The Book-Hunter at Home Part 9

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HALL OF THE KNIGHTS]

This particular form of irreverence, however, has been a byword throughout all the ages; civilisation and education have done little to check it, possibly because the romantic spirit which forbids such crimes is born, not made. King Arthur's bones were dug up in the twelfth century. 'Mummie is become Merchandise, Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharoah is sold for balsoms,' wrote Sir Thomas Browne five hundred years later.

In 1788 the ma.s.sive stone coffin which held the remains of our ill.u.s.trious King Alfred was discovered facing the High Altar at Hyde Abbey, Winchester, whither they had been translated in 1110. The coffin was broken in pieces, the bones found in it were scattered, and the lead enveloping the remains was sold by the workmen. A stone from the wrecked tomb, bearing the name aeLFRED, was carried off to c.u.mberland as a curio.

Hyde Abbey was razed to make way for a county Bridewell. 'At almost every stroke of the mattock,' relates an eye-witness, 'some antient sepulchre or other was violated.' Examples of such desecrations can be multiplied without number. The Great Alaric was wise indeed when he had the course of a river changed so that his bones, when lying at the bottom of it, might never be disturbed.

Our ancient laws dealt sternly with this matter. 'If any man shall dig up a body that has already been buried,' ruled Henry the First, 'he shall be WARGUS,' that is, banished from his district as a rogue. 'Malice provoketh not to dig up tombes and graves,' wrote an unknown Elizabethan scholar, commenting on this; 'and though it should, yet religion doth now restraine it, by reason it is counted sacriledge to violate anythinge in churches or churchyards. Covetousness made some to dig up the dead, because ornaments, jewels, or money, were in times past buried with many; but now that custome seasing, no man for desire of gaine is invited to commit this offence, and it now being generally reputed a most vile acte, no man will presume to transgresse these lawes, and every man is a law to himself therein.' But in this 'enlightened' age, when we are held to be above the need of such legislation, there is nothing to prevent the archaeologist from practising his hobby where and when he please--so long as he avoids the churchyards. 'Tush,' he cries, 'here lies an ancient heathen who was not even buried in consecrated ground. We may find some curious relics buried with him. Up with his bones.'

'Freedom for all men' may be a glorious motto, yet when we view these crimes (and the carved initials which deface so many of our most sacred monuments) we cannot but muse that there are many who should never be free--at least from the restraint of discipline. 'None can love freedom heartily, but good men: the rest love not freedom, but licence.'[43]

FOOTNOTES:

[32] There are 242 pages in this editio princeps, after which should come a leaf with (_a_) blank (_b_) device of John Hervey or Hervagius. It was english'd by Thomas Underdowne, and published in small octavo by Frauncis Coldocke, at the sign of the greene Dragon in Paules churchyeard, in 1587.

[33] "Il estoit bon musicien, tres-bon Poete Francois et Italien, se delectant singulierement a lire les belles et naifues rithmes de nos Poetes Prouencaux ... ... . tellement qu'il a compose en son temps plusieurs beaux et gracieux Romans comme _La conqueste de la douce mercy, et Le mortifiement de vaine plaisance_ ..... Mais sur toutes choses aimoit il d'un amour pa.s.sionnez la peinture ..... qu'il estoit en bruit et reputation entre les plus excellents Peintres et Enlumineurs de son temps." (Nostradamus). He had a fine library which contained all the most celebrated compositions of the Provencal poets and troubadours.

[34] It was quite a dramatic scene. Bertrand taunted the Prince until the latter named a sum; and to his surprise De Guesclin at once cried "Done!"

and all at the table sprang to their feet. "Oh Sir," they cried to the Prince, "what have you done!" "I hold you to your word," cried Du Guesclin--and so it was. See Hay du Chastelet, Claude Menard, and other biographers, also the Inventaire des Chartres, tome VI. (See also footnote on page 216.)

