BOOKS AND BOOKMEN




Contents:


To the Viscountess Wolseley
Preface
Elzevirs
Ballade of the Real and Ideal
Curiosities of Parish Registers
The Rowfant Books
To F. L.
Some Japanese Bogie-books
Ghosts in the Library
Literary Forgeries
Bibliomania in France
Old French Title-pages
A Bookman's Purgatory
Ballade of the Unattainable
Lady Book-lovers




TO THE VISCOUNTESS WOLSELEY



Madame, it is no modish thing,
The bookman's tribute that I bring;
A talk of antiquaries grey,
Dust unto dust this many a day,
Gossip of texts and bindings old,
Of faded type, and tarnish'd gold!

Can ladies care for this to-do
With Payne, Derome, and Padeloup?
Can they resign the rout, the ball,
For lonely joys of shelf and stall?

The critic thus, serenely wise;
But you can read with other eyes,
Whose books and bindings treasured are
'Midst mingled spoils of peace and war;
Shields from the fights the Mahdi lost,
And trinkets from the Golden Coast,
And many things divinely done
By Chippendale and Sheraton,
And trophies of Egyptian deeds,
And fans, and plates, and Aggrey beads,
Pomander boxes, assegais,
And sword-hilts worn in Marlbro's days.

In this pell-mell of old and new,
Of war and peace, my essays, too,
For long in serials tempest-tost,
Are landed now, and are not lost:
Nay, on your shelf secure they lie,
As in the amber sleeps the fly.
'Tis true, they are not "rich nor rare;"
Enough, for me, that they are--there!

A. L



PREFACE



The essays in this volume have, for the most part, already appeared
in an American edition (Combes, New York, 1886).  The Essays on 'Old
French Title-Pages' and 'Lady Book-Lovers' take the place of 'Book
Binding' and 'Bookmen at Rome;' 'Elzevirs' and 'Some Japanese Bogie-
Books' are reprinted, with permission of Messrs. Cassell, from the
Magazine of Art; 'Curiosities of Parish Registers' from the
Guardian; 'Literary Forgeries' from the Contemporary Review; 'Lady
Book-Lovers' from the Fortnightly Review; 'A Bookman's Purgatory'
and two of the pieces of verse from Longman's Magazine--with the
courteous permission of the various editors.  All the chapters have
been revised, and I have to thank Mr. H. Tedder for his kind care in
reading the proof sheets, and Mr. Charles Elton, M.P., for a similar
service to the Essay on 'Parish Registers.'



ELZEVIRS



The Countryman.  "You know how much, for some time past, the
editions of the Elzevirs have been in demand.  The fancy for them
has even penetrated into the country.  I am acquainted with a man
there who denies himself necessaries, for the sake of collecting
into a library (where other books are scarce enough) as many little
Elzevirs as he can lay his hands upon.  He is dying of hunger, and
his consolation is to be able to say, 'I have all the poets whom the
Elzevirs printed.  I have ten examples of each of them, all with red
letters, and all of the right date.'  This, no doubt, is a craze,
for, good as the books are, if he kept them to read them, one
example of each would be enough."

The Parisian.  "If he had wanted to read them, I would not have
advised him to buy Elzevirs.  The editions of minor authors which
these booksellers published, even editions 'of the right date,' as
you say, are not too correct.  Nothing is good in the books but the
type and the paper.  Your friend would have done better to use the
editions of Gryphius or Estienne."

This fragment of a literary dialogue I translate from 'Entretiens
sur les Contes de Fees,' a book which contains more of old talk
about books and booksellers than about fairies and folk-lore.  The
'Entretiens' were published in 1699, about sixteen years after the
Elzevirs ceased to be publishers.  The fragment is valuable:  first,
because it shows us how early the taste for collecting Elzevirs was
fully developed, and, secondly, because it contains very sound
criticism of the mania.  Already, in the seventeenth century, lovers
of the tiny Elzevirian books waxed pathetic over dates, already they
knew that a 'Caesar' of 1635 was the right 'Caesar,' already they
were fond of the red-lettered passages, as in the first edition of
the 'Virgil' of 1636.  As early as 1699, too, the Parisian critic
knew that the editions were not very correct, and that the paper,
type, ornaments, and FORMAT were their main attractions.  To these
we must now add the rarity of really good Elzevirs.

Though Elzevirs have been more fashionable than at present, they are
still regarded by novelists as the great prize of the book
collector.  You read in novels about "priceless little Elzevirs,"
about books "as rare as an old Elzevir."  I have met, in the works
of a lady novelist (but not elsewhere), with an Elzevir
'Theocritus.'  The late Mr. Hepworth Dixon introduced into one of
his romances a romantic Elzevir Greek Testament, "worth its weight
in gold."  Casual remarks of this kind encourage a popular delusion
that all Elzevirs are pearls of considerable price.  When a man is
first smitten with the pleasant fever of book-collecting, it is for
Elzevirs that he searches.  At first he thinks himself in amazing
luck.  In Booksellers' Row and in Castle Street he "picks up," for a
shilling or two, Elzevirs, real or supposed.  To the beginner, any
book with a sphere on the title-page is an Elzevir.  For the
beginner's instruction, two copies of spheres are printed here.  The
second is a sphere, an ill-cut, ill-drawn sphere, which is not
Elzevirian at all.  The mark was used in the seventeenth century by
many other booksellers and printers.  The first, on the other hand,
is a true Elzevirian sphere, from a play of Moliere's, printed in
1675.  Observe the comparatively neat drawing of the first sphere,
and be not led away after spurious imitations.

