The Book-Hunter at Home Part 1

The Book-Hunter at Home.

by P. B. M. Allan.

PREFACE

In placing this second edition before his fellow book-lovers, the author would like to take the opportunity of thanking the numerous correspondents who have written to him from all parts of the world. In truth book-collecting establishes a bond between its devotees that is effected by no other pursuit.

The first edition was put forth only after much hesitation, and with a good deal of fear and trembling: that a second edition would ever be required was unthinkable. But since the book has so obviously been the means of bringing pleasure to so many, the author feels that it is his duty to bring this second edition 'up to date,' to make it as perfect as his poor skill allows.

Accordingly the volume has been revised throughout, a number of additions have been made, both to the text and in the matter of footnotes, and the prices of books have been amended according to present conditions. Three ill.u.s.trations have been added.

QUALITY COURT, July, 1921.

CHAPTER I

ADVENTURES AMONG BOOKS

'Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne.'

CHAUCER.

IT is a sad truth that bargains are met with more frequently in our youth than in our age. The sophist may argue that age begets philosophy, and that philosophy contemns all worldly things; yet certain it is that the book-hunter, one of the most philosophical of beings, remains on the look-out for bargains to the very end of his career. Nevertheless, it is a fact that in youth alone do we make those great bargains which lay the foundations of our careers as book-hunters.

It is this sad truth which fosters in most of us the belief that we live in a decadent age, and that the days of our youth were infinitely more seemly than those which we now endure. But it is we who have changed: the bargains are still there, and may still be had at the cost of youthful energy and enthusiasm.

'Ah, but you can't get the bargains nowadays that you could when I was a young man,' says the elderly bookseller, with a knowing shake of his head. Can't you! Then mankind must have changed strangely since the period of this sage's youth. Bargains, and rich ones too, in everything that is bought and sold, are made every day and will continue to be made so long as human nature endures, bargains in books no less among them.

The rich finds of which the aged bookseller dreams are bargains only in the light of present-day prices. As a matter of fact, the great majority of them were not really bargains at all. He may bitterly lament having parted with a copy of the first edition of the 'Compleat Angler,' in the 'sixties for twenty guineas, but he overlooks the fact that that was then its market value. Had he asked a thousand pounds for it, his sanity would certainly have been open to question. 'Why, when I was a boy,' he says, 'you could buy first editions of Sh.e.l.ley, Keats, or Scott for pence.'

Precisely: which was their current value; by no stretch of the imagination can they be considered bargains. His business is, and has always been, to buy and sell; not to h.o.a.rd books on the chance that they will become valuable 'some day.' Neither can it be urged that 'people'

(by which he means collectors) 'did not know so much about books fifty years ago.' Collectors know, and have ever known, all that they need for the acquisition of their particular _desiderata_. If they were ignorant of the prices which volumes common in their day would realise at some future period, why, so were the dealers and every one else concerned!

Judging by a.n.a.logy, we have every reason to believe that many volumes which we come across almost daily on the bookstalls, marked, perhaps, a few pence, will be fought for one day across the auction-room table.

The chief reason why the elderly bookseller no longer comes across these advantageous purchases is that he has pa.s.sed the age (though he does not know it) at which bargains are to be had. But bargains are not encountered, they are made. It is the youthful vigour and enthusiasm of the young collector, prompting him into the byways and alleys of book-land, that bring bargains to his shelves.

So, if you are young and enthusiastic, and not to be deterred by a series of wild-goose chases, happy indeed will be your lot. For over the post-prandial pipe you will be able to hand such and such a treasure to your admiring fellow-spirit, saying: 'This I picked up for _n_-pence in Camden Town; this one cost me _x_-s.h.i.+llings at Poynder's in Reading: Iredale of Torquay let me have this for a florin; I found this on the floor in a corner of Commin's shop at Bournemouth; this was on David's stall at Cambridge, and I nearly lost it to the fat don of King's'; and so on and so on.

Bargains, forsooth! Our book-hunter was once outbid at Sotheby's for a scarce volume which he found, a week later, on a barrow in Clerkenwell for fourpence! The same year he picked up for ten s.h.i.+llings, in London, an early sixteenth-century folio, rubricated and with illuminated initials. It was as fresh as when it issued from the press, and in the original oak and pig-skin binding. He failed to trace the work in any of the bibliographies, nor could the British Museum help him to locate another copy. David's stall at Cambridge once yielded to him a scarce Defoe tract for sixpence. But this being, as Master Pepys said, 'an idle rogueish book,' he sold it to a bookseller for two pounds, 'that it might not stand in the list of books, nor among them, to disgrace them, if it should be found.' A copy has recently fetched twenty guineas.

Doubtless every bibliophile is perpetually on the look-out for treasures, and it is essential that he learn, early in his career, to make up his mind at once concerning an out-of-the-way book. He who hesitates is lost, and this is doubly true of the book-collector. More than once in his early days of collecting has our book-hunter hesitated and finally left a book, only to dash back--perhaps a few hours later, perhaps next day--and find it gone.

