, and Robert
Stayner Holford were making the Grand Tour and buying in the great
emporiums in Rome and in Florence, in Paris and Madrid, their choicest
objects. It is true that the Grand Tour has been the fashion in England
ever since the days of Chaucer and that great libraries were formed in
the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries, but it was during
the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries that the greatest
collections were made. In those days Sir Richard Wallace could purchase
the finest Watteau in Paris at the price of an etching to-day. The
best eighteenth-century paintings, drawings, bibelots, furniture, so
dear to the heart of Frenchmen, were transferred from the Rue St.
Honoré to Carlton House Terrace, or to grace the drawing-rooms of the
elegant country homes of Great Britain.
The wheel of time, however, turns.
It is really unfortunate for England that she is compelled now to give
up some of her possessions. No nation has a finer appreciation of great
works of the imagination. She receives payment for them, it is true,
but money is a thing that can be had; it passes in cycles from one
nation to another; a rare book or a manuscript, if it once goes into a
public institution, can never be regained. Whether England, to protect
her historical and literary relics, should make laws, as Italy has
done, is no concern of mine. In her wisdom she probably knows the most
expedient procedure. It is an economic as well as cultural question,
and of economics I am glad to say I know absolutely nothing. There are,
however, masters of the subject in Great Britain; they will probably
solve this difficult problem.
The wisest among the collectors in England do not look upon this
exchange as a total loss to England. I shall never forget my last
conversation with the late Sir George Holford in Dorchester House,
London, after I had purchased some of his dearest possessions. He said,
“The world is growing smaller--Englishmen are great travelers; they
can see these very books some day in an American institution far more
readily than in the private collections in England. I know, myself,
how difficult it is to throw open private homes to students. You recall
as well as I do that the finest library of English poetry was never
at the beck and call of students. I am glad that most of it has gone
to America where it will be accessible to scholars of all nations.”
Broadminded men, like that erudite scholar, Lord Crawford, know that
these books will have tender and loving care in America, and that they
will be an inspiration to our students.
We Americans have the enthusiasm of youth. Perhaps the traditional
Englishman has been so accustomed to seeing about him the finest things
of art and literature that in the course of years he becomes a trifle
bored. Perhaps we shall also, in the fullness of time, experience this,
but at present we are eager to fill the great libraries and edifices in
America with the rarest and most precious books. In the East, and in
the West as well, there are enormous library buildings of the finest
architectural types. Alas, they have not the books to fill them. The
Free Library of Philadelphia has spent nearly seven million dollars
on a superb edifice. It will be necessary to fill this building with
suitable volumes. The growth of American universities, unparalleled in
all time, calls for the apparatus of the student. They must have the
tools of their trade--books. It is no wonder that there are not enough
to go round. The demand is greater than the supply. Consequently prices
will go steadily upward, and it is well to secure them while we may.
[Illustration: PAGE OF THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT OF WHITE’S “NATURAL
HISTORY OF SELBORNE”]
It seems a pity that some Americans give such enormous sums for
library buildings and spend literally nothing upon the volumes
themselves. Books, not edifices, make libraries. A friend of mine
only fifteen years ago spent four million dollars on a superb library
building; some are already complaining that it is no longer up-to-date!
Buildings pass; they soon become obsolete. Books alone are everlasting.
“Men may come and men may go, but books go on forever!” The late Mr.
Huntington used to say: “The ownership of a fine library is the surest
and swiftest way to immortality!”
I have to-day in my New York vault a collection of early English
manuscripts unequaled in any library on this side of the Atlantic.
It includes four manuscripts of Chaucer, two of Gower’s _Confessio
Amantis_, several of Lydgate’s _Fall of Princes_, and the famous
manuscript of Occleve’s _Poems_ with a contemporary portrait of
Chaucer. It will be impossible ever to secure another assemblage like
it, for it does not exist. They will be appreciated after the last
building has tottered on its foundation.
The past fifty years has produced in this country a group of book
collectors equal to any that has appeared in England or on the
Continent, men well in advance of their time, like the greatest book
lover of them all, Richard Heber. I always envied this bibliomaniac
his two possessions; as Sir Walter Scott so neatly puts it, “Heber the
magnificent, whose library and cellar are so superior to all others in
the world!” Would that Americans could be as successful gathering old
vintages as old books! In this, England has it all over us.
[Illustration: PAGE FROM A FOURTEENTH-CENTURY MANUSCRIPT OF THOMAS
OCCLEVE’S “POEMS,” SHOWING A PORTRAIT OF CHAUCER]
It is melancholy to record that in the last few months three of our
most distinguished collectors have passed away, each one of them
possessing in full measure the most extraordinary vision. I refer first
to Mr. Edward E. Ayer of Chicago, who was one of the pioneers in making
a serious collection of books relating to the American Indian, which he
presented, before his death, to the Newberry Library in Chicago. The
late Mr. William A. White of Brooklyn (of beloved memory) was among the
earliest of our collectors to gather the choice and alluring volumes of
the great Elizabethans. His judgment was excellent and he had a vivid
understanding of this golden period, equaled by few scholars. He did
not hesitate to lend his finest volumes to any student who showed an
intelligent interest in English literature.
I cannot speak at length of Mr. Henry E. Huntington. I feel his loss
too poignantly at the present time. He was, without doubt, the greatest
collector of books the world has ever known. Without possessing a
profound knowledge of literature or of history, his flair for fine
books was remarkable. His taste was sure, impeccable. The library at
San Gabriel, California, which houses his wonderful collections, will
be the Mecca of students for all time. No gift to a nation or to a
state can ever equal his. America does not appreciate it to-day, but,
as time spins its web, and the world becomes better acquainted with the
Huntington treasures, this fact will be adequately recognized.
I do not mean to imply that American collectors are forming great
libraries and art galleries solely for patriotic reasons, or for
the good of their generation. It is perhaps after all a secondary
consideration with them. Certainly it is not the first. Neither is
their motive the encouragement of scholarship or of the arts. It is
something more human. The bump of acquisitiveness is strongly developed
in our collectors, and perhaps I know this as well as anyone. They
like to exhibit their treasures as other mortals do, to show them
to their envious friends with a twinkle in their eyes and a certain
amount of deviltry. American amateurs, who have built railroads and
great suspension bridges, who have been financial giants and captains
of industry, must surely possess the red blood that made them thus. Of
course they like to flaunt a folio of Ben Jonson or a Keats’s _Poems_
(with a presentation inscription!) before the eyes of other collectors.
In these ecstatic moments they do not care a whit for the Nation or for
the people. But with the passing of years, with the gradual oozing of
the enthusiasm and candor of youth, they think of the ultimate disposal
of their books. It is then, and then only, that the people of America
come into their own.
[Illustration: HENRY E. HUNTINGTON]
It is a wonderful and magnificent thing that the gathering of books
in this country is in the hands of leaders of her industries, the
so-called business kings, and not in the hands of college professors
and great scholars. The latter, generally, in forming a collection make
a sad mess of it. The instinct of the collector, the _heluo librorum_
of Cicero, is entirely different from that of the scholar. They are
two distinct and separate faculties: the acquisition of knowledge
and the gathering of books. Men to be successful in either must have an
entirely different cosmos. Both are indispensable. It is paradoxical,
but true, that not a single great library in the world has been formed
by a great scholar.
Every year our collectors pitch their tents on the fair and hospitable
shores of Great Britain, where they exchange their useless gold for
ancient and modern English books. The pleasant bookshops all over
England, Ireland, and Scotland welcome the American visitors, who
take home with them such ingratiating little volumes as Herrick’s
_Hesperides_ and Lovelace’s _Lucasta_. The supply of such charming
volumes has become well-nigh exhausted. Nowhere can this migration
be more clearly seen than in the _Short-Title Catalogue of Books
Printed in England, Scotland, and Ireland, 1475-1640_ issued by The
Bibliographical Society. This monumental work has been compiled by A.
W. Pollard, G. R. Redgrave, and a host of the ablest English scholars.
A glance at its pages reveals the fact that there are many important
books of English dramatic poetry of which no copy now remains in
England. Take, for instance, the second edition of _Hamlet_, published
in London, in 1604. It is really the first edition containing the true
text, as the first, of 1603, was a pirated one, with inferior readings.
Twenty-five years ago three copies, all that exist, were in important
private libraries in England. To-day all three are in America--in the
Huntington Library, in the Elizabethan Club at Yale University, and in
the private collection of Mr. H. C. Folger of New York. The check-list
shows that of many of the most exquisite volumes of poetry and romance
not a single copy remains in the great country that saw its birth. On
the other hand, there are thousands of books remaining in the British
Museum, at the Universities and Colleges, at Lambeth, at Edinburgh,
in the Patent Office, at Peterborough, at Winchester, of which not a
single example exists in any library in the United States.
The situation, for England’s scholars, has certain compensations. The
books are really accessible in this country. Following the procedure
of the members of the old Roxburghe Club, beautiful reprints have been
made by American collectors of various great rarities and distributed
to the libraries of Great Britain. Heywood’s _King Edward the Fourth_,
1599, which exists in a single copy in the library of Mr. C. W. Clark,
has now been made in facsimile by the courtesy of the owner and issued
for the use of students. Wager’s unique Interlude, _Enough is as good
as a Feast_ (about 1565), has also been reprinted. It was in Lord
Mostyn’s library for many, many years, quite out of the reach of most
scholars. I trust no one will infer from this that the great English
collectors bury their things and are niggardly in offering their
books and manuscripts to the learned. On the contrary, the Duke of
Devonshire, Sir R. L. Harmsworth, and Mr. Thomas J. Wise have always
opened their doors to worthy scholars.
[Illustration: A CHAUCER MANUSCRIPT IN ORIGINAL BINDING]
It is a great mistake for England to think that America is willing
to pay mad prices for every English book. When bidding around the board
at Sotheby’s the trade have often smiled when they dropped a “hot
one” on me. I shall never forget when I bought a book for £640 in the
Britwell sale and someone kindly remarked, “Why, Richard Heber gave two
shillings for that very copy in 1826.” Needless to say it made not the
slightest difference to me what he paid for it, I only knew that I was
getting a great book and that no price was too high for it. Books of
intrinsic worth, that exist in one or two copies, cannot be measured
in terms of shillings and pence, or dollars and cents. Occasionally,
however, when bidding, for moral (or immoral!) effect, I have dropped
a common rarity on my competitors, and they have paid twice what I
thought the book was worth. And I might have been mistaken at that!
It’s all in the game. It is also a great mistake to think that when a
book is knocked down to an English bookseller it will remain within the
British Isles. There is nothing more fallacious than that. At least
fifty per cent of the purchases of British dealers eventually wend
their way to this country.
Once I had a serious qualm when relieving Great Britain of her
cherished belongings. That was when I purchased privately the Battle
Abbey Cartularies, the original documents of those valiant men who
came over with William the Conqueror. There were hundreds of deeds and
legal documents dating from the Battle of Hastings in 1066, bound in
ninety-nine volumes. They were the very foundation of English history.
It was with a feeling of genuine regret that I saw them leave England
forever. I hope in their home in the New World they will have the
tender attention and respect they received in their former abode in the
west of England.
[Illustration: LETTER SIGNED WITH INITIALS OF GEORGE (BEAU) BRUMMELL]
The muniment rooms in the great houses still retain valuable documents
of all kinds. A search through the many volumes and calendars of papers
issued by the English Historical Manuscripts Commission will reveal
the wealth of material still remaining in Great Britain. I remember
only last year looking with envious eyes upon the muniment chamber
of a noble family. There were ancient papers, rolls, parchments of
all kinds, bound volumes of letters, from floor to ceiling, some of
which had been in the same family for over eight hundred years. What
a treasure-trove for a student of the social and political history of
Great Britain! In looking quite casually over the lot I found a paper
bearing the signature of John Milton; another of Thomas Killigrew; a
whole stack of Samuel Pepys! My mouth began to water. I even thought if
I looked more thoroughly I might find one of William Shakespeare--who
knows? Professor Wallace found several in the Public Record Office in
London. The famous _impresa_ is in the Duke of Rutland’s collection
at Belvoir Castle. Why not find one hidden away among these old musty
records? It was, however, with a sense of relief that I heard the noble
owner say to me: “You cannot carry these off, Doctor Rosenbach. Thank
God, they are entailed, even my children’s children, if they fall on
evil days, will be unable to dispose of them.” Down in my inmost soul
I was delighted. Although I could never possess them, it warmed the
cockles of my heart to hear the words that blasted my hopes forever.
However, there are compensations. I was invited to visit the house any
time I came to England, and to examine at my leisure these entrancing
documents. My student days rushed back to me. How I should have been
rejoiced, in the old days, when I was making original investigations
into the beginnings of the English Drama under the guidance of my
beloved teacher, Dr. Felix E. Schelling, to study these papers, with
a chance of finding something that would add, if only a trifle, to our
knowledge of the subject. I felt a renegade. I had deserted the halls
of learning for the bookshop; I had given up my fellowship to enter a
business that would, perhaps, put money in my purse.