Beware, too, of the vulgar error of fancying that little duodecimos
with the mark of the fox and the bee's nest, and the motto
"Quaerendo," come from the press of the Elzevirs.  The mark is that
of Abraham Wolfgang, which name is not a pseudonym for Elzevir.
There are three sorts of Elzevir pseudonyms.  First, they
occasionally reprinted the full title-page, publisher's name and
all, of the book they pirated.  Secondly, when they printed books of
a "dangerous" sort, Jansenist pamphlets and so forth, they used
pseudonyms like "Nic. Schouter," on the 'Lettres Provinciales' of
Pascal.  Thirdly, there are real pseudonyms employed by the
Elzevirs.  John and Daniel, printing at Leyden (1652-1655), used the
false name "Jean Sambix."  The Elzevirs of Amsterdam often placed
the name "Jacques le Jeune" on their title-pages.  The collector who
remembers these things must also see that his purchases have the
right ornaments at the heads of chapters, the right tail-pieces at
the ends.  Two of the most frequently recurring ornaments are the
so-called "Tete de Buffle" and the "Sirene."  More or less clumsy
copies of these and the other Elzevirian ornaments are common enough
in books of the period, even among those printed out of the Low
Countries; for example, in books published in Paris.

A brief sketch of the history of the Elzevirs may here be useful.
The founder of the family, a Flemish bookbinder, Louis, left Louvain
and settled in Leyden in 1580.  He bought a house opposite the
University, and opened a book-shop.  Another shop, on college
ground, was opened in 1587.  Louis was a good bookseller, a very
ordinary publisher.  It was not till shortly before his death, in
1617, that his grandson Isaac bought a set of types and other
material.  Louis left six sons.  Two of these, Matthew and
Bonaventure, kept on the business, dating ex officina Elzeviriana.
In 1625 Bonaventure and Abraham (son of Matthew) became partners.
The "good dates" of Elzevirian books begin from 1626.  The two
Elzevirs chose excellent types, and after nine years' endeavours
turned out the beautiful 'Caesar' of 1635.

Their classical series in petit format was opened with 'Horace' and
'Ovid' in 1629.  In 1641 they began their elegant piracies of French
plays and poetry with 'Le Cid.'  It was worth while being pirated by
the Elzevirs, who turned you out like a gentleman, with fleurons and
red letters, and a pretty frontispiece.  The modern pirate dresses
you in rags, prints you murderously, and binds you, if he binds you
at all, in some hideous example of "cloth extra," all gilt, like
archaic gingerbread.  Bonaventure and Abraham both died in 1652.
They did not depart before publishing (1628), in grand format, a
desirable work on fencing, Thibault's 'Academie de l'Espee.'  This
Tibbald also killed by the book.  John and Daniel Elzevir came next.
They brought out the 'Imitation' (Thomae a Kempis canonici regularis
ord.  S. Augustini De Imitatione Christi, libri iv.); I wish by
taking thought I could add eight millimetres to the stature of my
copy.  In 1655 Daniel joined a cousin, Louis, in Amsterdam, and John
stayed in Leyden.  John died in 1661; his widow struggled on, but
her son Abraham (1681) let all fall into ruins.  Abraham died 1712.
The Elzevirs of Amsterdam lasted till 1680, when Daniel died, and
the business was wound up.  The type, by Christopher Van Dyck, was
sold in 1681, by Daniel's widow.  Sic transit gloria.

After he has learned all these matters the amateur has still a great
deal to acquire.  He may now know a real Elzevir from a book which
is not an Elzevir at all.  But there are enormous differences of
value, rarity, and excellence among the productions of the
Elzevirian press.  The bookstalls teem with small, "cropped," dingy,
dirty, battered Elzevirian editions of the classics, NOT "of the
good date."  On these it is not worth while to expend a couple of
shillings, especially as Elzevirian type is too small to be read
with comfort by most modern eyes.  No, let the collector save his
money; avoid littering his shelves with what he will soon find to be
rubbish, and let him wait the chance of acquiring a really beautiful
and rare Elzevir.

Meantime, and before we come to describe Elzevirs of the first
flight, let it be remembered that the "taller" the copy, the less
harmed and nipped by the binder's shears, the better.  "Men scarcely
know how beautiful fire is," says Shelley; and we may say that most
men hardly know how beautiful an Elzevir was in its uncut and
original form.  The Elzevirs we have may be "dear," but they are
certainly "dumpy twelves."  Their fair proportions have been docked
by the binder.  At the Beckford sale there was a pearl of a book, a
'Marot;' not an Elzevir, indeed, but a book published by Wetstein, a
follower of the Elzevirs.  This exquisite pair of volumes, bound in
blue morocco, was absolutely unimpaired, and was a sight to bring
happy tears into the eyes of the amateur of Elzevirs.  There was a
gracious svelte elegance about these tomes, an appealing and
exquisite delicacy of proportion, that linger like sweet music in
the memory.  I have a copy of the Wetstein 'Marot' myself, not a bad
copy, though murderously bound in that ecclesiastical sort of brown
calf antique, which goes well with hymn books, and reminds one of
cakes of chocolate.  But my copy is only some 128 millimetres in
height, whereas the uncut Beckford copy (it had belonged to the
great Pixerecourt) was at least 130 millimetres high.  Beside the
uncut example mine looks like Cinderella's plain sister beside the
beauty of the family.

Now the moral is that only tall Elzevirs are beautiful, only tall
Elzevirs preserve their ancient proportions, only tall Elzevirs are
worth collecting.  Dr. Lemuel Gulliver remarks that the King of
Lilliput was taller than any of his court by almost the breadth of a
nail, and that his altitude filled the minds of all with awe.  Well,
the Philistine may think a few millimetres, more or less, in the
height of an Elzevir are of little importance.  When he comes to
sell, he will discover the difference.  An uncut, or almost uncut,
copy of a good Elzevir may be worth fifty or sixty pounds or more;
an ordinary copy may bring fewer pence.  The binders usually pare
down the top and bottom more than the sides.  I have a 'Rabelais' of
the good date, with the red title (1663), and some of the pages have
never been opened, at the sides.  But the height is only some 122
millimetres, a mere dwarf.  Anything over 130 millimetres is very
rare.  Therefore the collector of Elzevirs should have one of those
useful ivory-handled knives on which the French measures are marked,
and thus he will at once be able to satisfy himself as to the exact
height of any example which he encounters.