[35] This great romance does not appear ever to have been translated into English, which is somewhat strange, for its hero, Perceforest, was King of England, and we are told at the outset that the volume had an English origin. Philippe Comte de Hainault having accompanied Marguerite daughter of Philippe III. (_le hardi_) to England in order to be present at her nuptials with Edward I. (1299), the Count made an excursion to the north of England. Chancing to harbour at a monastery 'on the banks of the Humber,' he was shown an ancient ma.n.u.script which had been discovered in a vault under the ancient (? Saxon) part of the building. One of the monks had translated it into Latin. Philippe borrowed it and took it back with him to Hainault, where it was reduced into French. It is every whit as good as the Morte d'Arthur, and still awaits its Malory. The 1531 Paris edition consists of six folio volumes, the page in double columns of black letter type, with 53 lines to the column. The whole book contains rather more than six hundred thousand words. Here is a chance for some enthusiast! At the least he would learn patience, carefulness--and a deal of mediaeval French.

[36] O. Fr. _pierron_.

[37] That there is a distinct crack on its upper side, you may see from the photograph here reproduced.

[38] Sir J. Rhys, 'Studies in the Arthurian Legend,' Oxford, 1891, pp.

300-327.

[39] In the list of books at the Louvre belonging to Charles V. of France, drawn up by Gilles Malet, his librarian, in 1373, there is a volume 'Du roy Artus, de la Table Ronde, et de la Mort dudit roy, tres bien escript et enlumine.' It would be interesting to compare this ma.n.u.script (if it is still in existence) with Malory's work, and to see whether the incident of the _peron_ is described therein.

[40] _i.e._ the golden vessel, because of the samite (silken) covering.

[41] As the table is painted at present, 'S. Galahallt' is upon the King's immediate left.

[42] Of one of these enterprising antiquaries (a clergyman) it is proudly related that in the course of _three years_ "he opened no less than a hundred and six tumuli and graves, and obtained from them a large proportion of that valuable collection of antiquities now in possession of Mr. Meyer, of Liverpool." See _A Corner of Kent_, by J. R. Planche, 1864, page 115.

[43] Milton.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER V

THE CARE OF BOOKS

'Wher so ever y be come over all I belonge to the Chapell of gunvylle hall; He shal be cursed by the grate sentens That felonsly faryth and berith me thens.

And whether he bere me in pooke or sekke For me he shall be hanged by the nekke, (I am so well beknown of dyverse men) But I be restored theder agen.'

(_Written in a breviary in the Library of Gonville and Caius College._)

WHEREIN lies the charm of an old book? In its contents? Not altogether, for then would the reprint be just as acceptable; perhaps more so, for it would be possibly more legible, probably cleaner, certainly in a more convenient shape. In its scarcity, then? Partly, perhaps; yet not necessarily, for there are many 'old' books that are always eagerly bought up by collectors, though quite frequent in occurrence. Then wherein lies the old book's charm? It is chiefly in its appearance.

It is the spiritual appearance rather than the material aspect of a book, however, that draws the book-lover to it. To the true bibliophile there is an intangible _something_ about an old book which it is impossible to describe. That this feeling is closely akin to the impressive influence of antiquity there can be no doubt; for you may prove it by taking your book-lover successively to a modern free library and to a collection of ancient books, and noting carefully his expression in each. Though he be surrounded by thousands of volumes issued from the press during the last half-century, rich and luxurious works even, yet the probability is that he will be merely bored. But watch him as he stands before the thick oak shelves eagerly scrutinising the dim lettering on ancient calf and vellum back! See how his eye flashes as he takes down an ancient quarto, gently and reverently lest the headband be grown weak with age, and, carefully blowing the dust from its top edge, turns eagerly to t.i.tle-page and colophon!

And this feeling is not influenced by the surroundings which one is accustomed to a.s.sociate with old books. Whether they be in a cathedral or college library, in a bookshop or the most modern of cases, it is all one to your true collector. It is the books and the books only about which he cares. No sooner does he feel the ancient tome within his hands than his soul is borne rapidly away upon the wings of fancy, far far back into the dim ages, high above all worldly considerations; caring, understanding, feeling, in tune with the magic so wondrously locked up in this ancient volume, to which his love of books alone has provided the key.

It is no wonder that he is impressed, for the soul of the true book-collector is ever in communion with the _manes_ of those who gave birth to his books. He is brother to author, paper-maker, compositor, publisher, and binder, understanding all their hopes, doubts, and fears, in sympathy with all the thoughts that gave his volumes their shape, size, and appearance. Have you not often realised, brother collector, the _spirit_ that is hidden in every old book, the concentrated thoughts that have been materialised in giving it birth? Surely thoughts never die.

'Our thoughts are heard in heaven' wrote a neglected poet, and are not books 'sepulchres of thought'?