I did not, when at college, appreciate what a high adventure the
business was to prove, the excitement and anxiety of the chase, and
that I had a better chance, a far greater opportunity, to unearth
unpublished documents, and uncover original source-material, than ever
I could have as an instructor in English in some university. After
twenty-five years I am still of this opinion; although I sneakingly
hanker for the time when I can quietly return to my early love, and
carefully survey, without a thought of their commercial value, the many
interesting things that have fallen to my collector’s bag. Perhaps I
have been of some help to other students, who can investigate at their
leisure the great mass of material that I have been the instrument of
placing in their hands.
[Illustration: THE ENGLISH LIBRARY IN DR. ROSENBACH’S HOME]
The study of English letters in the universities of this country is
also responsible for the persistent demand for everything relating to
the language and literature of Great Britain. Theses on almost every
subject are being turned out regularly by candidates for the Ph.D.
degree. I would do almost anything rather than be compelled to read
most of them. I plead guilty, however, to having written one myself,
long before I dreamed of entering the more diverting sport of book
hunting. The quality of some of the work done by our scholars
is extremely high, almost astounding, like Dr. Hotson’s bombshell
describing accurately, for the first time, the death of Kit Marlowe.
All the professors in the colleges and all the students in the seminars
(how I hate this word!) are urging the university authorities to supply
them with books. And there is only one place to buy them--England.
It is no wonder, therefore, that we are probably getting ourselves
thoroughly disliked on the other side by carrying off, like so many
lusty buccaneers, the sacred treasuries of English thought. Admiral
Drake, the “dragon” of Lope de Vega, on his West Indian voyage looted
the pearls and emeralds of the New Empire, taking them back to England
to show to the Mighty Queen Elizabeth. _Our_ pirates are almost as
ambitious. We go after far more precious things, things that outwear
time and are not dependent on taste or fashion. The demand for
England’s books will not lessen; it will increase with every decade.
There are some English collectors, like Sir R. L. Harmsworth, who are
trying gallantly to stem the tide. Others are steeling themselves to
heroic efforts to check the onrush, but mere man cannot conquer an
economic situation of such dimensions. It will be impossible to check
the welling flood unless the Government comes to the rescue.
[Illustration: MANUSCRIPT OF ARNOLD BENNETT’S UNPUBLISHED PLAY]
As I have said before, the most sagacious among Englishmen do not
consider the matter a very serious one. They look with equanimity
upon the situation. They really admire the pluck and spirit of our
collectors, for the English are sportsmen of the first order.
Recently I was speaking to one of them about the Pierpont Morgan
Library. He said how marvelous it was that such a great collection
should be given to the public during the owner’s lifetime. He knew of
no gift to England of like magnitude. I reminded him of the splendid
Althorp collection of Lord Spencer, given in 1892 by Mrs. John Rylands
to Manchester, which equals anything in this country. We, however, have
just begun. New collectors and new libraries abound. New foundations,
with large sums for the purchase of books, are springing into being.
And yet some of the English (not the wisest) say that the United States
is a country where the dollars count most. A libel, of course. In fact,
some of our amateurs are almost prodigal, nay, quixotic in their use of
money. I know one who gave up a lucrative business in order to devote
himself to the purchase of old books. Bravo! Would that there were more
like him, not alone in this country, but in England as well.
Following the financial centre, the book mart has gradually shifted to
New York. In a few years it will be impossible to purchase the finest
English books in London. I have only recently sold to a well-known
English collector some volumes purchased at the Britwell sale, not
two years ago. I can foresee the day when Englishmen, with the taste
and ability to buy, will be browsing in shops in Philadelphia, in New
Orleans, in Minneapolis, in San Francisco, and taking their lucky finds
back with them to their old home.
IX
THE COLLECTOR’S BEST BET
“I don’t give a tinker’s dam about the money value!” We were working,
my uncle Moses and I, in his crowded bookshop on the second floor of
the ancient red brick building on Commerce Street in old Philadelphia.
Uncle Moses sat on top of a ladder before some shelves, arranging
his volumes, while I endeavored to find an important document in his
paper-stuffed desk. An old colored man, a messenger, had just staggered
up the stairs to deliver an enormous package. It proved to be, as
usual, a lot of crusty old books, and the last straw for me. I looked
despairingly at my uncle. Where were these to find room? Each corner
of the place, the chairs, tables, and his desk, was already filled;
and the shelves, of course, were laden. I sighed. Why was Uncle Moses
forever buying, buying, buying, and never--hardly ever--selling? And
what was all this newly arrived lot worth? It didn’t look like much
to me. It was then that he caught the trend of my thought and boomed
at me from the other end of the room. I was, you must remember, only
sixteen at the time, and had yet to learn that a little knowledge is a
dangerous thing.
Uncle Moses quickly came down from his ladder and gloated proudly over
the newly arrived pile of books. Then he fairly beamed as he turned
to me. “My boy,” he exclaimed, “‘Americana!’ That’s the stuff to
collect!” He picked up a volume, opened to the yellowed title page, and
read aloud: “Here is a _Discovery of the Barmudas, otherwise called the
Isle of Devils_. It is the work of Silvester Jourdain, 1610. Americana!
Even Shakespeare knew the fascination of it. It was this little book
which in part inspired him to write _The Tempest_!” He turned to light
his old meerschaum pipe, and as he did so, his battered, picturesque
top-hat, which had stood crowded between a row of books and the wall,
fell to the floor. I felt a savage glow of delight at this mishap.
But Uncle Moses ignored it. He was on a favorite subject, and he had
his most appreciative audience: me. Although I had not been born with
a caul over my face, he felt I had second sight--for books. And he
delighted to catch my imagination as a fair wind takes a sail, filling
it now this way, now that. It was something of a relaxation for him.
“Heaps of people,” he continued, “can’t seem to get it into their heads
that there is just as much drama in the history of our own country as
in any of the Old World empires. Hasn’t my friend Prescott made the
conquerors of Mexico and Peru live before our eyes? Talk about William
the Conqueror! What is the matter with Columbus, Cortés, and Pizarro?”
I was thrilled now--thrilled to the marrow when he talked like that.
And with gratification he watched me as I stood there transfixed.
“Think of the capture of the last Inca! Why, it is far more exciting
than the Battle of Agincourt. It outweighs even Shakespeare’s graphic
description in _King Henry V_.” He stopped for a moment, his
penetrating dark eyes sparkling with excitement. “But it is not only
the battles, the political intrigues,” he went on, “the early history
of our great industries is just as important. For instance, the old
forty-niners’ records of the first discovery of gold in California, the
beginning of the steel mills, the first railroad prospectuses, all this
country’s gigantic domestic activities! My boy, I envy you the years
ahead in which you will discover for yourself the color, the romance,
the mystery of your country’s history!”
[Illustration: TEA-SHIP BROADSIDE]
Monday Morning, December 27, 1773.
The Tea-Ship being arrived, every Inhabitant who wishes to preserve
the Liberty of America, is desired to meet at the STATE-HOUSE, This
Morning, precisely at TEN o’Clock, to advise what is best to be done
on this alarming Crisis.
Time has proved to me that my uncle prophesied well when he said that
Americana would have a unique and splendid place in the book world. And
although his prophecies were made many years ago, it is not too late
to-day to start collecting Americana. But, of course, to-morrow it may
be. They get scarcer every day; they will never be any cheaper; and of
one thing you may be sure: the value of Americana will increase with
the rising fortunes of America.
So many of the books and documents on which history is based have
been absorbed by public libraries and by historical societies that
the available source material itself has dwindled. In the old days,
when such friends of Moses Polock as James Lenox, Doctor Brinley, old
Menzies, John Carter Brown, Brayton Ives, Henry C. Murphy, James Carson
Brevoort, and countless others were enslaved by an inordinate passion
for books, they did not have to go far afield to find the things that
delighted their souls. The most precious relics were to be found
almost at their doorsteps. If they were in Philadelphia, it was to the
bookstalls along Second Street they went; in New York, to the drowsy
old shops of lower Broadway. In these and other places serious-minded
young collectors--can’t you see them in their stovepipe hats, their
high, tight collars, and enormous black satin cravats?--searched in
leisurely mood through the untouched treasure-hoards of Americana.
Indeed, those were the days when you could pick up Smith’s _History of
Virginia_ for fifty dollars almost as easily as you can secure to-day
the latest novel of a popular writer.
But, budding collectors, do not despair. Who knows but there are
nuggets hidden this very minute, at your hand? Hidden only because
you do not realize their potential value. Things which are considered
valueless to-day may soar high in favor in the near future. You know
that our grandfathers, not to mention their sisters and their cousins
and their aunts, could have bought the autograph letters of such
historical figures as Lincoln, Grant, Lee, and Jefferson Davis for a
few dollars during the years that immediately followed the Civil War.
And it was not until twenty years later that collectors began to gather
together everything they could find concerning Lincoln, for it was not
until then that he became a figure permanently great in the thoughts of
the people. His merest pen scratch took on a definite value, which has
increased steadily since then.
The World War has now been over for nearly nine years. Mementos of the
conflict which are to-day tolerated merely for their sentimental value
will be highly esteemed twenty years from now. They will be coveted
objects, not only in the eyes of the collector, but to the perhaps more
discerning ones of the historian as well.
The way of the transgressor is not much harder than that of the
enthusiastic biblio-fiend. The only difference is that the latter
is sure of his eventual reward. Not a day passes that some man or
woman does not appear in my library, either in Philadelphia or in New
York, to offer me some curious and interesting book, tract, or letter
relating to the history of this country. Very often I have to pay
heavily for certain desirable documents. But, like my uncle Moses, I
don’t give a tinker’s dam about the money value. I hope I am a cheerful
giver when, as a result of my purchase, I discover material hitherto
unknown to the historians of our country.
[Illustration: TANKARD PRESENTED TO GEORGE WASHINGTON ON HIS
THIRTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY BY THE REV. DR. GREEN, FEBRUARY 22, 1763, AT
TRURO, VIRGINIA]
When my brother Philip was in Spain last year he spent several weeks
touring through the picturesque towns and villages of Granada. Can you
imagine his surprise and joy, when one day he stopped at an ancient
monastery and bought a bundle of old papers which contained a most
valuable and interesting document--the original manuscript signed
by the Emperor Charles V, wherein Hernando Cortés, Adelantado of
the Indies, was appointed Knight of the Order of Santiago. As this
order was an honor considered at that time the most distinguished and
aristocratic in all Castile, it naturally showed Cortés in a light
hitherto unnoted by historians. To-day this magnificent document is
in the collection of my dear friend, Mr. H. V. Jones, in Minneapolis.
Mr. Jones in a surprisingly short time has formed one of the finest
libraries of books relating to this country.
From the very day that Christopher Columbus discussed his great project
with Queen Isabella, the stream of American history has at all times
flowed tumultuously, and never without color and romance.
When Columbus returned to Spain from the New World, he stopped on
February 14, 1493, at Santa Maria, one of the islands of the Azores,
probably to take water. Four days before this he had encountered the
most terrific storm of his great voyage, and was convinced that he,
his men, and his vessels must perish. Now Columbus realized in his
heart that he was going back to Spain with news of a discovery second
in importance to no other. And when it seemed that his ship might
sink at any moment, he set to work to make a record of his mighty
adventure, hoping that by some will of the Fates it would not be lost
to posterity. So, on February fourteenth, he carefully prepared as
complete an account of his marvelous voyage as was possible under the
circumstances. He wrote the details of his journey on a stout piece of
parchment, wrapped it carefully in a piece of waterproof cloth, then
placed it in an iron-bound barrel and threw it into the raging ocean.
But the Fates were kinder to Columbus than to this account made in a
time of stress.
Certainly this, the first record of America, written by the brave hand
of Columbus, would be the most precious relic in all the chronicles of
our country. Alas, that it never has been found! And if I thought there
were one chance in a million of finding it I would take my power boat,
the First Folio, and cruise in the neighborhood of the Azores forever!
It is also curious that another letter, which Columbus wrote the day
after he arrived at Santa Maria to his friend Luis de Santangel,
has never been found. Nor has another and more concise account of
his experiences, which he wrote in an exultant vein to the _Reyes
Catolicos_, Ferdinand and Isabella, immediately upon landing in Lisbon,
ever seen the light of day.
Every school child is taught the date of Columbus’s arrival at Palos,
March 15, 1493. On that very same day he dispatched two letters to the
Court, then sitting at Barcelona. Another, much briefer and more to
the point, he sent to another friend, Gabriel Sanchez, then the royal
treasurer.
About one month after Columbus returned to Spain, a second letter which
he indited to Luis de Santangel was printed on two leaves, folio size.
Evidently these were sent out in all directions and must have been in
great demand. You can well realize that the excitement created by the
publication of his stupendous discovery was tremendous. And yet it
is very strange that but one copy of the entire edition has survived.