Let us now assume that the amateur quite understands what a proper
Elzevir should be:  tall, clean, well bound if possible, and of the
good date.  But we have still to learn what the good dates are, and
this is matter for the study and practice of a well-spent life.  We
may gossip about a few of the more famous Elzevirs, those without
which no collection is complete.  Of all Elzevirs the most famous
and the most expensive is an old cookery book, "'Le Pastissier
Francois.'  Wherein is taught the way to make all sorts of pastry,
useful to all sorts of persons.  Also the manner of preparing all
manner of eggs, for fast-days, and other days, in more than sixty
fashions.  Amsterdam, Louys, and Daniel Elsevier. 1665."  The mark
is not the old "Sage," but the "Minerva" with her owl.  Now this
book has no intrinsic value any more than a Tauchnitz reprint of any
modern volume on cooking.  The 'Pastissier' is cherished because it
is so very rare.  The tract passed into the hands of cooks, and the
hands of cooks are detrimental to literature.  Just as nursery
books, fairy tales, and the like are destroyed from generation to
generation, so it happens with books used in the kitchen.  The
'Pastissier,' to be sure, has a good frontispiece, a scene in a Low
Country kitchen, among the dead game and the dainties.  The buxom
cook is making a game pie; a pheasant pie, decorated with the bird's
head and tail-feathers, is already made. {1}

Not for these charms, but for its rarity, is the 'Pastissier'
coveted.  In an early edition of the 'Manuel' (1821) Brunet says,
with a feigned brutality (for he dearly loved an Elzevir), "Till now
I have disdained to admit this book into my work, but I have yielded
to the prayers of amateurs.  Besides, how could I keep out a volume
which was sold for one hundred and one francs in 1819?"  One hundred
and one francs!  If I could only get a 'Pastissier' for one hundred
and one francs!  But our grandfathers lived in the Bookman's
Paradise.  "Il n'est pas jusqu'aux Anglais," adds Brunet--"the very
English themselves--have a taste for the 'Pastissier.'"  The Duke of
Marlborough's copy was actually sold for 1 pound 4s.  It would have
been money in the ducal pockets of the house of Marlborough to have
kept this volume till the general sale of all their portable
property at which our generation is privileged to assist.  No wonder
the 'Pastissier' was thought rare.  Berard only knew two copies.
Pietiers, writing on the Elzevirs in 1843, could cite only five
'Pastissiers,' and in his 'Annales' he had found out but five more.
Willems, on the other hand, enumerates some thirty, not including
Motteley's.  Motteley was an uncultivated, untaught enthusiast.  He
knew no Latin, but he had a FLAIR for uncut Elzevirs.  "Incomptis
capillis," he would cry (it was all his lore) as he gloated over his
treasures.  They were all burnt by the Commune in the Louvre
Library.

A few examples may be given of the prices brought by 'Le Pastissier'
in later days.  Sensier's copy was but 128 millimetres in height,
and had the old ordinary vellum binding,--in fact, it closely
resembled a copy which Messrs. Ellis and White had for sale in Bond
Street in 1883.  The English booksellers asked, I think, about 1,500
francs for their copy.  Sensier's was sold for 128 francs in April,
1828; for 201 francs in 1837.  Then the book was gloriously bound by
Trautz-Bauzonnet, and was sold with Potier's books in 1870, when it
fetched 2,910 francs.  At the Benzon sale (1875) it fetched 3,255
francs, and, falling dreadfully in price, was sold again in 1877 for
2,200 francs.  M. Dutuit, at Rouen, has a taller copy, bound by
Bauzonnet.  Last time it was sold (1851) it brought 251 francs.  The
Duc de Chartres has now the copy of Pieters, the historian of the
Elzevirs, valued at 3,000 francs.

About thirty years ago no fewer than three copies were sold at
Brighton, of all places.  M. Quentin Bauchart had a copy only 127
millimetres in height, which he swopped to M. Paillet.  M.
Chartener, of Metz, had a copy now bound by Bauzonnet which was sold
for four francs in 1780.  We call this the age of cheap books, but
before the Revolution books were cheaper.  It is fair to say,
however, that this example of the 'Pastissier' was then bound up
with another book, Vlacq's edition of 'Le Cuisinier Francois,' and
so went cheaper than it would otherwise have done.  M. de Fontaine
de Resbecq declares that a friend of his bought six original pieces
of Moliere's bound up with an old French translation of Garth's
'Dispensary.'  The one faint hope left to the poor book collector is
that he may find a valuable tract lurking in the leaves of some
bound collection of trash.  I have an original copy of Moliere's
'Les Fascheux' bound up with a treatise on precious stones, but the
bookseller from whom I bought it knew it was there!  That made all
the difference.

But, to return to our 'Pastissier,' here is M. de Fontaine de
Resbecq's account of how he wooed and won his own copy of this
illustrious Elzevir.  "I began my walk to-day," says this haunter of
ancient stalls, "by the Pont Marie and the Quai de la Greve, the
pillars of Hercules of the book-hunting world.  After having viewed
and reviewed these remote books, I was going away, when my attention
was caught by a small naked volume, without a stitch of binding.  I
seized it, and what was my delight when I recognised one of the
rarest of that famed Elzevir collection whose height is measured as
minutely as the carats of the diamond.  There was no indication of
price on the box where this jewel was lying; the book, though
unbound, was perfectly clean within.  'How much?' said I to the
bookseller.  'You can have it for six sous,' he answered; 'is it too
much?'  'No,' said I, and, trembling a little, I handed him the
thirty centimes he asked for the 'Pastissier Francois.'  You may
believe, my friend, that after such a piece of luck at the start,
one goes home fondly embracing the beloved object of one's search.
That is exactly what I did."