Once upon a time a spotlessly clean little square octavo volume of Terence, printed in italics, caught his eye upon a bookstall. One s.h.i.+lling was its ransom, but it was not the price that deterred him so much as the fact that every available nook and corner of his sanctum was already filled to overflowing with books. 'A nice clean copy of an early-printed book,' he mused. But early-printed books were not in his line--then; had they been in those early days of book-hunting, his library would have been slow indeed of growth. So he pa.s.sed on and left it.

All that evening the memory of the little square volume would keep recurring most absurdly. He didn't want it, it was not in his line, he would never read it, and so on and so on. But over his pipe that evening the colophon '... . _studio & impensis Philippi de Giunta florentini ..., 1505_,' came back to his memory; he must have been mad not to have bought it at that price, and such a fine copy too. And so to bed, sorely hara.s.sed in his bibliophilic mind.

Next morning he awoke sane and conscious of his folly. An early visit to the bookstall followed, but the little volume had gone; and it was not comforting to learn that it had been sold shortly after our bookman saw it, to a man who 'knew a lot about that kind of books.' Let us hope that the purchaser treasures the little square volume, printed in italics, as much as our friend would.

What poignant memories they are, these memories of rare books which we have found and failed to secure! Two prominent instances of our bookman's folly stand out with bitter clearness, ever fresh in his memory as a reminder of the criminal stupidity of procrastination. One was an exceedingly scarce work by Lawrence Humphrey, ent.i.tled 'Optimates sive De n.o.bilitate eiusque Antiqua Origine,' printed in small octavo at Basle in 1560, which he once saw in a catalogue for five s.h.i.+llings. He sent for it three days after the receipt of the catalogue, and of course it had gone.

The other was an unknown, or at least undescribed, edition of Osorio's 'De Gloria et n.o.bilitate,' printed at Barcelona in the early part of the sixteenth century. He lost this in the same manner, at two s.h.i.+llings!

Perhaps, however, you too have been guilty of these lapses, reader?

_Semel insanivimus omnes._ Experience is better than advice, and for his part our book-hunter will not be caught napping again. The following incident will show you, moreover, that it is not always safe to order books from a catalogue even by return of post.

For many years he had searched in vain for that rarest of all English heraldry books (though not properly English, for it is in the Latin tongue), the 'De Studio Militari, Libri Quatuor' of Master Nicholas Upton. It was edited by Sir Edward Bysshe, and printed in folio at London in 1654. The numerous booksellers in London and the country from whom he sought it had never seen it; indeed, most of them were unaware of its existence, though it is well known to all heralds.

At length, coming home late one night, our book-hunter found on his table a catalogue from a bookseller who seems to garner more out-of-the-way books than any of his fellows. His catalogues are issued very frequently, for he has a large and quick sale, pricing most of his wares at less than five s.h.i.+llings. Moreover, the fact that the books described therein are thrown together without any attempt at cla.s.sification, even alphabetical, serves but to add a zest to the repast. But our book-hunter was tired, and his evil star was in the ascendant, for he went to bed leaving the catalogue unopened.

Reading it over a late breakfast next morning, upon the last page he came across the following entry:--

Uptoni (Nich.) De Studio Militari. Johan de Bado Aureo, Tractatus de Armis. Henrici Spelmanni Aspilogia. Folio, calf. _Scarce._ 8s.

6d.

Scarce, indeed! In less than five minutes he was driving hot-haste to the shop.

Of course it was sold: sold by _telegram dispatched the night before_. He was allowed to see it, even to handle it, and he frankly confesses that murderous thoughts rose within him as he held it in his hands... . The bookseller was an old man ... the shop was very dark ... just a push, and perhaps one firm application _super caput_ of a large-paper copy of Camden's 'Britannia' which lay handy upon the table... . But I am glad to say that our bookman's better nature prevailed, and sorrowfully he returned the volume to the dealer's hands. Did he know the customer, and if so would he try to buy it back? Certainly he would. A week later came a letter saying that the customer was also a collector of these things, but that he was willing to part with it 'at a price.' Unfortunately his price was not our book-hunter's, and he failed to secure the treasure--then.

Now comes the more pleasant sequel. About a year later, coming home in the small hours from a dance, our bookman found a catalogue from this same bookseller on his table. Although tired out, his previous bitter experience had taught him a lesson; so pulling up a chair before the remains of the fire he proceeded to skim through the catalogue. He had reached the last page, and was already beginning to nod, when suddenly his weariness vanished in a flash: he was wide awake and on his feet in an instant, for his eyes had met the same entry that had thrilled him a year ago. This time it was described as 'very scarce,' and the price was considerably enhanced; but he had his coat on and was in the street almost immediately.

The nearest telegraph office likely to be open at such an hour was a mile away, and it was a miserable night, snowing and blowing; but no weather would have deterred him. So the telegram was safely dispatched, and he returned to bed, pinning a notice on the bedroom door to the effect that he was to be called, without fail, at seven o'clock.

That night he was obsessed by Uptons of all shapes and sizes. Some he beheld with agony, cut down by the ruthless binder to duodecimo size; others there were no larger than Pickering's Diamond Cla.s.sics; some (on his chest) were of a size which I can only describe as 'Atlas,' or, perhaps more appropriately, 'Elephant Folio,' large-paper copies with hideous margins.

