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THE LIBRARY1

THE LIBRARY

By Andrew Lang

THE LIBRARY2

PREFATORY NOTE

The pages in this volume on illuminated and other MSS. (with the

exception of some anecdotes about Bussy Rabutin and Julie de

Rambouillet) have been contributed by the Rev. W. J. Loftie, who has also

written on early printed books (pp. 94-95). The pages on the Biblioklept

(pp. 46-56) are reprinted, with the Editor's kind permission, from the

Saturday Review; and a few remarks on the moral lessons of bookstalls

are taken from an essay in the same journal.

Mr. Ingram Bywater, Fellow of Exeter College, and lately sub-

Librarian of the Bodleian, has very kindly read through the proofs of

chapters I., II., and III., and suggested some alterations.

Thanks are also due to Mr. T. R. Buchanan, Fellow of All Souls

College, for two plates from his "Book-bindings in All Souls Library"

(printed for private circulation), which he has been good enough to lend

me. The plates are beautifully drawn and coloured by Dr. J. J. Wild.

Messrs. George Bell & Sons, Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew, & Co., and

Messrs. Chatto & Windus, must be thanked for the use of some of the

woodcuts which illustrate the concluding chapter. A. L.

THE LIBRARY3

AN APOLOGY FOR THE BOOK-

HUNTER

"All men," says Dr. Dibdin, "like to be their own librarians." A writer

on the library has no business to lay down the law as to the books that

even the most inexperienced amateurs should try to collect. There are

books which no lover of literature can afford to be without; classics,

ancient and modern, on which the world has pronounced its verdict.

These works, in whatever shape we may be able to possess them, are the

necessary foundations of even the smallest collections. Homer, Dante

and Milton Shakespeare and Sophocles, Aristophanes and Moliere,

Thucydides, Tacitus, and Gibbon, Swift and Scott,--these every lover of

letters will desire to possess in the original languages or in translations.

The list of such classics is short indeed, and when we go beyond it, the

tastes of men begin to differ very widely. An assortment of broadsheet

ballads and scrap-books, bought in boyhood, was the nucleus of Scott's

library, rich in the works of poets and magicians, of alchemists, and

anecdotists. A childish liking for coloured prints of stage characters, may

be the germ of a theatrical collection like those of Douce, and Malone, and

Cousin. People who are studying any past period of human history, or

any old phase or expression of human genius, will eagerly collect little

contemporary volumes which seem trash to other amateurs. For example,

to a student of Moliere, it is a happy chance to come across "La Carte du

Royaume des Pretieuses"--(The map of the kingdom of the "Precieuses")--

written the year before the comedian brought out his famous play "Les

Precieuses Ridicules." This geographical tract appeared in the very

"Recueil des Pieces Choisies," whose authors Magdelon, in the play, was

expecting to entertain, when Mascarille made his appearance. There is a

faculty which Horace Walpole named "serendipity,"--the luck of falling on

just the literary document which one wants at the moment. All collectors

of out of the way books know the pleasure of the exercise of serendipity,

but they enjoy it in different ways. One man will go home hugging a

THE LIBRARY4

volume of sermons, another with a bulky collection of catalogues, which

would have distended the pockets even of the wide great-coat made for the

purpose, that Charles Nodier used to wear when he went a book-hunting.

Others are captivated by black letter, others by the plays of such

obscurities as Nabbes and Glapthorne. But however various the tastes of

collectors of books, they are all agreed on one point,--the love of printed

paper. Even an Elzevir man can sympathise with Charles Lamb's

attachment to "that folio Beaumont and Fletcher which he dragged home

late at night from Barker's in Covent Garden." But it is another thing

when Lamb says, "I do not care for a first folio of Shakespeare." A

bibliophile who could say this could say anything.

No, there are, in every period of taste, books which, apart from their

literary value, all collectors admit to possess, if not for themselves, then

for others of the brotherhood, a peculiar preciousness. These books are

esteemed for curiosity, for beauty of type, paper, binding, and illustrations,

for some connection they may have with famous people of the past, or for

their rarity. It is about these books, the method of preserving them, their

enemies, the places in which to hunt for them, that the following pages are

to treat. It is a subject more closely connected with the taste for

curiosities than with art, strictly so called. We are to be occupied, not so

much with literature as with books, not so much with criticism as with

bibliography, the quaint duenna of literature, a study apparently dry, but

not without its humours. And here an apology must be made for the

frequent allusions and anecdotes derived from French writers. These are

as unavoidable, almost, as the use of French terms of the sport in tennis

and in fencing. In bibliography, in the care for books AS books, the

French are still the teachers of Europe, as they were in tennis and are in

fencing. Thus, Richard de Bury, Chancellor of Edward III., writes in his

"Philobiblon:" "Oh God of Gods in Zion! what a rushing river of joy

gladdens my heart as often as I have a chance of going to Paris! There

the days seem always short; there are the goodly collections on the

delicate fragrant book-shelves." Since Dante wrote of -

"L'onor di quell' arte Ch' allumare e chiamata in Parisi,"