These two leaves are the actual cornerstone of American history. They
are worth not only their weight in radium many times over, but, to the
book lover, his very chances of Paradise! They are now, I am proud
to state, not in some musty old castle of Spain, but in the Lenox
Foundation, a part of the New York Public Library, in the heart of New
York City. There, if you show the appropriate desire, you may see it
any day. Some authorities think this letter was printed by Rosenbach,
one of the earliest Spanish printers, and probably one of my forbears.
The old fool! Why didn’t he save at least one copy for his descendants?
Of the second edition of this letter, with the Fates still pursuing,
there is likewise but one remaining copy. To-day it reposes in a very
safe place, the Ambrosian Library in Milan. The present Pope, Pius XI,
who should be the patron saint of all modern book collectors, was first
the assistant in this library, and finally the librarian. In bygone
years his knowledge of books and his infectious enthusiasm inspired
many a bookman. How it must have delighted him to have this great
letter of Columbus in his care!
Edition after edition of the first Columbus letter soon appeared.
The news was so astounding that all who could read wanted to see for
themselves the discoverer’s own description of this amazing new land.
Four editions appeared in Rome, two in Basle, three in Paris, and one
in Antwerp. These were all published in Latin or Italian. Florence
printed the news four separate times; strange to relate, the first
edition in German did not appear until 1497. But the Germans enhanced
their edition with one of the most amusing woodcuts I have ever seen.
It is a picture of the King of Spain and Columbus, who seem to be
explaining their great achievement (doubtless as an offering) to Jesus
Christ. There were six copies of it known until recently, three of
which are in this country: one in the Lenox Library, one in the John
Carter Brown collection at Providence, Rhode Island, and one in the
safekeeping of the Huntington Library. But only last year, when I
visited an old library in the west of England, the private collection
of a friend of mine, I had a curious experience.
It was at that hour which is neither day nor night, and the dressing
gong for dinner had sounded. I put my hand out in the half light to
steady myself after “tea,” and touched--not the _fille de chambre_, as
Sterne relates in his _Sentimental Journey_, but the edges of something
projecting from a shelf of an old bookcase. I had the strange feeling
of an omen about to be realized, one of those peculiar premonitions
women are always boasting of. I loosened the books on either side, drew
out the object, and went soberly to the nearest window, to find that
I had not one but two copies of this German Columbus letter! That was
enough to stagger anyone. One is now in the collection of that great
lover and connoisseur of books, Mr. Grenville Kane, of Tuxedo Park,
New York, who is now the _doyen_ of American collectors; the other is
cherished by my old friend Mr. H. V. Jones.
The story of this country unfolds itself like some gorgeous panorama
as you look through the books which chronicle the stirring times of
the early adventurers. Who wouldn’t choose to hear tales from actual
eyewitnesses, rather than read them rehashed in a fusty history
book? The principal performers in the great historical dramas have
themselves told us stories of daring, of bravery, of great disasters
and victories. Such men were Amerigo Vespucci; Waldseemüller, the
famous geographer, whose _Cosmographiæ Introductio_, published at
St. Dié in 1507, was the first book which gave the name, America, to
the New World; Peter Martyr, the first historian of the Indies, who
described the voyages of his friends and contemporaries, Columbus,
Vasco da Gama, Magellan, Cabot, and Vespucci. Martyr’s _Decades of the
New World_ should quicken the pulse of every lover of American history,
for it contains most of the knowledge we have of the very earliest
“inventions,” as they were called.
Elsewhere I have told of my purchase of the Ellsworth copy of the
Gutenberg Bible. Included in the lot with it was one of the earliest
charts showing the east coast of America. It dates around 1501-02. I
was present at the sale of this famous map, known as the King-Hamy
chart, when it brought $17,600, and was one of the unhappy underbidders
thereon. I thought it was lost to me and my heirs forevermore.
However, when the Ellsworth collection was sold, I radioed my bid from
mid-Atlantic and secured it.
Early portolano charts, as these first navigators’ maps are called,
are extremely interesting. They indicate, step by step, the latest
discoveries as they were made. You can see for yourself, if you follow
the development from the first faint coast lines on the earliest
charts to the recognizable later outlines, the wonderful progress made
by various explorers in less than a century. Every year new ports,
new bays, new islands, new harbors of refuge are seen. The first
mariners in the waters of the New Islands, as they were called, sent
their original and very rough working charts, made from the actual
observations of pilots, to the great cartographers in Spain and
Italy. Those men were really artists. Baptista Agnesi was one of the
most famous of the chart makers. He and his colleagues all produced
beautiful, illuminated atlases containing elaborately decorated maps,
gorgeously bound, which they sold to the great princes and merchants of
the day. The maps were much in demand as table books for the libraries
of wealthy men.
But there are very few of the first drafts of the early maps left. The
rolls of parchment which originated in the rough pilot house of an
early sailing vessel were often damaged by ocean spray and rats’ teeth;
under such conditions they could last but a short while. Probably not
five, altogether, survive. Yet lately I have had the unexampled good
fortune to obtain two actual pilots’ charts; the first one was used on
the voyage of Cortés, the other must have accompanied Pizarro on his
magnificent conquest of Peru. The former shows but the barest outline
of the coasts of the two Americas; the second, only fifteen years
later, presents a much more detailed diagram of the shores, indicating
the advance in geographical knowledge during this brief period.
Probably the two finest and most highly finished examples of the
map-maker’s art are two table books: the Spitzer chart in the John
Carter Brown Library at Providence and the famous Jacques Cartier atlas
in the collection of the late Henry E. Huntington. Another magnificent
collection of portolano charts is in the library of the Hispanic
Society in New York City, formed by the great student and collector,
Mr. Archer M. Huntington.
Now the young book enthusiast, if he has a limited amount of money,
must not feel out of the running when he sees that many of the rarer
examples of Americana are beyond his means. Indeed, the discriminating
collector seeks not only the great and costly pieces, such as Richard
Hakluyt’s _Divers Voyages Touching the Discoverie of America_, 1582
(complete with both maps); Thomas Hariot’s _Briefe and True Report of
the New Found Land of Virginia_, 1588; Francis Drake’s _West Indian
Voyage_, 1589; or that wonderful collection, the most elaborate ever
compiled about America, known as De Bry’s _Voyages_. Of course,
everyone would like to secure these descriptions of the early
discoveries. Such fascinating accounts as those bequeathed to posterity
by Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, the first real historian of the Spanish
conquest, and his successor, Cieza de Leon--these will always be
coveted, it goes without saying.
It is the little things, however, that I think most appealing.
For instance, within the past few months I found and purchased the
first tailor bill in the New World. It was the original invoice sent to
Hernando de Soto in 1536, several years before he made his momentous
discovery of the Mississippi River. The bill was dated from Lima, the
City of the Kings, which had only been founded in 1535. There were
forty items listed: bolts of the finest black velvets and satins,
yards and yards of scarlet taffeta for linings. Can you see the great
_conquistador_ flashing his way through some primeval jungle, clad like
the king’s courtier that he was, even in the wilderness? But to me the
most startling thing about this bill of $1400 for one month’s raiment
is that it was--receipted! How the tailors on Fifth Avenue would gloat
over this relic of their earliest predecessor! Perhaps some way will be
found to make a facsimile of the first receipted weapon of their trade.
It should be hung in every tailoring establishment along the Avenue
as a gentle reminder to tardy patrons. Although the clothes and the
tailor who made them, as well as the customer who wore them, have all
long since evaporated, Juan Ruiz, the tailor’s name, will live. It is
forever connected with the distinguished name of Hernando de Soto, the
discoverer of the Mississippi.
Virginia in the early days included practically all the English
possessions in America. Consequently New England was part of Virginia.
The first books relating to this English colony in the New World are
all of abounding interest. The history of settlements such as these,
of fierce and frequent fights with Indians, or the gentler tale of
Raleigh and his pipe of tobacco, reads like a dime novel. Of course
all these descriptions are entrancingly rare and the acquisition of
any one of them will make a dent in the most astute pocketbook. As
a rule, these tracts were ephemeral publications not unlike much of
the pamphlet literature that is issued to-day. They were small quarto
volumes, sometimes comprising only eight or ten leaves. After they were
read they doubtless were cast into the seventeenth-century equivalent
of the waste-paper basket, and that is why so few are in existence
to-day. The cherished survivors have been preserved because they were
bound together in volumes at the time they were issued.
Recently, in the library of an old London house, I came across one
of these precious collections containing twenty-three of the rarest
pamphlets relating to America. Bound therein were such collectors’
darlings as Brereton’s _Brief and true Relation of the Discovery of the
Northern Part of Virginia_, 1602; James Rosier’s _A True Relation of
the most prosperous Voyage made this present year 1605 in the Discovery
of the Land of Virginia_, published in London in 1605. And embedded in
the centre of the volume, like a choice nugget, was the first work of
the redoubtable Captain John Smith, entitled _A True Relation of such
Occurrences and Accidents of Noate as hath hapned in Virginia_, London,
1608.
“Have you any other books or pamphlets relating to America?” I asked
the distinguished owner after I had purchased this volume, which
was worth many thousands of pounds. He thought for so long before
answering that I was afraid he had nothing. When I had almost given up
hope, he said suddenly, “Would you be interested in a presentation copy
of Captain Smith’s _Generall Historie of Virginia_, 1624?”
“What are you trying to do? Pull my leg?”
“No, really,” he replied. “Here it is.” He walked the length of the
great room to an enormous bookcase with glass doors, and tenderly
extracted a tall slim book. The arms of England were impressed in
gold upon the covers. To say I was astounded is to express it mildly.
And there, covering the whole flyleaf in front of the beautifully
engraved title page, was the only known specimen of handwriting of the
celebrated “Governour and Admirall of New England,” as Captain Smith
was dubbed thereon. Since this dedication is entirely unknown, I give
it here to be printed for the first time:--
TO THE WORSHIPFULL THE MASTER WARDENS & SOCIETIE OF THE CORDWAYNERS OF
YE CITTIE OF LONDON.
WORTHIE GENTLEMEN:--
Not only in regard of your Courtesie & Love, Butt also of ye
Continuall Use I have had of your Labours, & the hope you may make
some use of mine, I salute you with this cronologicall discourse,
whereof you may understand with what infinite Difficulties & Dangers
these Plantations first began, with their yearlie proceedings, &
the plaine description & Condition of those Countries; How many of
your Companie have bin Adventurers, whose Names are omitted or not
nominated in the Alphabett I know not, therefore I intreate you better
to informe me, that I may hereafter imprint you amongst the Rest,
Butt of this I am sure for want of shooes among the Oyster Bankes
wee tore our hatts & Clothes & those being worne, wee tied Barkes of
trees about our ffeete to keepe them from being Cutt by the shelles
amongst which wee must goe or starve, yett how many thousand of
shooes hath bin transported to these plantations, how many Soldiers,
Marriners & Saylers have bin & are likely to be encreased thereby,
what vent your Commodities have had & still have, & how many shipps
& men of all ffaculties have bin & are yearelie imployed I leave to
your owne Judgments, & yett by reason of ill manadging, the Returnes
have neither answered the generall Expectation, nor my desire; the
Causes thereof you may read at large in this Booke for your better
satisfaction, & I pray you take it not in ill part that I present
the same to you in this manuscript Epistle soe Late, for both it & I
myself have bin soe overtired by attendances that this Work of mine
doth seeme to be Superannuated before it’s Birth, notwithstanding Lett
me intreat you to give it Lodging in your Hall Freelie to be perused
for ever, in memorie of your Noblenesse towards mee, & my Love to God,
my Countrie, your Societie, & those Plantations, Ever resting
Your’s to use
JOHN SMITH
[Illustration:
THE
GENERALL HISTORIE
OF
Virginia, New-England, and the Summer
Isles with the names of the Adventurers,
Planters, and Governours from their
first beginning An. 1584 to this
present 1624.
_WITH THE PROCEDINGS OF THOSE SEVERALL COLONIES
and the Accidents that befell them in all their
Journyes and Discoveries._
Also the Maps and Descriptions of all those
Countryes, their Commodities, people,
Government, Customes, and Religion
yet knowne.
_DIVIDED INTO SIXE BOOKES
By Captaine JOHN SMITH sometymes Governour’
in those Countryes & Admirall
of_ New England.
LONDON
Printed by I.D. and
I.H. for _Michael
Sparkes_.
1624.
ENGRAVED TITLE OF CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH’S “HISTORY OF VIRGINIA, 1624”]
Smith’s _Virginia_ is in many respects the standard example of
English Americana. The narrative is trippingly told, and if Captain
Smith exaggerates and invents, so much the better! He is the prime
storyteller among historians. Were he alive to-day he would probably
prove himself the greatest scenario writer of all time, especially if
he wrote colorful thrillers filled with action such as the Pocahontas
episode. Here it is in part:--
The Queene of Appomatuck was appointed to bring him [Smith] water
to wash his hands, and another brought him a bunch of feathers,
instead of a Towell to dry them; having feasted him after their best
barbarous manner they could, a long consultation was held, but the
conclusion was, two great stones were brought before Powhatan; then
as many as could layd hand on him, dragged him to them, and thereon
laid his head, and being ready with their clubs, to beate out his
braines, Pocahontas the Kings dearest daughter, when no intreaty could
prevaile, got his head in her armes, and laid her owne upon his to
save him from death: whereat the Emperour was contented he should live
to make him hatchets, and her bells, beads, and copper....