Can this tale be true?  Is such luck given by the jealous fates
mortalibus aegris?  M. de Resbecq's find was made apparently in
1856, when trout were plenty in the streams, and rare books not so
very rare.  To my own knowledge an English collector has bought an
original play of Moliere's, in the original vellum, for
eighteenpence.  But no one has such luck any longer.  Not, at least,
in London.  A more expensive 'Pastissier' than that which brought
six sous was priced in Bachelin-Deflorenne's catalogue at 240
pounds.  A curious thing occurred when two uncut 'Pastissiers'
turned up simultaneously in Paris.  One of them Morgand and Fatout
sold for 400 pounds.  Clever people argued that one of the twin
uncut 'Pastissiers' must be an imitation, a facsimile by means of
photogravure, or some other process.  But it was triumphantly
established that both were genuine; they had minute points of
difference in the ornaments.

M. Willems, the learned historian of the Elzevirs, is indignant at
the successes of a book which, as Brunet declares, is badly printed.
There must be at least forty known 'Pastissiers' in the world.  Yes;
but there are at least 4,000 people who would greatly rejoice to
possess a 'Pastissier,' and some of these desirous ones are very
wealthy.  While this state of the market endures, the 'Pastissier'
will fetch higher prices than the other varieties.  Another
extremely rare Elzevir is 'L'Illustre Theatre de Mons. Corneille'
(Leyden, 1644).  This contains 'Le Cid,' 'Les Horaces,' 'Le Cinna,'
'La Mort de Pompee,' 'Le Polyeucte.'  The name, 'L'Illustre
Theatre,' appearing at that date has an interest of its own.  In
1643-44, Moliere and Madeleine Bejart had just started the company
which they called 'L'Illustre Theatre.'  Only six or seven copies of
the book are actually known, though three or four are believed to
exist in England, probably all covered with dust in the library of
some lord.  "He has a very good library," I once heard some one say
to a noble earl, whose own library was famous.  "And what can a
fellow do with a very good library?" answered the descendant of the
Crusaders, who probably (being a youth light-hearted and content)
was ignorant of his own great possessions.  An expensive copy of
'L'Illustre Theatre,' bound by Trautz-Bauzonnet, was sold for 300
pounds.

Among Elzevirs desirable, yet not hopelessly rare, is the 'Virgil'
of 1636.  Heinsius was the editor of this beautiful volume, prettily
printed, but incorrect.  Probably it is hard to correct with
absolute accuracy works in the clear but minute type which the
Elzevirs affected.  They have won fame by the elegance of their
books, but their intention was to sell good books cheap, like Michel
Levy.  The small type was required to get plenty of "copy" into
little bulk.  Nicholas Heinsius, the son of the editor of the
'Virgil,' when he came to correct his father's edition, found that
it contained so many coquilles, or misprints, as to be nearly the
most incorrect copy in the world.  Heyne says, "Let the 'Virgil' be
one of the rare Elzevirs, if you please, but within it has scarcely
a trace of any good quality."  Yet the first edition of this
beautiful little book, with its two passages of red letters, is so
desirable that, till he could possess it, Charles Nodier would not
profane his shelves by any 'Virgil' at all.

Equally fine is the 'Caesar' of 1635, which, with the 'Virgil' of
1636 and the 'Imitation' without date, M. Willems thinks the most
successful works of the Elzevirs, "one of the most enviable jewels
in the casket of the bibliophile."  It may be recognised by the page
238, which is erroneously printed 248.  A good average height is
from 125 to 128 millimetres.  The highest known is 130 millimetres.
This book, like the 'Imitation,' has one of the pretty and ingenious
frontispieces which the Elzevirs prefixed to their books.  So
farewell, and good speed in your sport, ye hunters of Elzevirs, and
may you find perhaps the rarest Elzevir of all, 'L'Aimable Mere de
Jesus.'



BALLADE OF THE REAL AND IDEAL (DOUBLE REFRAIN)



O visions of salmon tremendous,
Of trout of unusual weight,
Of waters that wander as Ken does,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the skies that bring never a "spate,"
But the flies that catch up in a thorn,
But the creel that is barren of freight,
Through the portals of horn!

O dreams of the Fates that attend us
With prints in the earliest state,
O bargains in books that they send us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the tome that has never a mate,
But the quarto that's tattered and torn,
And bereft of a title and date,
Through the portals of horn!

O dreams of the tongues that commend us,
Of crowns for the laureate pate,
Of a public to buy and befriend us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the critics that slash us and slate, {2}
But the people that hold us in scorn,
But the sorrow, the scathe, and the hate,
Through the portals of horn!

ENVOY.

Fair dreams of things golden and great,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate;
But the facts that are bleak and forlorn,
Through the portals of horn!



CURIOSITIES OF PARISH REGISTERS



There are three classes of persons who are deeply concerned with
parish registers--namely, villains, antiquaries, and the sedulous
readers, "parish clerks and others," of the second or "agony" column
of the Times.  Villains are probably the most numerous of these
three classes.  The villain of fiction dearly loves a parish
register:  he cuts out pages, inserts others, intercalates remarks
in a different coloured ink, and generally manipulates the register
as a Greek manages his hand at ecarte, or as a Hebrew dealer in
Moabite bric-a-brac treats a synagogue roll.  We well remember one
villain who had locked himself into the vestry (he was disguised as
an archaeologist), and who was enjoying his wicked pleasure with the
register, when the vestry somehow caught fire, the rusty key would
not turn in the door, and the villain was roasted alive, in spite of
the disinterested efforts to save him made by all the virtuous
characters in the story.  Let the fate of this bold, bad man be a
warning to wicked earls, baronets, and all others who attempt to
destroy the record of the marriage of a hero's parents.  Fate will
be too strong for them in the long run, though they bribe the parish
clerk, or carry off in white wax an impression of the keys of the
vestry and of the iron chest in which a register should repose.