"the art that is called illuminating in Paris," and all the other arts of

THE LIBRARY5

writing, printing, binding books, have been most skilfully practised by

France. She improved on the lessons given by Germany and Italy in

these crafts. Twenty books about books are written in Paris for one that

is published in England. In our country Dibdin is out of date (the second

edition of his "Bibliomania" was published in 1811), and Mr. Hill Burton's

humorous "Book-hunter" is out of print. Meanwhile, in France, writers

grave and gay, from the gigantic industry of Brunet to Nodier's quaint

fancy, and Janin's wit, and the always entertaining bibliophile Jacob (Paul

Lacroix), have written, or are writing, on books, manuscripts, engravings,

editions, and bindings. In England, therefore, rare French books are

eagerly sought, and may be found in all the booksellers' catalogues. On

the continent there is no such care for our curious or beautiful editions, old

or new. Here a hint may be given to the collector. If he "picks up" a

rare French book, at a low price, he would act prudently in having it bound

in France by a good craftsman. Its value, when "the wicked day of

destiny" comes, and the collection is broken up, will thus be made secure.

For the French do not suffer our English bindings gladly; while we have

no narrow prejudice against the works of Lortic and Cape, but the reverse.

For these reasons then, and also because every writer is obliged to make

the closest acquaintance with books in the direction where his own studies

lie, the writings of French authorities are frequently cited in the following

pages.

This apology must be followed by a brief defence of the taste and

passion of book-collecting, and of the class of men known invidiously as

book-worms and book-hunters. They and their simple pleasures are the

butts of a cheap and shrewish set of critics, who cannot endure in others a

taste which is absent in themselves. Important new books have actually

been condemned of late years because they were printed on good paper,

and a valuable historical treatise was attacked by reviewers quite angrily

because its outward array was not mean and forbidding. Of course,

critics who take this view of new books have no patience with persons

who care for "margins," and "condition," and early copies of old books.

We cannot hope to convert the adversary, but it is not necessary to be

disturbed by his clamour. People are happier for the possession of a taste

THE LIBRARY6

as long as they possess it, and it does not, like the demons of Scripture,

possess them. The wise collector gets instruction and pleasure from his

pursuit, and it may well be that, in the long run, he and his family do not

lose money. The amusement may chance to prove a very fair investment.

As to this question of making money by collecting, Mr. Hill Burton

speaks very distinctly in "The Book-hunter:" "Where money is the object

let a man speculate or become a miser. . . Let not the collector ever, unless

in some urgent and necessary circumstances, part with any of his treasures.

Let him not even have recourse to that practice called barter, which

political philosophers tell us is the universal resource of mankind

preparatory to the invention of money. Let him confine all his

transactions in the market to purchasing only. No good comes of

gentlemen-amateurs buying and selling." There is room for difference of

opinion here, but there seems to be most reason on the side of Mr. Hill

Burton. It is one thing for the collector to be able to reflect that the

money he expends on books is not lost, and that his family may find

themselves richer, not poorer, because he indulged his taste. It is quite

another thing to buy books as a speculator buys shares, meaning to sell

again at a profit as soon as occasion offers. It is necessary also to warn

the beginner against indulging extravagant hopes. He must buy

experience with his books, and many of his first purchases are likely to

disappoint him. He will pay dearly for the wrong "Caesar" of 1635, the

one WITHOUT errors in pagination; and this is only a common example

of the beginner's blunders. Collecting is like other forms of sport; the aim

is not certain at first, the amateur is nervous, and, as in angling, is apt to

"strike" (a bargain) too hurriedly.

I often think that the pleasure of collecting is like that of sport. People

talk of "book-hunting," and the old Latin motto says that "one never

wearies of the chase in this forest." But the analogy to angling seems

even stronger. A collector walks in the London or Paris streets, as he

does by Tweed or Spey. Many a lordly mart of books he passes, like Mr.

Quaritch's, Mr. Toovey's, or M. Fontaine's, or the shining store of M.M.