I myself like best his touching note about the first white child born
in British America:--
And the 18th [August, 1587] Ellinor the Governours daughter, and wife
to Ananias Dare, was delivered of a daughter in Roanoak; which, being
the first Christian there borne, was called Virginia.
The early history of the settlement of New England according to its
present bounds is perhaps more austere than the narrative of Ponce
de Leon in Florida or the exploits of Jacques Cartier in New France.
Nevertheless, the story contains many soul-stirring incidents. It is
as chock-full of romantic relations as the _Thousand and One Nights_.
No one realized this more clearly and beautifully than Nathaniel
Hawthorne. A dear friend of mine and one of the most discriminating and
earnest collectors in this country, whose judgment in any matter of
taste is final, owns the Hawthorne family copy of _William Hubbard’s
Narrative of the Troubles with the Indians in New England_, printed in
Boston by John Foster, 1677. It is in its original sheep binding. This
book had been the cherished property of the Hawthorne family of Salem
for two hundred and fifty years. The name of the first emigrant founder
of the family is at the top of the title page: “William Hawthorne,
Senior, his booke, 1677.” It is he who is described in the introduction
to _The Scarlet Letter_ as “grave, bearded, sable-cloaked ... with his
Bible and his sword....”
The second owner, his son, and not less famous as the notorious witch
judge of Salem, placed his autograph at the bottom of the title page:
“John Hathorne his booke.” The book next descended to his son, who
wrote on the flyleaf: “Joseph Hathorne His Book 1739-40.” And so it
went from father to son for many more generations, finally becoming
the possession of Nathaniel Hawthorne. After his name, in which he
reinserted the original _w_, he wrote, “given him by his Kinswoman,
Miss Susan Ingersoll, 1838.” Few old books of intrinsic value have
a record of ownership as direct and interesting as this. From Major
William Hawthorne, the founder of the family, who led more than one
expedition against the Indians, to Nathaniel Hawthorne, the gentlest of
men, is indeed a far cry.
New England is fortunate in possessing two interesting and authentic
manuscript narratives of its earliest history. Governor Winthrop’s
Journal or _Historie of New England_ is one, and William Bradford’s
_Historie of Plimouth Plantation_ the other. Both, although written
in a somewhat formal manner, contain the most realistic description
of life in the colonies. Probably the two most important printed
books of this period are George Mourt’s _A Relation or Journal of the
Beginning and Proceedings of the English Plantation settled at Plimouth
in New England_, London, 1622, and the first published history of
Massachusetts, William Wood’s _New England’s Prospect_, London, 1634.
The first work published in English about New York is entitled
_The Second Part of the Tragedy of Amboyna_, 1653. It is really a
controversial pamphlet in which the early Dutch colonists were accused
of trying to induce the Indians to murder the English settlers who had
come down from New England. But the first true history of New York
was Daniel Denton’s _A Brief Description of New York First Called New
Netherlands_, 1670. In those days it was the fashion to malign the
Dutch, and families such as the De Peysters and the Van Rensselaers
were not so prominent socially as their descendants are to-day.
The first account of Pennsylvania was written by none other than
William Penn himself, and published in London in 1681. Although Penn
had never seen this country at the time, he wrote a most glowing
account of it, proving that the press-agent bacillus was even then
alive. This wonderful Quaker wanted colonists to develop the grant
which was given him in settlement of the Crown’s debt to his father.
It is no wonder that in a virulent tract the better classes of
England showed their distaste for his business activities, which they
considered unbecoming to his religion and his position. That naughty
little pamphlet is entitled _William Penn’s Conversion from a
Gentleman to a Quaker_!
[Illustration: A Plan of the City of New York from an actual Survey
FIRST MAP OF NEW YORK CITY ENGRAVED IN AMERICA, PRINTED BY WILLIAM
BRADFORD, 1731]
One could dwell for an indefinite time upon books and tracts dealing
with the fascinating events of early life in the colonies. Every
leaflet printed in this country from the time the first press was
established in Cambridge in 1640 until the year 1700 is of value; after
that date they must relate to historical events or prominent personages
to prove their worth. Every early newspaper printed in America, every
broadsheet, every autograph letter or manuscript containing real meat
for the historian, is of value.
Many youthful collectors approach those older ones who have been
through the mill, asking for tips. In the beginning they all believe
there is some secret which may be learned by diligent questioners.
Well, here is a secret, but it is an open one. If the young
biblio-fiend will search in the older towns of the thirteen original
colonies, he is bound in time to turn up unknown treasures! I only wish
I had the time to do some quiet delving myself.
Do not forget that all material relating to the history of the West
is just as important as that of the Eastern states, often more
picturesque, and perhaps even more romantic. Take, for instance, the
first book published in San Francisco in 1848-49. It will in time be
just as valuable as the first book printed in Philadelphia in 1685. The
three thousand miles between the two cities, one on the Atlantic Coast,
the other on the Pacific, show the tide of settlement of our country.
It was only seventy-five years ago that the first guidebooks were
published in Eastern cities, showing ways to travel to the Far West,
giving tables of distances and other information for the emigrant. They
were the road maps of the stalwart pioneers who packed wife, children,
and chattels into a covered wagon and took the shortest route to that
part of the uninhabited plains which they hoped would be their El
Dorado.
All these are important stones in the foundation of history. There are
books printed within the past twenty-five years which contain important
source material concerning the particular parts of the country they
describe. Some of these books bring very high prices even to-day. What
would Zenas Leonard have thought had he known that his simple little
narrative, published at Clearfield, Pennsylvania, in 1839, would in
less than ninety years be battled for in the auction rooms? This tale
of his adventures of five years’ trapping for furs and trading with
Indians in the Rocky Mountains is sought to-day as a most desirable
addition to a library of Americana. I saw a copy sell at auction not
long ago for $1700.
Although the printed books relating to America are fascinating and
instructive, autographs make the incidents they describe alive and
vivid for us. Every true collector is strongly moved when he sees the
autograph of a great personage in his country’s history. And, after
all, the printed word must have a certain coldness and formality.
Indeed, it is perhaps a part of its beauty. But words written down by
the actor himself as he helps to complete the drama are personal things
which unfailingly appeal to the imagination.
[Illustration: JOURNAL
OF THE
PROCEEDINGS
OF THE
CONVENTION
HELD AT
RICHMOND, in the County of HENRICO,
ON THE 20th DAY OF MARCH, 1775.
WILLIAMSBURG:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. DIXON AND W. HUNTER,
AT THE POST-OFFICE.
M, DCC, LXXV.
GEORGE WASHINGTON’S COPY OF “PROCEEDINGS OF THE CONVENTION”]
No wonder collectors everywhere are doing their utmost to uncover from
the débris of a past age autograph letters relating to the Revolution,
and particularly to the fifty-six signers of the Declaration of
Independence. The highest auction price of any autograph was paid on
March sixteenth of this year for a Button Gwinnett signature. When the
auctioneer of the Anderson Galleries in New York City knocked it down
to me for $51,000, I was tickled to death. It was the only 1776 Button
Gwinnett letter about national affairs that had ever been sold. This
particular autograph is now the most famous one in the world, and at
the price paid figures about $3600 a letter. It is a strange commentary
on the vagaries of fame that you can buy a signature of Napoleon for
ten dollars a letter. During the last six months quotations on Button
Gwinnett Preferred have jumped sixty-five per cent.
A shocking tale is told of the rapid rise of American autograph
material. A friend of mine decided to sell at auction his magnificent
collection of letters of signers, famous generals, Presidents of the
United States, and other historical characters. He had bought them not
many years ago. When the evening of the sale arrived Mr. G---- was
there with his wife. He carried a catalogue marked with the cost of
each item. The first number in the sale, which cost him $45, brought
$250; the next, for which he had paid $80, fetched $800, and so on,
until about fifteen items were sold.
[Illustration: LETTER SIGNED BY BUTTON GWINNETT, BOUGHT FOR $51,000]
His wife, who was watching his catalogue over his shoulder, and who
could hardly contain herself any longer, exclaimed, “My, Doctor R is
going strong to-night. Why, that letter which just sold for $1650 you
bought from him only a little while ago for $360. I feel like laughing
out loud.”
“If you do,” her husband threatened, “I’ll take you by the hair, drag
you outside, and strangle you!” At this his wife was quiescent for a
few minutes. The prices were still mounting. She then wrote on a card
which she passed to Mr. G----: “I can smile, can’t I?”
“That goes for smiling, too,” replied her husband.
About five years ago I was especially interested in all material
relating to Paul Revere and his celebrated ride. In the midst of my
researches a gentleman called upon me one day and showed me a series
of volumes which contained most important papers relating to the
Revolutionary period. On looking through them I was amazed to run
across the following outstanding document, which is dated Cambridge,
April 29, 1775, ten days after Revere’s famous exploit. It is as
follows:--
This may certify that the bearer Mr. Paul Revere is a messenger to the
Committee of Safety and that all dispatch and assistance be given him
in all instances that the business of the Collony may be facilitated.
JOS. WARREN, CHAIRN
Poor General Warren, who signed Revere’s commission as messenger, was
killed a few weeks later at the Battle of Bunker Hill.
Although I freely admit that this letter belongs in the archives of New
England, you may be sure I keep it well within my reach. I don’t care
to have those doughty New England historians, such as Dr. Charles L.
Nichols, Clarence S. Brigham, George Parker Winship, and Lawrence C.
Wroth, come pouncing down as a mighty host and demand it of me.
It is surprising how things fall the collector’s way in series. As
I have related in a previous article, I have the only certified
copy of the Declaration of Independence that is outside the public
archives. But I always hankered after a letter written by a signer who
was an eyewitness on that July Fourth, one hundred and fifty years
ago--a letter telling about the actual signing of the Declaration
of Independence. For twenty-two long years I searched for it, and
was delightfully shocked one day to read in an auction catalogue a
description of the following letter by Cæsar Rodney, the signer from
Delaware, to his brother, Thomas Rodney, dated Philadelphia, July 4,
1776. You may be sure I gobbled up this letter.
Rodney wrote:--
I arrived in Congress tho detained by thunder and rain time enough to
give my voice in the matter of Independence. It is now determined by
the thirteen United Colonies without even one desenting Colony. We
have now got through with the whole of the Declaration and ordered
it to be printed so that you will soon have the pleasure of seeing
it. Hand bills of it will be printed and sent to the armies, cities,
county towns, etc.--to be published or rather proclaimed in form....
I have always been peculiarly interested in anything which related to
the origin and history of the American flag, and I have always wanted,
with my infernal and almost feminine curiosity, to find out when it was
first raised. I had found references at various times to its appearance
sometime during the second year of the Revolution, but could not
discover the exact date in any of the items of Americana which I had
collected. One day about nine years ago I was reading a manuscript,
_Journal of the most Material Occurrences proceeding the Siege of
Fort Schuyler_, by William Colbreath. As I turned the leaves of the
manuscript my attention was arrested by the following:--
Augt 3d [1777] Early this morning a Continental Flagg made by the
Officers of Col. Gansevoorts Regiment was hoisted and a Cannon
Levelled at the Enemies Camp was fired on the Occasion....
This is the only authoritative account known of the first raising of
the American battle flag, and it was on this day that the British
troops saw for the first time the new standard of America.
Some years ago I received a seductive appeal from a Boston collector.
He had purchased some wonderful books which, though they filled his
shelves, depleted his purse. And yet he could still write, “Dear
Doctor: Please tempt me!” How often do I wish the sirens would tempt
me, especially if the little charmers were in the form of autograph
letters and manuscripts relating to Lincoln and his time. Believe me,
I’ll never be too old to be caught by their allure.
Of all periods in American history, none is more inspiring and dramatic
than that of the Civil War. It is one of the most kaleidoscopic times
in all history, with three men of outstanding character in it, Abraham
Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant, and Robert E. Lee. Any scrap of material
relating to them is bound to increase in value. Lincoln letters to-day
are rarer than Washington’s, and nearly all of his great pieces are
written in his own hand.
Of course, collectors prefer what are known as A. L. S. (autograph
letter signed) instead of the L. S., or letter merely signed by
Lincoln, that is, not in his handwriting but written by an official
clerk. Thank God, those were the days before the typewriter, and every
letter contains an intimate appeal which the machine can never give.
That puts me in mind of a good one.
About three months ago a lady came to see me in New York and asked
to be shown some Lincoln letters. I used the cataloguer’s phrase and
spoke of holographs, fair copies, A. L. S., and the usual rigmarole of
the collector. I then exhibited before her interested eyes a letter
of Lincoln’s which I treasured, because it is perhaps the only one
in which Lincoln swore. It was addressed to John T. Stuart, his law
partner, dated Vandalia, Illinois, February 14, 1839, and he refers to
a man named Ewing as follows:--
Ewing won’t do anything. He is not worth a damn.