There is another and more prosaic danger in the way of villains, if
the new bill, entitled "The Parish Registers Preservation Act," ever
becomes law.  The bill provides that every register earlier than
1837 shall be committed to the care of the Master of the Rolls, and
removed to the Record Office.  Now the common villain of fiction
would feel sadly out of place in the Register Office, where a more
watchful eye than that of a comic parish clerk would be kept on his
proceedings.  Villains and local antiquaries will, therefore, use
all their parliamentary influence to oppose and delay this bill,
which is certainly hard on the parish archaeologist.  The men who
grub in their local registers, and slowly compile parish or county
history, deserve to be encouraged rather than depressed.  Mr.
Chester Waters, therefore, has suggested that copies of registers
should be made, and the comparatively legible copy left in the
parish, while the crabbed original is conveyed to the Record Office
in London.  Thus the local antiquary would really have his work made
more easy for him (though it may be doubted whether he would quite
enjoy that condescension), while the villain of romance would be
foiled; for it is useless (as a novel of Mr. Christie Murray's
proves) to alter the register in the keeping of the parish when the
original document is safe in the Record Office.  But previous
examples of enforced transcription (as in 1603) do not encourage us
to suppose that the copies would be very scrupulously made.  Thus,
after the Reformation, the prayers for the dead in the old registers
were omitted by the copyist, who seemed to think (as the contractor
for "sandwich men" said to the poor fellows who carried the letter
H), "I don't want you, and the public don't want you, and you're no
use to nobody."  Again, when Laurence Fletcher was buried in St.
Saviour's, Southwark, in 1608, the old register described him as "a
player, the King's servant."  But the clerk, keeping a note-book,
simply called Laurence Fletcher "a man," and (in 1625) he also
styled Mr. John Fletcher "a man."  Now, the old register calls Mr.
John Fletcher "a poet."  To copy all the parish registers in England
would be a very serious task, and would probably be but slovenly
performed.  If they were reproduced, again, by any process of
photography, the old difficult court hand would remain as hard as
ever.  But this is a minor objection, for the local antiquary revels
in the old court hand.

From the little volume by Mr. Chester Waters, already referred to
('Parish Registers in England;' printed for the author by F. J.
Roberts, Little Britain, E.C.), we proceed to appropriate such
matters of curiosity as may interest minds neither parochial nor
doggedly antiquarian.  Parish registers among the civilised peoples
of antiquity do not greatly concern us.  It seems certain that many
Polynesian races have managed to record (in verse, or by some rude
marks) the genealogies of their chiefs through many hundreds of
years.  These oral registers are accepted as fairly truthful by some
students, yet we must remember that Pindar supposed himself to
possess knowledge of at least twenty-five generations before his own
time, and that only brought him up to the birth of Jason.  Nobody
believes in Jason and Medea, and possibly the genealogical records
of Maoris and Fijians are as little trustworthy as those of Pindaric
Greece.  However, to consider thus is to consider too curiously.  We
only know for certain that genealogy very soon becomes important,
and, therefore, that records are early kept, in a growing
civilisation.  "After Nehemiah's return from the captivity in
Babylon, the priests at Jerusalem whose register was not found were
as polluted put from the priesthood."  Rome had her parish
registers, which were kept in the temple of Saturn.  But modern
parish registers were "discovered" (like America) in 1497, when
Cardinal Ximenes found it desirable to put on record the names of
the godfathers and godmothers of baptised children.  When these
relations of "gossip," or God's kin (as the word literally means),
were not certainly known, married persons could easily obtain
divorces, by pretending previous spiritual relationship.

But it was only during the reign of Mary, (called the Bloody) that
this rule of registering godfathers and godmothers prevailed in
England.  Henry VIII. introduced the custom of parish registers when
in a Protestant humour.  By the way, how curiously has Madame de
Flamareil (la femme de quarante ans, in Charles de Bernard's novel)
anticipated the verdict of Mr. Froude on Henry VIII.!  'On accuse
Henri VIII.,' dit Madame de Flamareil, "moi je le comprends, et je
l'absous; c'etait un coeur genereux, lorsqu'il ne les aimait plus,
il les tuait.'"  The public of England mistrusted, in the matter of
parish registers, the generous heart of Henry VIII.  It is the fixed
conviction of the public that all novelties in administration mean
new taxes.  Thus the Croatian peasantry were once on the point of
revolting because they imagined that they were to be taxed in
proportion to the length of their moustaches.  The English believed,
and the insurgents of the famous Pilgrimage of Grace declared, that
baptism was to be refused to all children who did not pay a
"trybette" (tribute) to the king.  But Henry, or rather his
minister, Cromwell, stuck to his plan, and (September 29, 1538)
issued an injunction that a weekly register of weddings,
christenings, and burials should be kept by the curate of every
parish.  The cost of the book (twopence in the case of St.
Margaret's, Westminster) was defrayed by the parishioners.  The
oldest extant register books are those thus acquired in 1597 or
1603.  These volumes were of parchment, and entries were copied into
them out of the old books on paper.  The copyists, as we have seen,
were indolent, and omitted characteristic points in the more ancient
records.

In the civil war parish registers fell into some confusion, and when
the clergy did make entries they commonly expressed their political
feelings in a mixture of Latin and English.  Latin, by the way, went
out as Protestantism came in, but the curate of Rotherby, in
Leicestershire, writes, "Bellum, Bellum, Bellum, interruption!
persecution!"  At St. Bridget's, in Chester, is the quaint entry,
"1643.  Here the register is defective till 1653.  The tymes were
SUCH!"  At Hilton, in Dorset, William Snoke, minister, entered his
opinion that persons whose baptism and marriage were not registered
"will be made uncapable of any earthly inheritance if they live.
This I note for the satisfaction of any that do:" though we may
doubt whether these parishioners found the information thus conveyed
highly satisfactory.

