One of his favorite books was the Countess of Pembroke’s own copy of Sir Philip Sidney’s “Arcadia,” and it is indeed a noble volume; but Harry’s love for his mother, I think, invariably led him, when he was showing his treasures, to point out a sentence written in his copy of Cowper’s “Task.” The book had once been Thackeray’s, and the great novelist had written on the frontispiece, “A great point in a great man, a great love for his mother. A very fine and true portrait. Could artist possibly choose a better position than the above? W. M. Thackeray.” “Isn’t that a lovely sentiment?” Harry would say; “and yet they say Thackeray was a cynic and a snob.” His “Esmond” was presented by Thackeray to Charlotte Brontë. His copy of the “Ingoldsby Legends” was unique. In the first edition, by some curious oversight on the part of the printer, page 236 had been left blank, and the error was not discovered until a few sheets had been printed. In a presentation copy to his friend, E. R. Moran, on this blank page, Barham had written:—
By a blunder for which I have only myself to thank,
Here’s a page has been somehow left blank.
Aha! my friend Moran, I have you. You’ll look
In vain for a fault in one page of my book!
signing the verse with his nom de plume, Thomas Ingoldsby.
Indeed, in all his books, the utmost care was taken to secure the copy which would have the greatest human interest: an ordinary presentation copy of the first issue of the first edition would serve his purpose only if he were sure that the dedication copy was unobtainable. His Boswell’s “Life of Johnson” was the dedication copy to Sir Joshua Reynolds, with an inscription in the author’s hand.
He was always on the lookout for rarities, and Dr. Rosenbach, in the brief memoir which serves as an introduction to the Catalogue of his Stevenson collection, says of him:—
“I remember once seeing him on his hands and knees under a table in a bookstore. On the floor was a huge pile of books that had not been disturbed for years. He had just pulled out of the débris a first edition of Swinburne, a presentation copy, and it was good to behold the light in his face as he exclaimed, ‘This is better than working in a gold mine.’ To him it was one.”
His collection of Stevenson is a monument to his industry and patience, and is probably the finest collection in existence of that much-esteemed author. He possessed holograph copies of the Vailima Letters and many other priceless treasures, and he secured the manuscript of, and published privately for Stevenson lovers, in an edition of forty-five copies, an autobiography written by Stevenson in California in the early eighties. This item, under the title of “Memoirs of Himself,” has an inscription, “Given to Isobel Stewart Strong ... for future use, when the underwriter is dead. With love, Robert Louis Stevenson.” The catalogue of his Stevenson collection alone, the painstaking work of his friend and mentor, Dr. Rosenbach, makes an imposing volume and is an invaluable work of reference for Stevenson collectors.
Harry once told me that he never traveled without a copy of “Treasure Island,” and knew it practically by heart. I, myself, am not averse to a good book as a traveling companion; but in my judgment, for constant reading, year in and year out, it should be a book which sets you thinking, rather than a narrative like “Treasure Island,” but—chacun à son goût.