Morgand et Fatout, in the Passage des Panoramas. Here I always feel

like Brassicanus in the king of Hungary's collection, "non in Bibliotheca,

THE LIBRARY7

sed in gremio Jovis;" "not in a library, but in paradise." It is not given to

every one to cast angle in these preserves. They are kept for dukes and

millionaires. Surely the old Duke of Roxburghe was the happiest of

mortals, for to him both the chief bookshops and auction rooms, and the

famous salmon streams of Floors, were equally open, and he revelled in

the prime of book-collecting and of angling. But there are little tributary

streets, with humbler stalls, shy pools, as it were, where the humbler fisher

of books may hope to raise an Elzevir, or an old French play, a first edition

of Shelley, or a Restoration comedy. It is usually a case of hope

unfulfilled; but the merest nibble of a rare book, say Marston's poems in

the original edition, or Beddoes's "Love's Arrow Poisoned," or Bankes's

"Bay Horse in a Trance," or the "Mel Heliconicum" of Alexander Ross, or

"Les Oeuvres de Clement Marot, de Cahors, Vallet de Chambre du Roy, A

Paris, Ches Pierre Gaultier, 1551;" even a chance at something of this sort

will kindle the waning excitement, and add a pleasure to a man's walk in

muddy London. Then, suppose you purchase for a couple of shillings the

"Histoire des Amours de Henry IV, et autres pieces curieuses, A Leyde,

Chez Jean Sambyx (Elzevir), 1664," it is certainly not unpleasant, on

consulting M. Fontaine's catalogue, to find that he offers the same work at

the ransom of 10 pounds. The beginner thinks himself in singular luck,

even though he has no idea of vending his collection, and he never reflects

that CONDITION--spotless white leaves and broad margins, make the

market value of a book.

Setting aside such bare considerations of profit, the sport given by

bookstalls is full of variety and charm. In London it may be pursued in

most of the cross streets that stretch a dirty net between the British

Museum and the Strand. There are other more shy and less frequently

poached resorts which the amateur may be allowed to find out for himself.

In Paris there is the long sweep of the Quais, where some eighty

bouquinistes set their boxes on the walls of the embankment of the Seine.

There are few country towns so small but that books, occasionally rare and

valuable, may be found lurking in second-hand furniture warehouses.

This is one of the advantages of living in an old country. The Colonies

are not the home for a collector. I have seen an Australian bibliophile

THE LIBRARY8

enraptured by the rare chance of buying, in Melbourne, an early work on--

the history of Port Jackson! This seems but poor game. But in Europe

an amateur has always occupation for his odd moments in town, and is for

ever lured on by the radiant apparition of Hope. All collectors tell their

anecdotes of wonderful luck, and magnificent discoveries. There is a

volume "Voyages Litteraires sur les Quais de Paris" (Paris, Durand, 1857),

by M. de Fontaine de Resbecq, which might convert the dullest soul to

book-hunting. M. de Resbecq and his friends had the most amazing good

fortune. A M. N- found six original plays of Moliere (worth perhaps as

many hundreds of pounds), bound up with Garth's "Dispensary," an

English poem which has long lost its vogue. It is worth while, indeed, to

examine all volumes marked "Miscellanea," "Essays," and the like, and

treasures may possibly lurk, as Snuffy Davy knew, within the battered

sheepskin of school books. Books lie in out of the way places. Poggio

rescued "Quintilian" from the counter of a wood merchant. The best time

for book-hunting in Paris is the early morning. "The take," as anglers say,

is "on" from half-past seven to half-past nine a.m. At these hours the

vendors exhibit their fresh wares, and the agents of the more wealthy

booksellers come and pick up everything worth having. These agents

quite spoil the sport of the amateur. They keep a strict watch on every

country dealer's catalogue, snap up all he has worth selling, and sell it over

again, charging pounds in place of shillings. But M. de Resbecq vows

that he once picked up a copy of the first edition of La Rochefoucauld's

"Maxims" out of a box which two booksellers had just searched. The

same collector got together very promptly all the original editions of La

Bruyere, and he even found a copy of the Elzevir "Pastissier Francais," at

the humble price of six sous. Now the " Pastissier Francais," an ill-

printed little cookery-book of the Elzevirs, has lately fetched 600 pounds

at a sale. The Antiquary's story of Snuffy Davy and the "Game of

Chess," is dwarfed by the luck of M. de Resbecq. Not one amateur in a

thousand can expect such good fortune. There is, however, a recent

instance of a Rugby boy, who picked up, on a stall, a few fluttering leaves

hanging together on a flimsy thread. The old woman who kept the stall

could hardly be induced to accept the large sum of a shilling for an

THE LIBRARY9

original quarto of Shakespeare's "King John." These stories are told that

none may despair. That none may be over confident, an author may

recount his own experience. The only odd trouvaille that ever fell to me

was a clean copy of "La Journee Chretienne," with the name of Leon

Gambetta, 1844, on its catholic fly-leaf. Rare books grow rarer every

day, and often 'tis only Hope that remains at the bottom of the fourpenny

boxes. Yet the Paris book-hunters cleave to the game. August is their

favourite season; for in August there is least competition. Very few

people are, as a rule, in Paris, and these are not tempted to loiter. The

bookseller is drowsy, and glad not to have the trouble of chaffering. The

English go past, and do not tarry beside a row of dusty boxes of books.