The register of Maid's Moreton, Bucks, tells how the reading-desk (a
spread eagle, gilt) was "doomed to perish as an abominable idoll;"
and how the cross on the steeple nearly (but not quite) knocked out
the brains of the Puritan who removed it.  The Puritans had their
way with the registers as well as with the eagle ("the vowl," as the
old country people call it), and laymen took the place of parsons as
registrars in 1653.  The books from 1653 to 1660, while this regime
lasted, "were kept exceptionally well," new brooms sweeping clean.
The books of the period contain fewer of the old Puritan Christian
names than we might have expected.  We find, "REPENTE Kytchens," so
styled before the poor little thing had anything but original sin to
repent of.  "FAINT NOT Kennard" is also registered, and "FREEGIFT
Mabbe."

A novelty was introduced into registers in 1678.  The law required
(for purposes of protecting trade) that all the dead should be
buried in woollen winding-sheets.  The price of the wool was the
obolus paid to the Charon of the Revenue.  After March 25, 1667, no
person was to be "buried in any shirt, shift, or sheet other that
should be made of woole only."  Thus when the children in a little
Oxfordshire village lately beheld a ghost, "dressed in a long narrow
gown of woollen, with bandages round the head and chin," it is clear
that the ghost was much more than a hundred years old, for the act
"had fallen into disuse long before it was repealed in 1814."  But
this has little to do with parish registers.  The addition made to
the duties of the keeper of the register in 1678 was this--he had to
take and record the affidavit of a kinsman of the dead, to the
effect that the corpse was actually buried in woollen fabric.  The
upper classes, however, preferred to bury in linen, and to pay the
fine of 5L.  When Mistress Oldfield, the famous actress, was
interred in 1730, her body was arrayed "in a very fine Brussels lace
headdress, a holland shift with a tucker and double ruffles of the
same lace, and a pair of new kid gloves."

In 1694 an empty exchequer was replenished by a tax on marriages,
births, and burials, the very extortion which had been feared by the
insurgents in the Pilgrimage of Grace.  The tax collectors had
access without payment of fee to the registers.  The registration of
births was discontinued when the Taxation Acts expired.  An attempt
to introduce the registration of births was made in 1753, but
unsuccessfully.  The public had the old superstitious dread of
anything like a census.  Moreover, the custom was denounced as
"French," and therefore abominable.  In the same way it was thought
telling to call the cloture "the French gag" during some recent
discussions of parliamentary rules.  In 1783 the parish register was
again made the instrument of taxation, and threepence was charged on
every entry.  Thus "the clergyman was placed in the invidious light
of a tax collector, and as the poor were often unable or unwilling
to pay the tax, the clergy had a direct inducement to retain their
good-will by keeping the registers defective."

It is easy to imagine the indignation in Scotland when "bang went
saxpence" every time a poor man had twins!  Of course the Scotch
rose up against this unparalleled extortion.  At last, in 1812,
"Rose's Act" was passed.  It is styled "an Act for the better
regulating and preserving registers of births," but the registration
of births is altogether omitted from its provisions.  By a stroke of
the wildest wit the penalty of transportation for fourteen years,
for making a false entry, "is to be divided equally between the
informer and the poor of the parish."  A more casual Act has rarely
been drafted.

Without entering into the modern history of parish registers, we may
borrow a few of the ancient curiosities to be found therein, the
blunders and the waggeries of forgotten priests, and curates, and
parish clerks.  In quite recent times (1832) it was thought worth
while to record that Charity Morrell at her wedding had signed her
name in the register with her right foot, and that the ring had been
placed on the fourth toe of her left foot; for poor Charity was born
without arms.  Sometimes the time of a birth was recorded with much
minuteness, that the astrologers might draw a more accurate
horoscope.  Unlucky children, with no acknowledged fathers, were
entered in a variety of odd ways.  In Lambeth (1685), George
Speedwell is put down as "a merry begot;" Anne Twine is "filia
uniuscujusque."  At Croydon, a certain William is "terraefilius"
(1582), an autochthonous infant.  Among the queer names of
foundlings are "Nameless," "Godsend," "Subpoena," and "Moyses and
Aaron, two children found," not in the bulrushes, but "in the
street."

The rule was to give the foundling for surname the name of the
parish, and from the Temple Church came no fewer than one hundred
and four foundlings named "Temple," between 1728 and 1755.  These
Temples are the plebeian gens of the patrician house which claims
descent from Godiva.  The use of surnames as Christian names is
later than the Reformation, and is the result of a reaction against
the exclusive use of saints' names from the calendar.  Another
example of the same reaction is the use of Old Testament names, and
"Ananias and Sapphira were favourite names with the Presbyterians."
It is only fair to add that these names are no longer popular with
Presbyterians, at any rate in the Kirk of Scotland.  The old Puritan
argument was that you would hardly select the name of too notorious
a scriptural sinner, "as bearing testimony to the triumph of grace
over original sin."  But in America a clergyman has been known to
decline to christen a child "Pontius Pilate," and no wonder.

Entries of burials in ancient times often contained some
biographical information about the deceased.  But nothing could
possibly be vaguer than this:  "1615, February 28, St. Martin's,
Ludgate, was buried an anatomy from the College of Physicians."
Man, woman, or child, sinner or saint, we know not, only that "an
anatomy" found Christian burial in St. Martin's, Ludgate.  How much
more full and characteristic is this, from St. Peter's-in-the-East,
Oxford (1568):  'There was buried Alyce, the wiff of a naughty
fellow whose name is Matthew Manne.'  There is immortality for
Matthew Manne, and there is, in short-hand, the tragedy of "Alyce
his wiff."  The reader of this record knows more of Matthew than in
two hundred years any one is likely to know of us who moralise over
Matthew!  At Kyloe, in Northumberland, the intellectual defects of
Henry Watson have, like the naughtiness of Manne, secured him a
measure of fame. (1696.)  "Henry was so great a fooll, that he never
could put on his own close, nor never went a quarter of a mile off
the house," as Voltaire's Memnon resolved never to do, and as Pascal
partly recommends.