Your friend,
A. LINCOLN
The lady exclaimed, “I know what you mean by A. L. S. I did not
understand you at first. You mean Abraham Lincoln swore!”
Americana really is the collector’s best bet. I can never be too
grateful to Uncle Moses for his advice to me. I have kept zealously
almost every piece relating to the Civil War, and I think that I have
succeeded in the past thirty years in gathering the finest collection
relating to it, except the national collection in Washington. I
have such remarkable Lincoln documents as his first draft of the
Emancipation Proclamation, entirely in his autograph, written six
months before it was finally put into operation on January 1, 1863; his
famous Baltimore address, in which he gives his celebrated definition
of liberty; the original manuscript of his speech about the formation
of the Republican Party; and many other pieces of the greatest
historical significance, which can never come a collector’s way again.
I cannot resist giving Lincoln’s speech on the party of which he was
the most illustrious leader:--
Upon those men who are, in sentiment, opposed to the spread and
nationalization of slavery, rests the task of preventing it. The
Republican Organization is the embodiment of that sentiment; though
as yet, it by no means embraces all the individuals holding that
sentiment. The party is newly formed, and in forming, old party ties
had to be broken, and the attractions of party pride, and influential
leaders, were wholly wanting. In spite of all differences, prejudices,
and animosities, its members were drawn together by a paramount common
danger. They formed and maneuvered in the face of the disciplined
enemy, and in the teeth of all his persistent misrepresentations. Of
course, they fell far short of gathering in all of their own. And yet,
a year ago, they stood up, an army over thirteen hundred thousand
strong. That army is, today, the best hope of the nation, and of
the world. Their work is before them, and from which they may not
guiltlessly turn away.
I have spoken of the unfurling of the first American battle flag. The
following is Lincoln’s beautiful acknowledgment of a flag sent him by
some ladies of a patriotic society:--
EXECUTIVE MANSION
_Aug. 10, 1863_
Permit me to return my grateful acknowledgements to the fair
manufacturer and generous donors of the beautiful present which
accompanies their note of the 20th July. If anything could enhance
to me the value of this representation of our national ensign, so
elegantly executed and so gracefully bestowed, it would be the
consideration that its price has been devoted to the comfort and
restoration of those heroic men who have suffered and bled in our
flag’s defense. We never should, and I am sure, never shall be niggard
of gratitude and benefaction to the soldiers who have endured toil,
privations and wounds, that the nation may live.
Yours very truly,
A. LINCOLN
I do not want to be accused of waving too often our emblem. But I must
give in full two letters relating to the Confederate flag. They are
not particularly valuable in a money sense, but I do not think any
amount would tempt me to sell them. They are the kind that cannot fail
to melt the heart of an old bachelor with a fondness for children. The
first is addressed by General Leroy P. Walker, Secretary of War in the
Confederate Cabinet, to General Beauregard, from Richmond, Virginia,
September 14, 1861, and says:--
MY DEAR GENERAL:
The enclosed note from my little daughter was written by her without
suggestion or alterations in any way, and the design for a flag is
entirely her own conception. She has insisted so strongly on sending
it to you that I did not feel at liberty to refuse her. I consent the
more readily because I am sure you will appreciate it in the spirit in
which it is sent.
She signs herself with the usual vanity of her sex, “daughter of the
Secretary of War”, and this gives me the opportunity to say that
my official connection with the Army is about to terminate, having
tendered my resignation to the President a few days since.
What I have done in this office has been honestly done, and when the
history of this war is written I feel that the laggard justice of
popular approval will be bestowed.
I am etc.,
Most truly,
yr friend L. P. WALKER
And here is the second letter:--
GENERAL BEAUREGARD:--
I send you a design entirely my own for a Confederate flag. I have
never been satisfied with the Confederate flag, because it is too much
like that of the United States. I am a little girl nine years old and
though I have never seen you I feel as though I knew you
Your admirer
MATILDA POPE WALKER
Daughter of the Secretary of War
Richmond, Virginia. _Sept. 14._
I feel that I must return for a moment to Lincoln. Although I have
letters of the greatest historical import not only from the martyr
President himself but from nearly all his generals and members of
his cabinet, I prefer the notebook of Surgeon C. S. Taft, who was at
Lincoln’s bedside at the time of his death. You can hear in it not only
the last tragic heartbeats of one of the truly great characters of all
time, but the knell of a soul-stirring epoch. The meagre words that
follow, extracted from the notebook, are to me more moving than all the
fine writing in the world:--
The wound ceased to bleed or discharge about 5.30 A.M. and from that
time the breathing was stertorous but gradually increased in frequency
and decreased in strength up to the last breath, which was drawn at 21
minutes and 55 seconds after 7; the heart did not cease to beat until
22′ 10″ past 7; my hand was upon the President’s heart and my eye upon
the watch of the Surgeon General who was standing by my side.
The finest character after Lincoln in the whole Civil War was
undoubtedly that great gentleman and descendant of gentlemen, Robert E.
Lee. From my schooldays I had read of his life of nobility and sorrow.
The letter in which he resigned his commission, addressed to General
Winfield Scott, who commanded the American Army, has always been to me
the highest example of patriotism and the soldier’s ideal credo. The
words, “save in defence of my native State, I never desire again to
draw my sword,” have been indelibly impressed upon every mind. I know
of no letter that I would sooner possess than this, but it was thirty
years before I could finally call it my own. I give it here without
further comment:--
ARLINGTON, WASHINGTON CITY P. O.
_20th April, 1861_
LIEUT. GEN. WINFIELD SCOTT,
COM. ARMY
GENERAL:--Since my interview with you on the 18th inst., I have
felt that I ought no longer to retain my commission in the army. I
therefore tender my resignation which I request you will recommend for
acceptance. It would have been presented at once, but for the struggle
it has cost me to separate myself from the service to which I have
devoted all the best years of my life, all the ability I possessed.
During the whole of that time, more than thirty years, I have
experienced nothing but kindness from my superiors, the most cordial
friendship from my companions. To no one General have I been so much
indebted as to yourself for uniform kindness and consideration, and
it had always been my urgent desire to merit your approbation. I
shall carry with me to the grave the most grateful recollections of
your kind consideration, and your name and fame will always be dear
to me. Save in the defence of my native State, I never desire again
to draw my sword. Be pleased to accept my most earnest wishes for the
continuance of your happiness and prosperity, and believe me most
truly yours,
ROBERT E. LEE
Four years elapsed. The war was over. General Lee had surrendered. The
following letter, which I hold, to his old friend, General Beauregard,
is one of the finest letters ever written by the hand of man.
LEXINGTON, VA.
3rd _Oct._ ’65
MY DEAR GEN.:--
I am glad to see no indication in your letter of an intention to leave
the country. I think the South requires the aid of her sons now, more
than at any period of her history. As you ask my purpose, I will
state that I have no thought of abandoning her, unless compelled to do
so.
“After the surrender of the Southern Armies in April, the revolution
in the opinions & feelings of the people, seemed so complete, & the
return of the Southern States into the union of all the States, so
inevitable; that it became in my opinion, the duty of every citizen,
the Contest being virtually ended, to cease opposition, & place
himself in a position to serve the country. I therefore upon the
promulgation of the proclamation of Pres. Johnson, which indicated
apparently his policy in restoring peace, determine to comply with its
requirements; & on the 13 of June, applied to be embraced within its
provisions. I have not heard the result of my application, but since
then have been elected to the Presidency of Washington College, & have
entered upon the duties of the office, in the hope of being of some
benefit to the noble youth of our country.
“I need not tell you, that true patriotism requires of men sometimes,
to act exactly contrary at one period, to that which it does at
another; & that the motive which impels them, viz, the desire to do
right, is precisely the same. The circumstances which govern their
actions undergo change, and their conduct must conform to the new
order of things. History is full of illustrations of this. Washington
himself is an example, at one time he fought against the French,
under Braddock, in the service of the King of Great Britain; at
another he fought with the French at Yorktown, under the orders of the
Continental Congress of America, against him. He has not been branded
by the world with reproach for this, but his course has been applauded.
With sentiments of great esteem
I am most truly yours
R. E. LEE
To me, Ulysses S. Grant has always been a gigantic figure. He is
probably the greatest general this country has ever produced. Nowhere
are his simplicity and greatness better shown than in his letters. For
some reason they are not yet appreciated at their proper worth, but
the time will come when their extraordinary merits will be recognized.
They are written in a direct style, free of all elaboration, not unlike
Lincoln’s, but without his peculiar felicity of phrase. They are the
words of a soldier, not a statesman. Two of the letters which I have
are, it seems to me, without parallel for conciseness and beauty. The
first, written at the beginning of the war, is to his father:--
_May_ 30th, 1861
GALENA, ILLINOIS
DEAR FATHER:--
I have now been home near a week, but return to Springfield today.
I have tendered my services to the government and go today to make
myself useful, if possible, from this until our national difficulties
are ended. During the six days I have been at home, I have felt all
the time as if a duty was being neglected that was paramount to any
other duty I ever owed. I have every reason to be well satisfied with
myself for the services already rendered but to stop now would not do.
Yours truly,
U. S. GRANT
[Illustration: GRANT’S TELEGRAM TO STANTON ANNOUNCING THE SURRENDER OF
LEE]
The second, at the war’s end, is probably the finest single document
in private hands to-day, as it is the original official telegram which
ended the greatest conflict in American history. Why I was allowed to
get this is one of the mysteries of collecting. It should not be in the
hands of any one person, but ought to be in the safekeeping of the
Government. It was written in obvious haste, in his own hand, at the
moment General Lee surrendered, on a page in the notebook of Grant’s
orderly, General Badeau.
APPOMATTOX COURT HOUSE
_April 9th, 1865._ 4.50 o’clock P. M.
HON. E. M. STANTON, SEC. OF WAR, WASHINGTON
Gen. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Va. this afternoon on terms
proposed by myself. The accompanying additional correspondence will
show the condition fully.
U. S. GRANT, LT. GEN.
The demand for things American is not a passing fancy. It will increase
in the same way as a stone gathers moss. The prices now paid for early
American furniture, pottery, glass, and pictures are but an indication
of a movement yet in its infancy. Even collectors in England, such
as that eminent enthusiast, Sir R. Leicester Harmsworth, Bart., are
gathering objects of interest relating to this country. It is only
meet and proper that Americans themselves should tenderly cherish the
primal, honest, unpretentious things to which this country owes its
greatness.
INDEX
Adam, R. B., 161.
_Adonais_, 25.
Agnesi, Baptista, 274.
_Agriculture of Argyll County_, 21.
Alexander, forged letter of, 121.
Althorp, Lord, 90, 91, 263.
Ambrosian Library (Milan), 271.
_Amenities of Book Collecting_ (Newton), 47.
_America, History of_ (Robertson), 20.
American Tract Society, 184.
Americana, 45, 53-58, 172-177, 253, 265-299.
_See also_ Franklin and Washington.
_Amore di Florio e di Bianchafiore_ (Boccaccio), 29.
_Amoretti_ (Spenser), 148, 149, 150.
Anderson Galleries sales, 53, 95, 219, 286.
André, Major, forged letter of, 99, 100.
“Annabel Lee,” MS. of, 164, 166, 167.
_Arcadia_ (Sidney), 61.
Arnold, Benedict, letter of, 172, 173, 174.
Articles of Confederation (U. S. A.), 176, 177.
Asquith, Margot, 43.
_Autographs, A Book about_, 119.
Avery, Mary, 188.
Ayer, Edward E., 252.
_Babes in the Wood_, 195.
Bache, Benjamin Franklin, 197, 198.
Bacon’s _Essays_, 46, 50.
Badeau, Gen. Adam, 299.
Bancroft, George, 6.
“Bannockburn,” original MS. of Burns’s, 162.
Barker, Robert, 237.
_Barmudas, Discovery of the_, etc., 265.
Barnes (Berners), Dame Juliana, 30.
Battle Abbey Cartularies, 257, 258.
Baxter, Richard, 43, 79.
Beatty, A. Chester, 225.
Beauregard, Gen. Pierre Gustave
Toutant, 292, 293;
letter of Lee to, 295, 296.
_Beauties of the Primer_, 199.
Bellomont, Earl of, 64.
Bement, Clarence S., 8, 18, 239.
Bennett, Arnold, MS. of, 262.
Berners (Barnes), Dame Juliana, 30.
Bible, Aitken, 242.
Bible, Bamberg (Pfister), 220, 221, 229.
Bible, Baskett’s, 242.
Bible, Breeches (Genevan), 239, 240, 241.
Bible, Bug, 241.
Bible, Conqueror, 222.
Bible, Coverdale, 234, 236, 237.
Bible, Eggestyn, 231.
Bible, Eliot Indian, 78, 242.
Bible, Genevan (Breeches), 239, 240, 241.
Bible, Great, 231, 237.
Bible, Great French, 231.
