With Chardin I close my bibliopolistic narrative; not meaning thereby to throw other booksellers into the least degree of shade, but simply to transmit to you an account of such as I have seen and have transacted business with. And now, prepare for some account of PRINTERS ... or rather of three presses only,--certainly the most distinguished in Paris. I mean those of the DIDOT and that of M. CRAPELET. The name of Didot will last as long as learning and taste shall last in any quarter of the globe: nor am I sure, after all, that what Bodoni, Bensley, and Bulmer have done, collectively, has redounded more to the credit of their countries than what Didot has achieved for France. In ancient classical literature, however, Bodoni has a right to claim an exception and a superiority. The elder, Pierre Didot, is Printer to his Majesty. But when Pierre Didot l'ainé chose to adopt his own fount of letter--how exquisitely does his skill appear in the folio Virgil of 1798, and yet more, perhaps, in the folio Horace of 1799!? These are books which never have been, and never can be, eclipsed. Yet I own that the Horace, from the enchanting vignettes of Percier, engraved by Girardais, is to my taste the preferable volume.[146]
FIRMIN DIDOT now manages the press in the Rué Jacob; and if he had never executed any thing but the Lusiad of Camoens, his name would be worthy to go down to posterity by the side of that of his uncle. The number of books printed and published by the Didots is almost incredible; especially of publications in the Latin and French languages. Of course I include the Stereotype productions: which are very neat and very commodious--but perhaps the page has rather too dazzling an effect. I paid a visit the other day to the office of Firmin Didot; who is a letter founder "as well as a printer.[147] To a question which I asked the nephew, (I think) respecting the number of copies and sizes, of the famous Lusiad just mentioned, he answered, that there were only two hundred copies, and those only of one size. Let that suffice to comfort those who are in terror of having the small paper, and to silence such as try to depreciate the value of the book, from the supposed additional number of copies struck off.
I wished to know the costs and charges of printing, &c.--from which the comparative price of labour in the two countries might be estimated. M. Didot told me that the entire charges for printing, and pulling, one thousand copies of a full octavo size volume--containing thirty lines in a page, in a middle-size-letter--including every thing but paper--was thirty-five francs per sheet. I am persuaded that such a thing could not be done at home under very little short of double the price:--whether it be that our printers, including the most respectable, are absolutely more extravagant in their charges, or that the wages of the compositors are double those which are given in France.
After Didot, comes CRAPELET--in business, skill, and celebrity. He is himself a very pleasant, unaffected man; scarcely thirty-six; and likely, in consequence, to become the richest printer in Paris. I have visited him frequently, and dined with him once--when he was pleased to invite some agreeable, well-informed, and gentlemanly guests to meet me. Among them was a M. REY, who has written "Essais Historiques et Critiques sur Richard III. Roi d'Angleterre," just printed in a handsome octavo volume by our Host. Our conversation, upon the whole; was mixed; agreeable, and instructive. Madame Crapelet, who is at this moment (as I should conjecture) perhaps pretty equally divided between her twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth year, and who may be classed among the prettier ladies of Paris, did the honours of the fête in a very agreeable manner: nor can it be a matter of surprise that the choicest Chambertin and Champagne sparkled upon the table of one--who, during the libations of his guests; had the tympans and friskets of twenty-two Presses in full play![148] We retired, after dinner, into a spacious drawing room to coffee and liqueurs: and anon, to a further room, wherein was a BOOK-CASE filled by some of the choicest specimens of the press of its owner, as well as of other celebrated printers. I have forgotten what we took down or what we especially admired: but, to a question respecting the present state of business, as connected with literature and printing, at Paris, M. Crapelet replied (as indeed, if I remember rightly, M. Didot did also) that "matters never went on better." Reprints even of old authors were in agitation: and two editions of Montaigne were at that moment going on in his own house. I complimented M. Crapelet--and with equal sincerity and justice--upon the typographical execution of M. Brunet's Manuel du Libraire. No printer in our own country, could have executed it more perfectly. "What might have been the charge per sheet?" My host received the compliment very soberly and properly; and gave me a general item about the expense of printing and paper, &c., which really surprised me; and returned it with a warm eulogy upon the paper and press-work of a recent publication from the Shakspeare press--which, said he, "I despair of excelling." "And then (added he), your prettily executed vignettes, and larger prints! In France this branch of the art is absolutely not understood[149]--and besides, we cannot publish books at your prices!"