What had Mary Woodfield done to deserve the alias which the Croydon
register gives her of "Queen of Hell"? (1788.)  Distinguished people
were buried in effigy, in all the different churches with which they
were connected, and each sham burial service was entered in the
parish registers, a snare and stumbling-block to the historian.
This curious custom is very ancient.  Thus we read in the Odyssey
that when Menelaus heard in Egypt of the death of Agamemnon he
reared for him a cenotaph, and piled an empty barrow "that the fame
of the dead man might never be quenched."  Probably this old usage
gave rise to the claims of several Greek cities to possess the tomb
of this or that ancient hero.  A heroic tomb, as of Cassandra for
example, several towns had to show, but which was the true grave,
which were the cenotaphs?  Queen Elizabeth was buried in all the
London churches, and poor Cassandra had her barrow in Argos,
Mycenae, and Amyclae.

"A drynkyng for the soul" of the dead, a [Greek text] or funeral
feast, was as common in England before the Reformation as in ancient
Greece.  James Cooke, of Sporle, in Norfolk (1528), left six
shillings and eightpence to pay for this "drynkyng for his soul;"
and the funeral feast, which long survived in the distribution of
wine, wafers, and rosemary, still endures as a slight collation of
wine and cake in Scotland.  What a funeral could be, as late as
1731, Mr. Chester Waters proves by the bill for the burial of Andrew
Card, senior bencher of Gray's Inn.  The deceased was brave in a
"superfine pinked shroud" (cheap at 1L. 5S. 6D.), and there were
eight large plate candle-sticks on stands round the dais, and
ninety-six buckram escutcheons.  The pall-bearers wore Alamode
hatbands covered with frizances, and so did the divines who were
present at the melancholy but gorgeous function.  A hundred men in
mourning carried a hundred white wax branch lights, and the gloves
of the porters in Gray's Inn were ash-coloured with black points.
Yet the wine cost no more than 1L. 19S. 6D.; a "deal of sack," by no
means "intolerable."

Leaving the funerals, we find that the parish register sometimes
records ancient and obsolete modes of death.  Thus, martyrs are
scarce now, but the register of All Saints', Derby, 1556, mentions
"a poor blinde woman called Joan Waste, of this parish, a martyr,
burned in Windmill pit."  She was condemned by Ralph Baynes, Bishop
of Coventry and Lichfield.  In 1558, at Richmond, in Yorkshire, we
find "Richard Snell, b'rnt, bur. 9 Sept."  At Croydon, in 1585,
Roger Shepherd probably never expected to be eaten by a lioness.
Roger was not, like Wyllyam Barker, "a common drunkard and
blasphemer," and we cannot regard the Croydon lioness, like the
Nemean lion, as a miraculous monster sent against the county of
Surrey for the sins of the people.  The lioness "was brought into
the town to be seen of such as would give money to see her.  He"
(Roger) "was sore wounded in sundry places, and was buried the 26th
Aug."

In 1590, the register of St. Oswald's, Durham, informs us that
"Duke, Hyll, Hogge, and Holiday" were hanged and burned for "there
horrible offences."  The arm of one of these horrible offenders was
preserved at St. Omer as the relic of a martyr, "a most precious
treasure," in 1686.  But no one knew whether the arm belonged
originally to Holiday, Hyll, Duke, or Hogge.  The coals, when these
unfortunate men were burned, cost sixpence; the other items in the
account of the abominable execution are, perhaps, too repulsive to
be quoted.

According to some critics of the British government, we do not treat
the Egyptians well.  But our conduct towards the Fellahs has
certainly improved since this entry was made in the register of St.
Nicholas, Durham (1592, August 8th):  'Simson, Arington,
Featherston, Fenwick, and Lancaster, WERE HANGED FOR BEING
EGYPTIANS.'  They were, in fact, gypsies, or had been consorting
with gypsies, and they suffered under 5 Eliz. c. 20.  In 1783 this
statute was abolished, and was even considered "a law of excessive
severity."  For even a hundred years ago "the puling cant of sickly
humanitarianism" was making itself heard to the injury of our sturdy
old English legislation.  To be killed by a poet is now an unusual
fate, but the St. Leonard's, Shoreditch, register (1598) mentions
how "Gabriel Spencer, being slayne, was buried."  Gabriel was
"slayne" by Rare Ben Jonson, in Hoxton Fields.

The burning of witches is, naturally, not an uncommon item in parish
registers, and is set forth in a bold, business-like manner.  On
August 21 (1650) fifteen women and one man were executed for the
imaginary crime of witchcraft.  "A grave, for a witch, sixpence," is
an item in the municipal accounts.  And the grave was a cheap haven
for the poor woman who had been committed to the tender mercies of a
Scotch witch-trier.  Cetewayo's medicine-men, who "smelt out"
witches, were only some two centuries in the rear of our
civilisation.  Three hundred years ago Bishop Jewell, preaching
before Elizabeth, was quite of the mind of Cetewayo and Saul, as to
the wickedness of suffering a witch to live.  As late as 1691, the
register of Holy Island, Northumberland, mentions "William Cleugh,
bewitched to death," and the superstition is almost as powerful as
ever among the rural people.  Between July 13 and July 24 (1699) the
widow Comon, in Essex, was thrice swum for a witch.  She was not
drowned, but survived her immersion for only five months.  A
singular homicide is recorded at Newington Butts, 1689.  "John Arris
and Derwick Farlin in one grave, being both Dutch soldiers; one
killed the other drinking brandy."  But who slew the slayer?  The
register is silent; but "often eating a shoulder of mutton or a peck
of hasty pudding at a time caused the death of James Parsons," at
Teddington, in Middlesex, 1743.  Parsons had resisted the effects of
shoulders of mutton and hasty pudding till the age of thirty-six.