The heat threatens the amateur with sunstroke. Then, says M. Octave

Uzanne, in a prose ballade of book-hunters--then, calm, glad, heroic, the

bouquineurs prowl forth, refreshed with hope. The brown old calf-skin

wrinkles in the sun, the leaves crackle, you could poach an egg on the

cover of a quarto. The dome of the Institute glitters, the sickly trees seem

to wither, their leaves wax red and grey, a faint warm wind is walking the

streets. Under his vast umbrella the book-hunter is secure and content;

he enjoys the pleasures of the sport unvexed by poachers, and thinks less

of the heat than does the deer-stalker on the bare hill-side.

There is plenty of morality, if there are few rare books in the stalls.

The decay of affection, the breaking of friendship, the decline of ambition,

are all illustrated in these fourpenny collections. The presentation

volumes are here which the author gave in the pride of his heart to the poet

who was his "Master," to the critic whom he feared, to the friend with

whom he was on terms of mutual admiration. The critic has not even cut

the leaves, the poet has brusquely torn three or four apart with his finger

and thumb, the friend has grown cold, and has let the poems slip into some

corner of his library, whence they were removed on some day of doom and

of general clearing out. The sale of the library of a late learned prelate

who had Boileau's hatred of a dull book was a scene to be avoided by his

literary friends. The Bishop always gave the works which were offered

to him a fair chance. He read till he could read no longer, cutting the

pages as he went, and thus his progress could be traced like that of a

THE LIBRARY10

backwoodsman who "blazes" his way through a primeval forest. The

paper-knife generally ceased to do duty before the thirtieth page. The

melancholy of the book- hunter is aroused by two questions, "Whence?"

and "Whither?" The bibliophile asks about his books the question which

the metaphysician asks about his soul. Whence came they? Their value

depends a good deal on the answer. If they are stamped with arms, then

there is a book ("Armorial du Bibliophile," by M. Guigard) which tells

you who was their original owner. Any one of twenty coats-of-arms on

the leather is worth a hundred times the value of the volume which it

covers. If there is no such mark, the fancy is left to devise a romance

about the first owner, and all the hands through which the book has passed.

That Vanini came from a Jesuit college, where it was kept under lock and

key. That copy of Agrippa "De Vanitate Scientiarum" is marked, in a

crabbed hand and in faded ink, with cynical Latin notes. What pessimist

two hundred years ago made his grumbling so permanent? One can only

guess, but part of the imaginative joys of the book-hunter lies ' in the

fruitless conjecture. That other question "Whither?" is graver. Whither

are our treasures to be scattered? Will they find kind masters? or, worst

fate of books, fall into the hands of women who will sell them to the

trunk-maker? Are the leaves to line a box or to curl a maiden's locks?

Are the rarities to become more and more rare, and at last fetch prodigious

prices? Some unlucky men are able partly to solve these problems in

their own lifetime. They are constrained to sell their libraries--an

experience full of bitterness, wrath, and disappointment.

Selling books is nearly as bad as losing friends, than which life has no

worse sorrow. A book is a friend whose face is constantly changing. If

you read it when you are recovering from an illness, and return to it years

after, it is changed surely, with the change in yourself. As a man's tastes

and opinions are developed his books put on a different aspect. He

hardly knows the "Poems and Ballads" he used to declaim, and cannot

recover the enigmatic charm of "Sordello." Books change like friends,

like ourselves, like everything; but they are most piquant in the contrasts

they provoke, when the friend who gave them and wrote them is a success,

though we laughed at him; a failure, though we believed in him; altered in

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THELIBRARY11THELIBRARYByAndrewLangTHELIBRARY22PREFATORYNOTEThepagesinthisvolumeonilluminatedandotherMSS.(withtheexceptionofsomeanecdotesaboutBussyRabutinandJuliedeRambouillet)havebeencontributedbytheRev.W.J.Loftie,whohasalsowrittenonearlyprintedbooks(pp.94-95).ThepagesontheBiblioklept(pp.46-56)arere...

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