Next morning our bookman was at the shop betimes. Yes! his wire had arrived; Upton was his at last! Should the dealer send it for him by carrier? Carrier, forsooth! As well entrust the Koh-i-noor to a messenger boy. Of course it was the same copy that our friend had missed previously, the owner having sold his books _en bloc_ in the meantime.

Why Upton is so scarce it is hard to say; perhaps very few copies were printed, or perhaps a fire at the printer's destroyed most of them.

Certain it is that the premises of James Allestry and Roger Norton, who published the book, were both burnt in the great fire twelve years after its publication. Besides the two copies in the British Museum, there are examples of it in several of the ancient libraries throughout the kingdom; but it is very rarely indeed to be met with in the London salerooms.[1] Dallaway mentions two copies as being, in 1793, in the library of Lord Carlisle at Naworth; and probably there are examples in some of the libraries of our older n.o.bility. There would seem to be copies, also, in France; for several writers upon chivalry, such as La Roque and Sainte Marie, make mention of it. The writer bought a portion of it, some forty-eight pages, a few years ago for four s.h.i.+llings. But take heart, brother bibliophile; it is quite possible that you may unearth a copy some day--if indeed the book be in your line--long buried in the dust of some old country bookshop.

Upton died in 1457, and his work was so popular that numerous copies of the ma.n.u.script were made. The treatise on coat-armour, or 'cootarmuris,'

as it is quaintly spelt, which comprises the third part of the 'Book of Saint Albans' (first printed in 1486), is, for the greater part, a literal translation of the second half of the fourth book of the 'De Studio Militari' as printed by Bysshe. Ames, in his 'Typographical Antiquities,' a.s.serts that Upton's work was reprinted from the St.

Albans book in folio, 1496, 'with the King's Arms and Caxton's mark printed in red ink.' But he gives no authority for his a.s.sertion, and it seems doubtful whether such a volume ever existed. At all events there does not appear to be any trace of such a book beyond this mention, and Herbert, editing Ames, omitted the whole pa.s.sage. Hain,[2] probably copying Ames, calls this supposit.i.tious work 'De Re Heraldica,' and states that it was printed at Westminster in 1496 'Anglice.' So much for worthy Master Nicholas, Canon of Salisbury and protege of the 'good duke Humfrey.'

There is a curious phenomenon of not infrequent occurrence among book-collectors, and that is the enforced acquisition of certain volumes solely by means of the pa.s.sive persuasion of their presence. In other words, it is possible to bully the bibliophile into purchasing a book merely by obtruding it continually before his gaze, till at length its very presence becomes a source of annoyance to him. To escape from this incubus he purchases the volume.

In nine cases out of ten, books so acquired never attain the same status as their fellow-volumes. They are invariably a.s.signed either to the lowest or topmost shelves of the library, and are, in fact, pariahs.

Their owner did not really want them, and he can never quite forgive their presence on his shelves. Generally their stay in any one home is not a long one, for they are weeded out at the first opportunity, and find no permanent rest until they come finally to that ultimate goal of books, the paper mills. I confess that in my early days of collecting this phenomenon was of not infrequent occurrence, being a.s.sociated, probably, with the indecision of youth. And in this connection a bookseller once told me an interesting story.

A certain young man of the working cla.s.s, on his way to work every day, used to pa.s.s a bookstall situated in a narrow alley. Every day he glanced at the books, and as custom was scanty he would notice what books were sold and with what works the bookseller filled the empty places on the shelves. In this way all of the books which the young man had first noticed gradually disappeared, with one exception. This was a volume bound in calf, containing some rather curious poems, and no one seemed to want it. At length, after some weeks, the young man could stand it no longer. He approached the bookseller, and for sixpence the volume became his.

The verses seemed to him rather poor, though one ent.i.tled 'Hans Carvel'

amused him rather. The t.i.tle-page bore the date 1707, and he wondered who was the 'E. Curll at the Peac.o.c.k without Temple-Bar,' for whom the work was printed. Some time afterwards he read in the newspaper that a certain book had been sold for a large sum because of a misprint in it. This set him wondering ... 'at the Peac.o.c.k _without_ Temple-Bar ...'

Temple-Bar without a peac.o.c.k he could imagine: surely this was a misprint! Perhaps the book was valuable, and others had not 'spotted' the error!

And now he bethought him of an acquaintance who kept a bookshop in the West End of the town, a man who knew a lot about old books. He would take it to him and ask his advice. So, one Sat.u.r.day afternoon he carried his 'treasure' to the shop in question. Inside, an elderly man was examining a calf-bound volume.

'... the first authentic edition, seventeen hundred and nine,' he was saying.

The young man glanced at the volume under discussion, and as a page was turned he caught sight of the heading 'Hans Carvel.' Good gracious; this volume was the same as his! Just then the elderly man looked up, and the young fellow handed his volume to the bookseller, saying: 'Here's another one, same as that, but mine's got something wrong on the front page.'