Seven years ago I paid Charles Sessler nine hundred dollars for three books: a presentation “Carol,” to Tom Beard, a “Cricket,” to Macready, and a “Haunted Man,” to Maclise. At the Coggeshall sale a dealer paid a thousand dollars for a “Carol,” while I gave Smith ten per cent advance on a thousand dollars for a “Chimes,” with an inscription, “Charles Dickens, Junior, from his affectionate father, Charles Dickens.” This copy at the Allis sale had brought seven hundred and seventy-five dollars, at which time I was prepared to pay five hundred dollars for it.
I always return from these all-star performances depressed in spirit and shattered in pocket. “Where will it stop?” I say to myself. “When will you stop?” my wife says to me. And both questions remain unanswered; certainly not, while presentation Dickenses can be had and are lacking from my collection. I now possess twenty-one, and it is with presentation Dickenses as with elephants—a good many go to the dozen; but I lack and sadly want—Shall I give a list? No, the prices are going up fast enough without stimulation from me. Wait until my “wants” are complete; then let joy be unconfined.
A final word on Dickens: the prices are skyrocketing because everyone loves him. Age cannot wither nor custom stale his infinite variety. As a great creative genius he ranks with Shakespeare. He has given pleasure to millions; he has been translated into all the languages of Europe. “Pickwick,” it is said, stands fourth in circulation among English printed books, being exceeded only by the Bible, Shakespeare, and the English Prayer-Book; and the marvel is that when Dickens is spoken of, it is difficult to arrive at an agreement as to which is his greatest book.
But this paper is supposed to relate to prices rather than to books themselves. Other seductive arguments having failed, one sometimes hears a vendor of rare books add, in his most convincing manner, “And you couldn’t possibly make a better investment.” The idea, I suppose, is calculated to enable a man to meet his wife’s reproachful glance, or something worse, as he returns home with a book under his arm. But when one is about to commit some piece of extravagance, such as buying a book of which one already has several copies, one will grasp at any straw, the more so as there may be some truth in the statement.