Bible, Gutenberg, 17, 28, 83, 84, 89;
in Mazarin Library, 211, 214, 215;
the Melk copy of, 212;
production of, 212, 213, 214;
identification by De Bure, 214, 215;
perfecting the types for, 216;
copy in Eton College library, 217, 218;
from the Vulgate MS., 218;
copies bought by Dr. Rosenbach, 218, 219, 220;
bought by James Lenox, 244.
Bible, He, 237, 239.
Bible, Jenson, 231.
Bible, King James (Authorized), 237, 238, 239.
Bible, Mainz (of 1462), 221.
Bible, Mazarin. _See_ Gutenberg Bible.
Bible, Pfister (Bamberg), 220, 221, 229.
Bible, “R”, 231.
Bible, Saur, 242.
Bible, She, 237.
Bible, Strasburg, 231.
Bible, Sweynheym and Pannartz, 231.
Bible, Vinegar, 241, 242.
Bible, Wicked, 241, 242.
Bible for the Poor, 228, 229.
Bible in English, 232-242.
Bible MSS., Codex Vaticanus, 221;
Codex Alexandrinus, 221;
Codex Sinaiticus, 221, 222;
illuminated copies, 222, 223, 224, 225;
Four Gospels, ninth century, 223;
Liesborn Gospels, 223, 224;
Historiated Bible of fourteenth century, 224;
early Hebrew copy, 224.
Bibles, Thumb, 205.
_Biblia Pauperum_, 228, 229.
Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris), 215, 229, 245.
Bigelow, John, 141, 142.
Bixby, William K., 40.
_Black Giles_, 195.
Blandford, Marquis of, 90, 91, 128.
Block books, 226, 227, 228, 229.
Boccaccio, Giovanni, 29, 90.
Boker, George H., 6.
_Book of Hunting and Hawking, The_, 30.
Boswell, James, 14, 47, 126, 127, 128.
Botticelli, Sandro, 229.
Bowden, A. J., 81, 82.
Boyle, Elizabeth, _Faerie Queene_ presented to, 148, 149, 150.
Bradford, Thomas, 206.
Bradford, William (Governor), 281.
Bradford, William (printer), 64, 65.
Brailes, W. de, 224, 225.
Brant, Sebastian, 22.
Brawne, Fanny, letter of Keats to, 95, 96, 97.
Brazil, National Library of, 221.
Brevoort, James Carson, 267.
Brewster, Sir David, 118.
_Brief and True Relation of the Discovery of the Northern Part
of Virginia, A_ (Brereton), 277.
_Briefe and true report of the new found land of Virginia_ (Hariot),
275.
_Brief Description of New York First Called New Netherlands_ (Denton),
282.
Brigham, Clarence S., 288.
Brinley, Dr. George, 19, 267.
British Museum library, 50, 157, 221, 226, 244, 245, 246.
Britwell Court sale, 52, 77, 257.
Brown, Charles Brockden, 5.
Brown, John Carter, 243, 244, 267, 272, 275.
Brummell, George (“Beau”), letter of, 258.
Bry, Théodore de, 275.
Bryant, William Cullen, 6.
_Buccaneers of America, The_, 206.
Burdett-Coutts, Baroness, 27, 85, 158.
Burns, Robert, Glenriddel MSS. of, 160, 161;
Adam collection of, 161-164.
California, University of Southern, 45.
_Call to the Unconverted_, 43, 44, 79.
Cambridge University library, 50, 245.
Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, 115.
_Canterbury Tales, The_, 29.
Capell collection at Trinity College, 52.
_Carlos V_ (Lope de Vega), 77.
“Carroll, Lewis” (C. L. Dodgson), forged autographs of, 111.
Cartier (Jacques) atlas, 275.
Carysfort sale, 219, 221.
Casas, Bartolomé de las, 275.
Catlin, George, 223.
Caxton, William, 29, 62;
_History of Troy_, 132;
_Golden Legend_, 232, 233.
Cervantes (Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra), letter of, 100, 101, 102.
Champlain, Samuel de, 66.
Charles V, forged letter of, 118;
genuine signature of, 269.
Chasles, Michel, 117-121.
Chatterton, Thomas, 128, 129, 130.
Chattin, James, 198.
Chaucer, Geoffrey, MSS. of, 252;
contemporary portrait of, 252.
Church, E. Dwight, 142.
Cieza de Leon, Pedro de, 275.
_Civil Law_ (Brown), 20.
_Clarissa Harlowe_, 204.
Clark, C. W., 256.
Clark, William A., Jr., 45, 80.
Clemens, Samuel L. (“Mark Twain”), 164, 165.
Clements, William L., 45.
Cleopatra, forged letter of, 119.
Cockerell, Sydney C., 224, 225.
Colbert, Jean Baptiste, 21, 24.
Colbreath, William, 289.
_Collections of Treaties_ (Jenkinson), 20.
Columbus, Christopher, 269, 270;
letter of, 271, 272.
_Compleat Angler, The_, 30.
Condell, Henry, 88, 151.
Confederation, Articles of (U. S. A.), 176, 177.
_Confessio Amantis_, 252.
Congressional Library, 67, 176, 246.
_Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court, A_, 164.
Conrad, Joseph, 143, 144, 145.
Cooper, James Fenimore, 6.
Cortés, Hernando, 269, 274.
_Cosmographiæ Introductio_, 273.
Coster (Koster), Lourens Janszoon, 216.
Cotton, Rev. John, 188, 189.
Coverdale, Miles, 234, 236.
Crane sale (1913), 198, 199.
Crawford, Lord, 250.
_Cries of Philadelphia, The_, 195.
_Dailey Meditations, or Quotidian Preparations for and Consideration
of Death and Eternity_ (Johnson, 1668), 77.
Dante (Foligno, 1472), 86.
Dare, Virginia, record of birth in Smith’s _Virginia_, 280.
Davies, Sir John, 52.
Day, Mahlon, 207.
De Bure, Guillaume-François, 214, 215.
De Puy, Henry F., 173, 174.
Deane, Silas, 176.
_Decades of the New World_ (Martyr), 273.
_Decameron_ (Boccaccio), 29, 90, 91.
Declaration of Independence, Gwinnett a signer of, 53, 54, 286;
certified copy of, 176, 288;
letter of another signer (Rodney), 288.
Defoe, Daniel, 59, 60.
Delaware’s signer of the Declaration, 288.
Denton, Daniel, 282.
Devonshire, Duke of, 89, 248, 256.
Dibdin, Thomas Frognall, 89, 90, 91.
Dickens, Charles, letters about _Pickwick Papers_, 155, 157;
page from the MS., 156;
a gift to British Museum, 157;
_Haunted Man_, 158, 159;
MS. of his last letter, 160.
_Discovery of the Barmudas, otherwise called the Isle of Devils_
(Jourdain), 265.
_Divers Voyages Touching the Discoverie of America_ (Hakluyt), 275.
Dodd, Mead and Company, 81.
Dodd, Robert, 81, 82.
_Don Quixote_, 100.
Drake, Francis, 275.
Dreer, Ferdinand J., 105.
Drinkwater, John, 26, 27.
Drury Lane Theatre, 14.
_Dying Sayings of Hannah Hill, Junior_, 182, 186, 187.
Eames, Dr. Wilberforce, 192, 193.
Eaton, John Henry, 6.
Edmunds, Charles, 51.
Electoral Library, Mainz, 215.
Eliot, John, 43, 44, 78.
Elizabeth, Queen, dedication of Genevan Bible to, 240.
Elizabethan Club library, 50, 255.
Elkins, William M., 202.
Ellsworth, James W., 219, 273.
Emancipation Proclamation, first draft of, 291.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, Whitman’s tribute to, 152, 153, 154.
English Historical Manuscripts Commission, 258.
_Enough is as good as a Feast_ (Wagner), reprint of, 256.
_Epigrams and Elegies_, 52.
“Epimanes,” (Poe), 167, 168, 169.
_Epistles for the Ladies_, 20.
Estrées, Gabrielle d’, 68, 70, 72, 74.
Eton College library, 217, 218.
_Faerie Queene, The_, 148-151.
_Fall of Princes_ (Lydgate), 252.
Fenwick, T. FitzRoy, 223.
Fielding, Henry, 37.
Fillon, Benjamin, 100.
First folio Shakespeare, points on, 86;
printing of, 88, 89.
_First Laws of New York_, 64.
Fitzgerald, Edward, 175.
“Fitzvictor” (Shelley), 55.
Fleet, T. and J., 201.
Fletcher, John, letter to Countess of Huntingdon, 146.
Fogel, Johann, 218.
Folger, H. C., 53, 88, 256.
Forgeries, 98-133.
Forman, J. Buxton, 42, 95.
Fortescue, Hon. John, 217.
_Fortune’s Lottery_ (Paice), 77.
Foster, John, 281.
Fox, George, 191.
Fox, Joseph M., 18, 74.
Franklin, Benjamin, epitaph of, 66, 67;
letter of, 135;
work book of his printing business, 136-139;
MS. of his _Autobiography_, 142;
signature to the Declaration, 176;
children’s books, 189, 190, 191;
_Story of a Whistle_, 195, 196;
_New England Primer_, 196;
_Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth_, 196, 197;
letter to Jonathan Williams, 197, 198.
Frederick the Great, 176, 177.
Frederickson sale, 40.
French National Library, 215, 229, 245.
Freneau, Philip, 20.
Frick, Henry C., 80.
Fust, Johann, 216, 217, 221.
Garrick, David, _Prologue_ recited by, 14;
letter of Dr. Johnson to, 48, 49.
_General Advertiser_ (London), 14.
_General Historie of Virginia_ (Smith), 267, 278;
dedication of, 278, 279;
extracts from, 280.
_General Laws and Liberties of Massachusetts, collected out of the
Records of the General Court_ (1648), 63, 64.
_Gentleman’s Magazine_, 14.
George the Third, 246.
Gerson, Johannes, 28.
_Glass of Whiskey, The_, title and page of, 193, 194, 195.
Godwin, Mary Wollstonecraft, 40.
_Golden Legend_ (Caxton), 232, 233.
Goldsmith, Oliver, 202, 203.
Goodspeed, Charles, 66, 67.
_Goody Two Shoes_, 202.
Gower, John, 252.
Grammar, Lindley Murray’s, 6.
Grant, Gen. Ulysses S., letter to his father (1861), 297;
telegram announcing Lee’s surrender, 298, 299.
Gratz, Simon, 119.
Gray, Thomas, 13, 130, 217.
Green, Bartholomew, 200.
Green, T. (New Haven, 1740), 200, 201.
Greene, Belle da Costa, 217.
Greene, Robert, 146.
Grenville, Hon. Thomas, 246.
Gribbel, John, 160.
Grolier, Jean, 21, 22.
Grolier Club library, 50.
Gundulph, Bishop of Rochester, Bible of, 222.
Gutenberg, Johann, 213, 214, 216, 220.
Gwinnett, Button, autographs, 53, 54, 286.
Gwynne, Edward, 88.
Hakluyt, Richard, 275.
Hall, David, 139, 196.
Halsey, Rosalie V., 198, 204.
_Hamlet_, forged pages of, 126, 127, 128.
Hancock, John, Washington letter to, 9, 10, 11.
Handel, George Frederick, manuscript music of, 69.
_Hans Breitmann’s Party, and Other Ballads_, 6.
Hariot, Thomas, 275.
Harkness, Mrs. E. S., 220.
Harkness, Mrs. Stephen V., 220.
Harmsworth, Sir R. L., 256, 261, 299.
Harper, Lathrop C., 192, 193.
Harvard University, Widener Library, 45, 46, 66, 85.
Harvey, Gabriel, book given by Spenser to, 149.
Hathaway, Anne, forged letter to, 126.
_Haunted Man, The_ (Dickens), 158, 159.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 26;
MS. title-page of _Wonder Book_, 180;
his copy of Hubbard’s history of Indian wars, 280, 281.
Hawthorne, William, 281.
Haydon, Benjamin Robert, 41.
_Heavenly Spirits for Youthful Minds_, 193, 194.
Heber, Richard, 61, 62, 248, 252, 257.
Heminge, John, 88, 151.
Henkels, Stan V., 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 68, 80, 81.
Henry, Prince, Bible of, 239.
Herrick, Robert, 255.
_Hesperides_ (Herrick), 255.
Heywood, Thomas, 256.
Hispanic Society Library, 275.
_Historie of New England_ (Winthrop), 281.
_Historie of Plimouth Plantation_ (Bradford), 281, 282.
_History of America_ (Robertson), 20.
_History of America abridged for the use of Children of all
Denominations_, 206, 207.
_History of Ann Lively and her Bible_, 184.
_History of Little Fannie_, etc., 209.
_History of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Epitomized; for
the Use of Children in the South Parish at Andover_, 184, 185.
Hoe, Robert, 99, 176.
Hoe sales, 30, 77, 83, 176, 218.
Hogarth, Samuel Johnson’s epitaph for, 48, 49.
Holford, Robert Stayner, 248.
Holford, Sir George, 31, 53, 86, 249.