Happier is the book-collector than he who acquires ancient pieces of furniture, old vases, or pewter mugs. For, unlike the old book, these things can be reproduced in facsimile so that you may not tell the difference between old and new, and the reproduction may be stronger and more serviceable than the original. Moreover he is not troubled with qualms as to their genuineness, undergoing agonies of apprehension while each treasure--or otherwise--is submitted to the scrutiny of friends and experts.

There is a lasting charm about a book of our choice which the antique-collector can never hope to experience. His treasure may be grotesque or it may be beautiful, in either case it may please the eye every time that he behold it, through many years. But beyond pleasure to the eye and perhaps a smug complacency in its possession, there is nothing else. He knows it inside-out, as it were, within a few minutes of its acquisition. Very different, however, is the case with a book. After the attraction exercised by its ancient appearance, the exterior aspect is in reality but a secondary consideration, and when we have expressed ourselves as to whether it be a fine or a poor copy, we turn at once to its contents. The very wording of the t.i.tle-page gives us an inkling of the writer's character, places us upon his plane, and tunes our thoughts in harmony with his.

What book-lover does not sympathise with that great man Lenglet du Fresnoy? Perhaps few men have come so completely under the spell of books; for he devoted a long life entirely to consuming the fruits of the master minds that had gone before him. In spite of the gossip concerning him, not always to his credit, that has come down to us, it is undeniable that by sheer love and knowledge of books he piled up a monument that will ever keep his name in memory among bibliophiles for he is numbered with such giants as Hain, Brunet, and Lowndes. The 'Methode pour etudier l'Histoire' alone is sufficient to show his extraordinary knowledge of books; indeed, they were the very inspirers of his being and though his paths led him to high places, 'a pa.s.sion for study for ever crushed the worm of ambition.' Having spent the greater part of his eighty-two years among old books, it was a modern one which caused his end; for, slumbering over its dulness, he fell into the fire and was burned to death!

It is said of him that he refused all the conveniences offered by a rich sister, that he might not endure the restraint of a settled dinner-hour; preferring to browse undisturbed among his beloved tomes. His immense knowledge of ancient books is shown by the vast number of diverse works which he wrote and edited; but so forcible and controversial were his writings that he was sent to the Bastille some ten or twelve times. It is even related of him that he got to know the prison so well, that when Tapin (one of the guards who usually conducted him thither) entered his chamber, he did not wait to hear his commission but began himself by saying 'Ah! Bonjour, Monsieur Tapin,' then turning to the woman who waited on him, 'Allons vite, mon pet.i.t paquet, du linge et du tabac,' and went along gaily with M. Tapin to the Bastille. Verily the true bibliophile is not as other men, and a modern world looks upon him askance. Yet his portion is a happiness that riches cannot purchase, for his soul has found lasting comfort and contentment in a knowledge of the innermost recesses of human thought. There is no aspect or phase of the human mind with which he is unacquainted; and it is a knowledge that books alone can impart.

Yet our true book-lover is not of those whose very religion is the preservation of the pristine appearance of their books, who deem it sacrilege to destroy one jot of the contemporary leather in which their treasures are clothed: liking rather to glue, varnish, and patch, preferring even a grotesque effect rather than sacrifice an inch of decayed calf. Their point of view is wholly admirable: that the only form in which we are justified in possessing a book is that in which it was originally issued to the world: that the men who bestowed great thought in giving it birth, to wit, author and publisher, know better what is meet and seemly for it than can any man of a different age: that one man's choice is another man's abhorrence: and so on, and so on. Granted these things are so; but surely he who possesses the volume may have some say in its appearance, since it exists upon his shelf solely for his own delight and for no other man's?

'It is mine,' says Praktikos, 'may I not clothe it in the colours of the rainbow if it please me?'

'Then you are a vandal,' replies Phulax, 'for you will ruin your book, and it will not be worth ten s.h.i.+llings when it returns from the binder.'

And there's the rub: rebind your book and--in nine cases out of ten--_you will lower its market value_. Therefore, if the book-collector have any eye to the purely commercial value of his library, he will do well to become an 'original-boards-uncut' man at once. Handsome his library will never be, for here there will be a whole set of paper-bound volumes lacking backs, here a folio strangely patched and mended, there a book in rather dirty vellum somewhat c.o.c.kled by damp, and so on. But he will have the satisfaction of knowing that his volumes retain, in their appearance at least, something of the spirit of the time in which they first saw light. Perhaps they will create for him the more easily that stimulating yet peaceful atmosphere imparted by a collection of old books.

