One anecdote may be worth recording. The present venerable and deeply learned President of Magdalen College, Oxford, told me that, on casting up the number of odd—or appendant volumes, (as 2 or 12 more) to the several articles in the catalogue—he found it to amount to four thousand. Now, primâ facie, it seems hardly credible that there should have been such a number, in such a library, not deserving of mention as distinct articles: but it must be taken into consideration that Mr. Heber bought many lots for the sake of one particular book: and, considering the enormous extent of his library, it is not a very violent supposition, or inference, that these 4000 volumes were scarcely deserving of a more particular notice.
Pontevallo was the late John Dent, Esq., whose library was sold in 1827; and of which library that of the late Robert Heathcote formed the basis. It contained much that was curious, scarce, and delectable; but the sale of it exhibited the first grand melancholy symptoms of the decay of the Bibliomania. The Sweynheym and Pannartz Livy of 1469, upon vellum, was allowed to be knocked down for £262! Mr. Evans, who had twice before sold that identical volume—first, in the sale of Mr. Edwards's library (see Bibliographical Decameron, vol. iii. p.—) and secondly in that of the late Sir M.M. Sykes, Bart, (who had purchased the book for £782)—did all that human powers could do, to obtain a higher bidding—but Messrs. Payne and Foss, with little more than the breathing of competition, became the purchasers at the very moderate sum first mentioned. From them it seemed to glide naturally, as well as necessarily, into the matchless collection of the Rt. Hon. Thomas Grenville. I yet seem to hear the echo of the clapping of Sir M.M. Sykes's hands, when I was the herald of the intelligence of his having become the purchaser! These echoes have all died away now: unless indeed they are likely to be revived by a Holford or a Bottfield.
Hortensius was the late Sir William Bolland, Knt.: and, a few years before his death, one of the Barons of his Majesty's Exchequer. He died in his 68th year. He was an admirable man in all respects. I leave those who composed the domestic circle of which he was the delightful focus, to expatiate upon that worth and excellence of which they were the constant witnesses and participators—
"He best shall paint them who shall feel them most."
To me, the humbler task is assigned of recording what is only more particularly connected with books and virtu. And yet I may, not very inappositely, make a previous remark. On obtaining a seat upon the bench, the first circuit assigned to him was that of "the Oxford." It proved to be heavy in the criminal Calendar: and Mr. Baron Bolland had to pass sentence of death upon three criminals. A maiden circuit is rarely so marked; and I have reason to believe that the humane and warm-hearted feelings of the Judge were never before, or afterwards, subjected to so severe a trial. It was a bitter and severe struggle with all the kindlier feelings of his heart. But our theme is books. His library was sold by public auction, under Mr. Evans's hammer, in the autumn of 1840. One anecdote, connected with his books, is worth recording. In my Decameron, vol. iii. p. 267, mention will be found of a bundle of poetical tracts, belonging to the Chapter-library at Lincoln, round which, on my second visit to that library, I had, in imitation of Captain Cox (see page — ante), entwined some whip-cord around them—setting them apart for the consideration of the Dean and Chapter, whether a second time, I might not become a purchaser of some of their book-treasures? I had valued them at fourscore guineas. The books in question will be found mentioned in a note at page 267 of the third volume of the Bibliographical Decameron.
I had observed as follows in the work just referred to, "What would Hortensius say to the gathering of such flowers, to add to the previously collected Lincoln Nosegay?" The reader will judge of my mingled pleasure and surprise (dashed however with a few grains of disappointment on not becoming the proprietor of them myself) when the Baron, one day, after dining with him, led me to his book-case, and pointing to these precious tomes, asked me if I had ever seen them before? For a little moment I felt the "Obstupui" of Æneas. "How is this?" exclaimed I. "The secret is in the vault of the Capulets"—replied my Friend—and it never escaped him. "Those are the identical books mentioned in your Decameron." Not many years afterwards I learnt from the late Benjamin Wheatley that he had procured them on a late visit to Lincoln; and that my price, affixed, was taken as their just value. Of these Linclonian treasures, one volume alone—the Rape of Lucrece—brought one hundred guineas at the sale of the Judge's library, beginning on the 18th of November, 1840. See No. 2187; where it should seem that only four other perfect copies are known.
The library of the late Mr. Baron Bolland, consisting of 2940 articles, brought a trifle more than a guinea per article. It was choice, curious, and instructively miscellaneous. Its owner was a man of taste as well as a scholar; and the crabbed niceties of his profession had neither chilled his heart nor clouded his judgment. He revelled in his small cabinet of English Coins; which he placed, and almost worshipped, among his fire-side lares. They were, the greater part of them, of precious die—in primitive lustre; and he handled them, and expatiated on them, with the enthusiasm of a Snelling, and the science of a Foulkes. His walls were covered with modern pictures, attractive from historical or tasteful associations. There was nothing but what seemed to
"point a moral, or adorn a tale."
His passion for books was of the largest scale and dimensions, and marked by every species of almost enviable enthusiasm. His anecdotes, engrafted on them, were racy and sparkling; and I am not quite sure whether it was not in contemplation by him to build a small "oratoire" to the memories of Caxton and Wynkyn De Worde. He considered the folios of the latter, in the fifteenth century, to be miracles of typographical execution; and, being a poet himself, would have been in veritable ecstacies had he lived to see the unique Chaucer of 1498, which it was my good luck to obtain for the library of the Rt. Hon. Thomas Grenville. I will add but a few specimens of his library—