Holkham MSS., 222.
Hubbard, William, on the Indian wars in New England, 26, 280, 281.
_Huckleberry Finn, The Adventures of_, 187.
Hunt, Leigh, 171.
Huntington, Archer M., 100, 275.
Huntington, Henry E., _The Book of Hunting and Hawking_, 30;
devotion to book-collecting, 33;
_Queen Mab_, 42;
collection open to the public, 44, 45;
Bacon’s _Essays_, 50;
_Venus and Adonis_, 52;
method of buying, 82, 83;
first folio Shakespeare, 89;
MS. of Franklin’s _Autobiography_, 142;
Arnold letter, 174;
the _Royal Primer_, 198, 199;
the Conqueror Bible, 222;
block books, 228;
Coverdale Bible, 236;
quoted, 252;
his collection, 253;
_Hamlet_, second edition, 255;
Columbus letter, 271, 272;
Cartier atlas, 275.
Huth sales (1912), 46, 50;
(1911), 238.
Independence, Declaration of, 53, 54, 176, 286, 288.
Independence Hall and Square, sale of, 177.
Indian wars in New England, William Hubbard’s story of the, 26,
280, 281.
_Inland Navigation_ (Brown), 20.
_Instructions for Right Spelling_, 191, 192.
Ireland, William Henry, 122-128.
Ives, Gen. Brayton, 40, 99, 267.
_Jack Juggler_, title page of, 247.
Jaggard, Isaac, 88.
Jaggard, William, 88.
Janeway, Rev. James, 189, 190.
Jansen, Reinier, 191.
Jennings, Samuel, attack on, 65.
Jersey, Earl of, 29.
Johnson, Jacob, 5, 183.
Johnson, Marmaduke, 77.
Johnson, Samuel, Prologue for Drury-Lane Theatre, 14;
A. Edward Newton’s enthusiasm for, 47;
Boswell’s _Life_, 47;
letter suggesting epitaph for Hogarth, 48, 49.
Johnson, W., 208.
Johnson and Warner, 183.
Jones, H. V., 269, 272.
Jones, John Paul, _Life_ of, 206.
Jonson, Ben, verses on Shakespeare, 88, 89.
Jordan, Mrs. (Dolly), 127, 128.
Jourdain, Sylvester, 265.
_Journal of the most Material Occurrences proceeding the Seige of
Fort Schuyler_ (Colbreath), 289.
Joyce, James, MS. of, 171.
“Judith and Holofernes” (woodcut), 233.
Kane, Grenville, 272.
Keats, John, Amy Lowell on, 39, 40;
his copy of Shakespeare, 40;
MS. of sonnet to Haydon, 41;
Shelley letter referring to, 42;
Wilde’s sonnet on sale of his love letters, 94;
Morley’s sonnet on sale of one letter to Dr. Rosenbach, 95;
MS. letter to Fanny Brawne, 96, 97;
advancing value of, 181.
Kemble, John Philip, 127, 128.
Kennerley, Mitchell, 65, 66.
Kern, Jerome D., 42.
Killigrew, Thomas, 259.
_King Edward IV_ (Heywood), reprint of, 256.
_King Lear_, forged copy of, 126, 128.
King-Hamy chart, 273.
Kingsborough, Lord, 223.
Kirby, Thomas E., 80.
Koster (Coster), Lourens Janszoon, 216.
Lamport Hall, seat of Ishams, discoveries at, 51.
Laud (William), Archbishop, 242.
Lawler, Percy E., 136-139.
_Laws of New York_ (Bradford, 1694), 19.
Lazarus, forged letter of, 120.
Lee, Gen. Robert Edward, letter resigning commission in U. S. Army,
294, 295;
letter after close of the war, 295, 296;
Grant’s announcement of his surrender, 298, 299.
_Legacy for Children, being Some of the Last Expressions and Dying
Sayings of Hannah Hill, Junr._, etc., 186, 187.
Leicester, Earl of, 222.
Leland, Charles Godfrey, 6.
Leningrad Library, 221.
Lenox, James, 84, 243, 244, 267, 271, 272.
Leonard, Zenas, 284.
_Lessons for Children from Two to Five Years Old_, 197.
Library, Ambrosian, 271;
British Museum, 50, 157, 221, 226, 244, 245, 246;
Cambridge University, 50, 245;
Congressional, 67, 176, 246;
Electoral (Mainz), 215;
Elizabethan Club (Yale), 50, 255;
Eton College, 217, 218;
French National, 215, 229, 245;
Grolier Club, 50;
Hispanic Society, 275;
Leningrad, 221;
Mazarin, 24, 211, 212, 214, 215;
National, of Brazil, 221;
New York Public, 84, 228, 236, 237, 271;
Newberry, 253;
Philadelphia Free, 237, 250;
Record Office, London, 146, 259;
Somerset House, 146;
Sorbonne, 23;
Spanish National, 100;
University of Michigan, 45;
University of Pennsylvania, 197;
University of Southern California, 45;
Vatican, 221;
Widener (Harvard), 45, 46, 66, 85;
Windsor Castle, 217;
Yale University, 220.
_See also_ names of individual collectors.
_Life of Samuel Johnson_, 14, 47.
Lincoln, Abraham, autographs of, 290;
first draft of Emancipation Proclamation, 291;
of Baltimore address, 291;
other addresses and letters of, 291, 292;
account of his death, 294.
_Little Truths_, 206.
_Lives of Highwaymen_, 206.
_Lives of Pirates_, 206.
_Lives of the Twelve Cæsars_, 206.
_Lord Jim_ (Conrad), MS. page of, 145.
Louÿs, Pierre, 116.
Lovelace, Richard, 255.
Lowell, Amy, 39, 40.
Lucas, Vrain, 117-121.
_Lucasta_ (Lovelace), 255.
Lufft, Hans, 236.
Luther, Martin, 235.
Lydgate, John, 252.
McCarty and Davis, 6, 183.
MacDonald, Ramsay, 246.
MacGeorge, Bernard Buchanan, 87.
Malone, Edmund, 127.
Malory, Sir Thomas, 29.
Manutius, Aldus, 21.
“Mark Twain,” 164, 165.
Marlowe, Christopher, 52, 146, 261.
Martyr, Peter, 273.
“Marvel, Ik” (Donald G. Mitchell), 6.
Mary Magdalene, forged letter of, 120, 121.
Mason, William, 130.
Mason, William S., 67, 196.
Massingham, H. W., 142, 143.
Mather, Cotton, 185, 190, 191.
Mazarin, Cardinal (Jules), 21, 23, 211.
Mazarin Library, 24, 211, 212, 214, 215.
“Meistersinger, Die,” MS. page of, 73.
Melville, Herman, 6, 26.
Mentelin, 231.
Menzies, William, 267.
“Messiah, The” (Handel), MS. page of, 69.
Michigan, University of, 45.
Millar, Eric G., 225.
Milne, A. A., 28.
Milton, John, 259.
Mitchell, Donald G., 6.
_Moby Dick_, first edition, 26;
presentation copy, 26, 27.
Molière (Boucher, 1734), 85, 86.
_Moll Flanders_, 206.
Morgan, J. Pierpont, 238, 239, 245.
_See also_ Morgan Library.
Morgan, Junius Spencer, 238.
Morgan, Pierpont, Library, letter of George Washington, 10;
Malory’s _Morte d’Arthur_ (Caxton), 29;
collection open to public, 45, 263;
Vespucci letter and commonplace book, 56, 57;
librarian of, 217;
MS. Bibles, 222;
Holkham MSS., 222;
block books, 228;
Lufft Bible, 236;
Coverdale Bible, 236;
He Bible, 239.
Morley, Christopher, sonnet on Dr. Rosenbach’s purchase of Keats’s
love letter, 95, 96, 97.
Morrison, Alfred, 100.
Morrison sale, 55.
_Morte d’Arthur, Le_, 29.
Mostyn, Lord, 256.
_Mother Goose’s Melodies_, 203.
_Motherless Mary, a Young and Friendless Orphan_, etc., 206.
Mourt, George, 282.
“Murders in the Rue Morgue, The,” 93.
Murphy, Henry C., 267.
Murray, Lindley, 6.
_Narrative of the Troubles with the Indians in New England_ (Hubbard),
26, 280, 281.
_Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne_, MS. page of, 251.
_New England Magazine_, Poe’s letter to, 170.
_New England Primer_, 196.
_New England’s Prospect_ (Wood), 282.
_New York Cries_, 207, 208.
New York Public Library, 84, 228, 236, 237, 271, 272.
Newbery, John, 202.
Newberry Library, 253.
Newton, A. Edward, 47, 67, 237.
Nichols, Charles L., 288.
North, Lord (Frederick), Benedict Arnold’s letter to, 172, 173, 174.
Occleve, Thomas, _Poems_ of, 252.
_Ockanickon, an Indian King, The Dying Words of_, 81, 82.
_Odes_, Gray’s, 13.
_Old Dame Trudge and Her Parrot_, 209.
_Omar Khayyám_, MS. of, 175.
Paice’s _Fortune’s Lottery_, 77.
Paine, Philip, _Dailey Meditations_, 77.
Pallinganius’s _Zodyacke of Lyfe_, 77.
Palmart, Lamberto, 37.
_Pamela_, 204.
_Paraphrastical Exposition_, etc. (1693), 65.
Parker, James, 139.
Pascal, forged letter of, 118.
_Passionate Pilgrim, The_, 52.
_Patty Primrose_, 187.
Pellechet, Mademoiselle, 217.
Penn, William, 282, 283.
Pennsylvania, University of, 197.
Pennypacker, Samuel W., 8, 9, 10, 11, 91.
_Penrod_, 187.
Pentateuch, forged text of, 225, 226;
the Tyndale translation, 236.
Pepys, Samuel, 259.
Perry, Marsden J., 87, 128.
_Peter Piper’s Practical Principles of Plain and Perfect
Pronunciation_, 208, 209.
Pforzheimer, Carl H., 159, 219, 237.
Pfister, Albrecht, 220, 221, 229.
Philadelphia Free Library, 237, 250.
Philes, George P., 3.
Philley, John, 65.
Phillips, Samuel, 184, 185.
Phillipps, Sir Thomas, 222, 223.
_Pickwick Papers, The_, 155-159.
_Pilgrim’s Progress, The_, 31, 32, 33.
_Pirates, a Tale for Youth, The_, 206.
Pizarro, Francisco, chart used by, 274, 275.
Poe, Edgar Allan, 3, 4, 6, 93;
MS. of “Annabel Lee,” 164, 166, 167;
letters, 168, 170;
MS. page of “Epimanes,” 169;
advancing value of, 181.
Poitiers, Diane de, 57, 58.
_Political State of Europe, The_, 20.
Pollard, Alfred W., 245, 255.
Polock, Moses, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 17, 18, 19, 35, 36, 37, 104,
105, 181-184, 264, 265, 266.
Poor, Henry W., 79.
_Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson_ (Shelley), 55.
_Primer Improved_, 199.
_Pretty Book for Children, A_, 203.
_Prize for Youthful Obedience, The_, 206.
_Proceedings of the Convention_, 1775, Washington’s copy of, 288.
_Prodigal Daughter, or a strange and wonderful relation_, etc., 202.
_Progressive Primer_, 199.
_Prologue_ (Johnson) for opening Drury Lane Theatre, 14.
_Prophecies That Remain To Be Fulfilled_ (Winchester), 20.
_Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pensilvania_,
196, 197.
_Prose Romances_ (Poe), 93, 95.
Psalter of Fust and Schöffer, 217.
Ptolemy’s _Geography_, 58.
_Pudd’nhead Wilson_, 164.
_Pug’s Visit to Mr. Punch_, 209.
Putnam, Herbert, 246.
Quaritch, Alfred, 63, 64, 84, 85, 218, 238.
Quaritch, Bernard, 99.
_Queen Mab_, 40, 42.
Quentel, Peter, 235, 236.
Quinn sale (1924), 143.
Record Office, London Public, 146, 259.
Redgrave, G. R., 255.
Reed, John Watson, 89.
_Relation or Journal of the Beginning and Proceedings of the English
Plantation settled at Plimouth in New England_ (Mourt), 282.
Republican Party, Lincoln’s MS. speech about formation of, 291, 292.
Revere, Paul, 287.
_Reynard the Fox_, 11.
Ricci, Seymour de, 174.
Richelieu, Cardinal (Armand Jean du Plessia), 21, 22, 23.
Richmond, George H., and Company, 81.
Rio de Janeiro, national library at, 221.
Robertson, William, 20.
_Robinson Crusoe_, 59, 60.
Rodney, Cæsar, 288.