Is there not, then, any alternative to preserving one's volumes in a disreputable condition? a.s.suredly there is--there are two alternatives.

Either the collector will be so wise (and, incidentally, so wealthy) as never to purchase a dilapidated book, or else he must exercise great common sense and much good taste, putting fancy entirely to one side.

You possess a copy of Cotton's translation of the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc, folio 1674. It is a good, clean, tall copy, but clothed in tattered contemporary brown calf. Half of the back is missing, two of the corners are badly broken, and a piece of the leather upon the under cover is torn off. Perchance you elect to send it to your binder, with strict instructions that it is to be repaired with plain calf. In due course the volume is returned to you, and it now presents a fearful and marvellous appearance. It is the proud possessor of a new back, nearly but not quite matching the sides in colour, and upon this the remaining upper half of the original back has been pasted. The corners bulge strangely, and you can discern new leather underneath the old and wherever the old was deficient. The sides s.h.i.+ne with polis.h.i.+ng, and a patch--again not quite matching the original, for it is next to impossible to do this--has been inserted on the under cover. The whole volume s.h.i.+nes unnaturally, and has rather a piebald appearance. In short, it reminds one of Bardolph's face--'all bubukles and whelks and k.n.o.bs.'

But perchance you possess another copy in precisely the same condition inside and out, and this you have decided must be rebound. It goes to your binder, always with your very definite instructions, and in due course returns, modestly attired in morocco of, let us say, a dark sage-green hue. On each side there is a plain double panel, 'blind'

tooled; the back is simply lettered

BLAIZE DE MONTLUC

and there are 'blind' lines at the sides of each band; but, beyond the lettering, there is no gilding whatever on the back. The edges have not been trimmed, much less cut, but have been left precisely as they were originally.

Suppose now for an instant that you do _not_ possess either copy, but that both are offered to you by a bookseller at precisely the same price.

What will be your feelings as you handle the repaired copy? It is more than probable that you will sigh '_Poor thing_' as you open it gently for fear of cracking the old piece pasted on to the back. But, '_What a nice clean copy_' you will say as you take up the other; and it is improbable that you will hesitate long in making choice.

The repairing of moderately old bindings is an excellent thing so long as it is not carried to extremes. Obviously there are many cases where it would be sheer foolishness to rebind the volume, slight repairs _at the hands of an experienced binder_ being all that is necessary to enable the book to be described as a _fine, tall, clean copy, in the original binding, neatly repaired_. And this is where one's carefully considered judgment and good taste must be exercised.

But advice is easier to give than to follow. If our purse be a slender one, it is next to impossible to confine our purchases to perfect copies in choice condition. And so it is unavoidable that a certain number of our volumes should be in a more or less dilapidated state. A book that we have long sought for crops up; it is a perfect copy, more or less clean inside, but in a sad state of decay as regards the binding. On this account it is offered to us at one-half the price which a sound copy would fetch, perhaps even less. Of course we buy it, and many others like it; so that at length we are faced with the choice between a formidable binder's bill and the alternative of harbouring a collection of wrecks.

This temptation to acquire imperfect books and poor copies is a most insidious one, and few collectors can withstand it altogether. Andrew Lang, than whom there was never a more genuine book-lover, seems to have been as susceptible as most of us. 'I believe no man,' he writes in 'Books and Bookmen,' 'has a library so rich in imperfect works as the author of these pages.' Yet although the purchasing of a volume in a state of decay (externally, that is) is sometimes unavoidable, it should be every collector's endeavour, however modest his means, to avoid buying dilapidated books. If a book be at all frequent in occurrence it is far better to bide our time until a better copy turns up, even though we may have to pay a few s.h.i.+llings more for it, than to rest content with the possession of a sorry example in which we can take no pride, and one that will never be worth a penny more than we gave for it until it has pa.s.sed through the binder's hands. Remember also that although the choicest binder in Europe may lavish his art upon our volume, yet a taller and cleaner copy _in the original, or contemporary, binding_, and in perfect condition, will ever command a better price in the sale-room. Our choice in binding--however appropriate to the book--may not be the choice of him who next possesses the volume.