The Amenities of Book-Collecting and Kindred Affections

by A. Edward Newton

Fifteenth-century English manuscript on vellum, “De Consolatione Philosophiæ.” Rubricated throughout. Its chief interest is the contemporary binding, consisting of the usual oak boards covered with pink deerskin, let into another piece of deerskin which completely surrounds it and terminates in a large knot. A clasp fastens the outer cover. It was evidently intended to be worn at the girdle. The British Museum possesses very few bindings of this character and these service books. Lay books are of even greater rarity.

Let us look further. Here we are: “Coryat’s Crudities, hastily gobbled up in five Moneths Trauells.” Tom Coryat was a buffoon and a beggar and a braggart, who wrote what has come to be regarded as the first handbook on travel. Browning thought very highly of it, as I remember, and Walter Hill is at this very minute offering his copy of the “Crudities” for five hundred dollars. The catalogues say there are very few perfect copies in existence, in which case I should like to content myself with Browning’s imperfect copy. I love these old books, written by frail human beings for human beings frail as myself. Clowns are the true philosophers, and all vagabonds are beloved, most of all, Locke’s. Don’t confuse my Locke with the fellow who wrote on the “Human Understanding,” a century or two ago.

Here is the “Ship of Fools,” another best seller of a bygone age. The original work, by Sebastian Brandt, was published not long after the invention of printing, in 1494. Edition followed edition, not only in its original Swabian dialect, but also in Latin, French, and Dutch. In 1509 an English version,—it could hardly be called a translation,—by Alexander Barclay, appeared from the press of Pynson—he who called Caxton “worshipful master.” For quite two hundred years it was the rage of the reading world. In it the vices and weaknesses of all classes of society were satirized in a manner which gave great delight; and those who could not read were able to enjoy the fine, bold woodcuts with which the work was embellished. No form of folly escaped. Even the mediæval book-collector is made to say:—

Still am I busy bookes assemblynge,
For to have plentie it is a pleasaunt thynge,
In my conceyt and to have them ay in hande,
But what they mene do I not understande.

This is one of the books which can usually be found in a Quaritch catalogue, if it can be found anywhere. At the Hoe sale a copy brought $1825; but the average collector will make shift to get along with an excellent reprint which was published in Edinburgh forty years or so ago, and which can be had for a few shillings, when he chances to come across it.

Here is a great book! The first folio of Shakespeare, the cornerstone of every great Library. What’s in a name? Did Shakespeare of Stratford write the plays? The late Dr. Furness declined to be led into a discussion of this point, wisely remarking, “We have the plays; what difference does it make who wrote them?” But the question will not down. The latest theory is that Bacon wrote the Psalms of David also, and to disguise the fact tucked in a cryptogram, another name. If you have at hand a King James’s version of the Bible, and will turn to the forty-sixth Psalm and count the words from the beginning to the forty-sixth word, and will then count the words from the end until you again come to the forty-sixth word, you may learn something to your advantage.