Rosenbach, A. S. W., purchase of a Washington letter, 10, 11;
_Reynard the Fox_, 11, 12;
Gray’s _Odes_, 13, 14;
Johnson’s Drury Lane _Prologue_, 14, 15;
Gutenberg Bible, 17;
inheritance from Moses Polock, 19;
books from Washington’s library, 20;
first edition _Adonais_, 25;
_Moby Dick_, 26, 27;
Shakespeare first folio, 27;
_The Book of Hunting and Hawking_, 30;
_Pilgrim’s Progress_, 31, 32, 33;
Keats’s copy of Shakespeare, 40;
Shelley’s own copy of _Queen Mab_, 40;
Baxter’s _Call to the Unconverted_ in Indian language, 43;
letter of Dr. Johnson to Garrick, 48, 49;
second edition _Venus and Adonis_, 53;
signature of Button Gwinnett, 53, 54;
letter of Amerigo Vespucci, 55, 56;
commonplace book of Giorgio Vespucci, 56, 57;
first edition _Robinson Crusoe_, 59, 60, 61;
book from Lamb’s library, 61;
Bradford’s _First Laws of New York_, 64;
first book printed in New York, 65;
Franklin’s first draft of his own epitaph, 66, 67;
Missal of Gabrielle d’Estrées, 68, 70, 71, 72, 74;
MS. of Handel’s
“Messiah,” 69;
MS. of Wagner’s “Die Meistersinger,” 73;
Lope de Vega’s _Carlos V_, 77;
first volume of verse printed in North America, 77, 78, 79;
_Unpublishable Memoirs_, 82;
first folio Shakespeare, 84, 85;
the Holford first folio, 86;
four folios from the Perry sale, 87;
volume of nine Shakespeare plays, 88;
Poe’s _Prose Romances_, 93;
MS. sonnet by Oscar Wilde on sale of Keats’s love letters, 94;
letter of Keats to Fanny Brawne, 95, 96, 97;
autograph letter of Cervantes, 100, 101, 102;
letter written by George Washington, 106, 107;
illustrated MS. letter of Thackeray, 110;
MS. of Wilde’s _Salomé_, 112, 113, 114, 116;
MS. dedication of Wilde’s _Sphinx_, 115;
forgery of a Shakespeare MS. by Ireland, 123;
Ireland’s confession, 128;
autograph letter of Franklin, 135;
Franklin’s work book of his press, 138, 139;
MSS. of Bernard Shaw, 142, 143;
MS. of Conrad’s _Victory_, 143, 144;
of _Lord Jim_, 145;
Shakespeare’s _Troylus and Cresseida_, 147;
presentation copy, first edition of _The Faerie Queene_, 148, 149,
150;
book given by Spenser to Gabriel Harvey, 149;
MS. of Walt Whitman’s “By Emerson’s Grave,” 152, 153, 154;
Dickens’s letter about beginning _Pickwick_, 155, 157;
MS. pages of _Pickwick_, 156, 157;
Dickens’s note in verse, 158, 159;
his last written letter, 160;
MS. poems of Burns, 161, 162, 163, 164;
MSS. of Mark Twain, 164, 165;
Poe’s “Annabel Lee” and “Epimanes,” 166, 167, 168, 169, 170;
MS. page of Joyce’s _Ulysses_, 171;
letter of Benedict Arnold, 172, 173, 174;
MS. page of the _Rubáiyát_, 175;
contemporary certified copies Declaration of Independence and
Articles of Confederation (U.S.), 176, 177;
MS. title page of Hawthorne’s _Wonder Book_, 180;
collection of old-fashioned books for children, 182-209;
Gutenberg Bibles, 212, 213, 218, 219, 220;
Pfister (Bamberg) Bible, 220, 221;
the 1462 Bible (Mainz), 221;
MS. Bible of eleventh century, 222;
Gospels of ninth century, 223, 224;
French illustrated Bible of fourteenth century, 224;
early English Bible pictures, 224, 225;
ancient block books, 227, 228;
Jenson Bible (1479), 231;
Caxton books, 232, 233;
annotated He Bible (1611), 239;
_Jack Juggler_ (1555), 247;
MS. of White’s _Selborne_, 251;
MSS. of Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate, and Occleve, 252;
the Battle Abbey Cartularies, 257, 258;
letter of Beau Brummell, 258;
MS. of Arnold Bennett, 262;
a tea-ship broadside, 266;
old Spanish MS. concerning Cortés, signed by Charles V, 268, 269;
Columbus letter (1493), German edition, 271, 272;
the King-Hamy chart, 273;
charts used by Cortés and Pizarro, 274, 275;
tailor’s bill to De Soto, 276;
first work of Captain John Smith, 277, 278;
Washington’s autographed copy of _Proceedings of the Convention_
(Richmond, 1775), 285;
signature of Button Gwinnett, 286;
pass for Paul Revere, signed by Joseph Warren, 287, 288;
Cæsar Rodney letter about signing of the Declaration, 288;
Lincoln letters, 290;
first draft of Emancipation Proclamation, 291;
Lincoln’s Baltimore address, 291;
his speech on formation of Republican Party, 291, 292;
his letter about the flag, 292;
Walker letters about Confederate flag, 292, 293;
notebook describing Lincoln’s death, 294;
Lee’s resignation of commission in U. S. Army, 294, 295;
letter to Beauregard; after the surrender, 295, 296;
letter of Grant to his father, 297;
telegram of Grant to Stanton, announcing Lee’s surrender, 298, 299.
Rosenbach, Philip H., 85, 112, 172, 176, 177, 268, 269.
Rosenbach, Rebecca, 183, 184.
Rosier, James, 277.
Rowley, Thomas (Chatterton), 129, 130.
Roxburghe, Duke of, 89, 90, 248.
_Royal Battledoor, The_, 203.
_Royal Primer_, 198, 199.
_Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, The_, 175.
_Rule of the New-Creature. To be
Practiced every day in all the Particulars of which are Ten_, 188.
Rutland, Duke of, 259.
Rylands (John) Memorial Library, 229, 245, 263.
Santangel, Luis de, Columbus
letters to, 270, 271, 272.
Sassoon, David, 224.
_Sauvages, Des_ (Champlain, 1603), 66.
Savonarola, Girolamo, 229.
_Scarlet Letter, The_ (quoted), 281.
Schelling, Felix E., 259.
Schöffer, Peter, 216, 217, 221, 236.
_School of Good Manners Composed for the Help of Parents_, etc., 201.
Schoolmaster Printer, the, 30.
Scolenberg, Baron von, 177.
_Scotch Rogue, The_, 206.
Scott, Sir Walter (quoted), 252.
Scott, Gen. Winfield, Lee’s letter to, resigning commission, 294, 295.
_Search after Happiness, The_, 206.
_Second Part of the Tragedy of Amboyna_, 282.
Sedgwick, Theodore, 54.
Shakespeare, first folio, 27, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88;
second folio, 35;
Keats’s copy of, 40;
_Venus and Adonis_, 51, 52;
_The Passionate Pilgrim_, 52;
_Poems_, 87;
history of folios, 87, 88, 89;
Jonson’s verses in, 88, 89;
early sales of, 89;
forged MSS. of, 122-128;
_Vortigern and Rowena_ (forged), 127, 128;
_Troylus and Cresseida_, 147;
editorial comment on his MSS., 151, 152;
Trowbridge set of the four folios, 219;
earliest American purchase of a first folio, 244;
_Hamlet_, second edition, 255, 256;
_The Tempest_, 265.
Shapira, ----, 225, 226.
Shaw, George Bernard, 142, 143.
Shelley, _Adonais_, 25;
_Queen Mab_, 40, 42;
personal correspondence, 42;
notes, 42;
_Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson_, 55;
advancing value of, 181.
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 128.
_Ship of Fools, The_, 22.
_Short-Title Catalogue of Books Printed in England, Scotland, and
Ireland, 1475-1640_, 255.
_Singularitez de la France Antartique, autrement nommée Amérique_, 58.
Skinner, Abraham, Washington letter to, 9, 10.
Smith, George D., 52, 83, 198, 199.
Smith, Harry B., 40, 155.
Smith, John, 267, 277, 278, 279, 280.
_Some Excellent Verses for the Education of Youth_, 200.
Somerset House, 146.
Sorbonne, library of the, and Richelieu collection, 23.
Sotheby sales, 31, 32, 33, 52, 84, 85, 87, 89, 90, 91.
Soto, Hermando de, 276.
Spanish National Library, 100.
Spencer, Earl, 90, 91, 245, 248, 263.
Spenser, Edmund, 148-151.
_Sphinx, The_ (Wilde), dedication of, 115.
_Spiritual Milk for Boston Babes. In either England: Drawn out of the
breasts of both Testaments_, etc. (1684), 188, 189.
Spitzer chart, 275.
Spring, Robert, 105, 106.
Stanton, Edwin M., 298, 299.
Stevens, Henry, 243, 244.
_Story of a Whistle, The_, 196.
Strawberry Hill Press, the, 13.
Streeter, Thomas E., 200.
Stuart, John T., 290.
Sussex, Duke of, 248.
Swann, Mrs. Arthur W., 54.
Sweynheym and Pannartz, 231.
Sykes, Sir Mark, 248.
Taft, C. S., 294.
Tea-ship broadside, 266.
_Tempest, The_, 265.
Thackeray, William M., forged notes of, 109, 111;
genuine MS. of, 110.
Thomas, Isaiah, 202.
Thomas à Becket, 232.
Thou, Jacques Auguste de, 21, 24.
_Token for Children, being an exact Account of the Conversion, Holy
and Exemplary Lives and Joyous Deaths of Several Young Children_
(1749), 189, 190.
_Token for the Children of New England or some Examples of Children,
in whom the Fear of God was remarkably budding before they died_,
etc., 190, 191.
_Tom Jones_, 36, 204.
_Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of_, 187.
_Tom Sawyer Abroad_, 164, 165.
Tower of London, architect of the, 222.
Travers, Clayton L., 191, 192.
_Treasure Island_, 122, 187.
_Treaties, Collections of_ (Jenkinson), 20.
_Troylus and Cresseida_, title page (1609), 147.
_True Relation of such Occurrences and Accidents of Noate as hath
hapned in Virginia_ (Smith), 277.
_True Relation of the most prosperous Voyage made this present year
1605 in the Discovery of the Land of Virginia, A_ (Rosier), 277.
Tunstall, Bishop Cuthbert, 234, 235.
Tyndale, William, 234, 235, 236.
_Ulysses_ (Joyce), MS. page of, 171.
_Unpublishable Memoirs_, 82.
_Utopia_ (More), 60, 61.
Van Antwerp, William C., 84.
Vatican library, 221.
Vega, Lope Felix de, 77.
_Venus and Adonis_, 51, 52, 53.
_Verses for Little Children, by a Friend_, 200.
Vespucci, Amerigo, letter of, 55, 56, 57.
Vespucci, Giorgio Antonio, 56, 57.
_Victory_ (Conrad), MS. page of, 144.
_Virginia Journal_, 19.
_Virtuous William_, 187.
Voyages, De Bry’s, 275.
Wagner, Wilhelm Richard, MS. of, 73.
Waldseemüller, Martin, 273.
Walker, Gen. Leroy P., 292, 293.
Walker, Matilda Pope, 293.
Wallace, Sir Richard, 248.
Walpole, Horace, 13, 14, 130.
Walton, Izaak, 30.
Warner, Benjamin, 5.
Warren, Gen. Joseph, 287.
Washington, George, letters of, 9, 10, 11;
locket with hair of, 15, 16;
books from library of, 19, 20;
MS. of, 106, 107;
forged correspondence of, 108;
autographed copy of _Proceedings of the Convention_
(Richmond, 1775), 285.
Washington, Martha, 20, 21;
letter written by G. W. for, 106, 107.
Webster, Noah, 6, 206.
_Wehkomaonganoo Asquam Peantogig_, 43, 79.
_West Indian Voyage_ (Drake), 275.
_When We Were Very Young_, 28.
White, Gilbert, MS. of, 251.
White, William A., 33, 157, 253.
Whitman, Walt, MS. of “By Emerson’s Grave,” 152, 153, 154.
_Who Killed Cock Robin_, 209.
Widekind, King, Gospels of, 223, 224.
Widener, Harry Elkins, 45, 46, 66, 85.
Widener, Joseph, 87, 218.
Widener Library (Harvard), 45, 46, 66, 85.
Widener, P. A. B., 45, 80, 218.
Wilde, Oscar, original and forged MSS. of, 94, 112;
_Salomé_, 112, 113, 114, 116;
dedication of _The Sphinx_ to Mrs. Campbell, 115.
_William Penn’s Conversion from a Gentleman to a Quaker_, 282, 283.
William the Conqueror, 222, 257.
Windsor Castle library, 217.
_Winnie-the-pooh_, 187.
Winship, George Parker, 288.
Winthrop, John (Governor), 185, 187, 281.
Wise, Thomas J., 42, 256.
Wolsey (Thomas), Cardinal, 234, 235.
Wood, William, 282.
Wrigley and Berriman, 206, 207.
Wroth, Lawrence C., 288.
Wynkyn de Worde, 62.
Yale University Library, 220.
Young, Owen D., 157.
_Zodyacke of Life, The_, 77.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.
Perceived typographical errors have been changed.
The index entry of p156 for Marlowe, Christopher, has been corrected
to p146.
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