We must now bid adieu to the types of M. Crapelet below stairs, and to his "good cheer" above; and with him take our leave of Parisian booksellers and printers.[150] What then remains, in the book way, worthy of especial notice? Do you ask this question? I will answer it in a trice--BOOK-BINDING. Yes ... some few hours of my residence in this metropolis have been devoted to an examination of this seductive branch of book commerce. And yet I have not seen--nor am I likely to see--one single binder: either Thouvenin, or Simier, or Braidel, or Lesné. I am not sure whether Courteval, or either of the Bozérians, be living: but their handy works live and are lauded in every quarter of Paris.
The restorer, or the Father, (if you prefer this latter appellative) of modern Book-binding in France, was the Elder Bozérian: of whose productions the book-amateurs of Paris are enthusiastically fond. Bozérian undoubtedly had his merits;[151] but he was fond of gilt tooling to excess. His ornaments are too minute and too profuse; and moreover, occasionally, very unskilfully worked. His choice of morocco is not always to my taste; while his joints are neither carefully measured, nor do they play easily; and his linings are often gaudy to excess. He is however hailed as the legitimate restorer of that taste in binding, which delighted the purchasers in the Augustan age of book-collecting. One merit must not be denied him: his boards are usually square, and well measured. His volumes open well, and are beaten ... too unmercifully. It is the reigning error of French binders. They think they can never beat a book sufficiently. They exercise a tyranny over the leaves, as bad as that of eastern despots over their prostrate slaves. Let them look a little into the bindings of those volumes before described by me, in the lower regions of the Royal Library[152]--and hence learn, that, to hear the leases crackle as they are turned over, produces nearly as much comfort to the thorough-bred collector, as does the prattling of the first infant to the doating parent.
THOUVENIN[153] and SIMIER are now the morning and evening stars in the bibliopegistic hemisphere. Of these, Thouvenin makes a higher circle in the heavens; but Simier shines with no very despicable lustre. Their work is good, substantial, and pretty nearly in the same taste. The folio Psalter of 1502, (I think) in the Royal Library, is considered to be the ne plus ultra of modern book-binding at Paris; and, if I mistake not, Thouvenin is the artist in whose charcoal furnace, the tools, which produced this êchantillon, were heated. I have no hesitation in saying, that, considered as an extraordinary specimen of art, it is a failure. The ornaments are common place; the lining is decidedly bad; and there is a clumsiness of finish throughout the whole. The head-bands--as indeed are those of Bozérian--are clumsily managed: and I may say that it exhibits a manifest inferiority even to the productions of Mackinlay, Hering, Clarke, and Fairbairn. Indeed either of these artists would greatly eclipse it. I learn that Thouvenin keeps books in his possession as long as does a certain binder with us--- who just now shall be nameless. Of course Charles Lewis would smile complacently if you talked to him about rivalling such a performance![154]
There is a book-binder of the name of LESNÉ--just now occupied, as I learn, in writing a poem upon his Art[155]--who is also talked of as an artist of respectable skill. They say, however, that he writes better than he binds. So much the worse for his little ones, if he be married. Indeed several very sensible and impartial collectors, with whom I have discoursed, also seem to think that the art of book-binding in France is just now, if not retrograding, at least stationary--and apparently incapable of being carried to a higher pitch of excellence. I doubt this very much. They can do what they have done before. And no such great conjuration is required in going even far beyond it. Let Thouvenin and Simier, and even the Poet himself, examine carefully the choice of tools, and manner of gilding, used by our more celebrated binders, and they need not despair of rivalling them. Above all, let them look well to the management of the backs of their books, and especially to the headbands. The latter are in general heavy and inelegant. Let them also avoid too much choking and beating, (I use technical words--- which you understand as well as any French or English bookbinder) and especially to be square, even, and delicate in the bands; and the "Saturnia regna" of book-binding in France may speedily return.
LETTER IX.
MEN OF LETTERS. DOM BRIAL. THE ABBÉ BÉTENCOURT. MESSRS. GAIL, MILLIN, AND LANGÈS. A ROXBURGHE BANQUET.