And so the registers run on.  Sometimes they tell of the death of a
glutton, sometimes of a GRACE WYFE (grosse femme).  Now the bell
tolls for the decease of a duke, now of a "dog-whipper."
"Lutenists" and "Saltpetremen"--the skeleton of the old German
allegory whispers to each and twitches him by the sleeve.  "Ellis
Thompson, insipiens," leaves Chester-le-Street, where he had gabbled
and scrabbled on the doors, and follows "William, foole to my Lady
Jerningham," and "Edward Errington, the Towne's Fooll" (Newcastle-
on-Tyne) down the way to dusty death.  Edward Errington died "of the
pest," and another idiot took his place and office, for Newcastle
had her regular town fools before she acquired her singularly
advanced modern representatives.  The "aquavity man" dies (in
Cripplegate), and the "dumb-man who was a fortune-teller" (Stepney,
1628), and the "King's Falkner," and Mr. Gregory Isham, who combined
the professions, not frequently united, of "attorney and
husbandman," in Barwell, Leicestershire (1655).  "The lame chimney-
sweeper," and the "King of the gypsies," and Alexander Willis, "qui
calographiam docuit," the linguist, and the Tom o' Bedlam, the
comfit-maker, and the panyer-man, and the tack-maker, and the
suicide, they all found death; or, if they sought him, the
churchyard where they were "hurled into a grave" was interdicted,
and purified, after a fortnight, with "frankincense and sweet
perfumes, and herbs."

Sometimes people died wholesale of pestilence, and the Longborough
register mentions a fresh way of death, "the swat called New
Acquaintance, alias Stoupe Knave, and know thy master."  Another
malady was 'the posting swet, that posted from towne to towne
through England.'  The plague of 1591 was imported in bales of cloth
from the Levant, just as British commerce still patriotically tries
to introduce cholera in cargoes of Egyptian rags.  The register of
Malpas, in Cheshire (Aug. 24, 1625), has this strange story of the
plague:-

"Richard Dawson being sicke of the plague, and perceiving he must
die at yt time, arose out of his bed, and made his grave, and caused
his nefew, John Dawson, to cast strawe into the grave which was not
farre from the house, and went and lay'd him down in the say'd
grave, and caused clothes to be lay'd uppon and so dep'ted out of
this world; this he did because he was a strong man, and heavier
than his said nefew and another wench were able to bury."

And John Dawson died, and Rose Smyth, the "wench" already spoken of,
died, the last of the household.

Old customs survive in the parish registers.  Scolding wives were
ducked, and in Kingston-on-Thames, 1572, the register tells how the
sexton's wife "was sett on a new cukking-stoole, and brought to
Temes brydge, and there had three duckings over head and eres,
because she was a common scold and fighter."  The cucking-stool, a
very elaborate engine of the law, cost 1L. 3S. 4D.  Men were ducked
for beating their wives, and if that custom were revived the
profession of cucking-stool maker would become busy and lucrative.
Penances of a graver sort are on record in the registers.  Margaret
Sherioux, in Croydon (1597), was ordered to stand three market days
in the town, and three Sundays in the church, in a white sheet.  The
sin imputed to her was a dreadful one.  "She stood one Saturday, and
one Sunday, and died the next."  Innocent or guilty, this world was
no longer a fit abiding-place for Margaret Sherioux.  Occasionally
the keeper of the register entered any event which seemed out of the
common.  Thus the register of St. Nicholas, Durham (1568), has this
contribution to natural history:-

"A certaine Italian brought into the cittie of Durham a very greate
strange and monstrous serpent, in length sixteen feet, in quantitie
and dimentions greater than a greate horse, which was taken and
killed by special policie, in Ethiopia within the Turkas dominions.
But before it was killed, it had devoured (as is credibly thought)
more than 1,000 persons, and destroyed a great country."

This must have been a descendant of the monster that would have
eaten Andromeda, and was slain by Perseus in the country of the
blameless Ethiopians.  Collections of money are recorded
occasionally, as in 1680, when no less than one pound eight
shillings was contributed "for redemption of Christians (taken by ye
Turkish pyrates) out of Turkish slavery."  Two hundred years ago the
Turk was pretty "unspeakable" still.  Of all blundering Dogberries,
the most confused kept (in 1670) the parish register at Melton
Mowbray:-

"Here [he writes] is a bill of Burton Lazareth's people, which was
buried, and which was and maried above 10 years old, for because the
clarke was dead, and therefore they was not set down according as
they was, but they all set down sure enough one among another here
in this place."

"They all set down sure enough," nor does it matter much now to know
whom they married, and how long they lived in Melton Mowbray.  The
following entry sufficed for the great Villiers that expired "in the
worst inn's worst room,"--"Kirkby Moorside, Yorkshire, 1687.
Georges vilaris Lord dooke of Bookingham, bur. 17. April."

"So much for Buckingham!"



THE ROWFANT BOOKS
BALLADE EN GUISE DE RONDEAU



The Rowfant books, how fair they shew,
The Quarto quaint, the Aldine tall,
Print, autograph, portfolio!
Back from the outer air they call,
The athletes from the Tennis ball,
This Rhymer from his rod and hooks,
Would I could sing them one and all,
The Rowfant books!

The Rowfant books!  In sun and snow
They're dear, but most when tempests fall;
The folio towers above the row
As once, o'er minor prophets,--Saul!
What jolly jest books and what small
"Dear dumpy Twelves" to fill the nooks.
You do not find on every stall
The Rowfant books!

The Rowfant books!  These long ago
Were chained within some College hall;
These manuscripts retain the glow
Of many a coloured capital
While yet the Satires keep their gall,
While the Pastissier puzzles cooks,
Theirs is a joy that does not pall,
The Rowfant books!

ENVOI.

The Rowfant books,--ah magical
As famed Armida's "golden looks,"
They hold the rhymer for their thrall,
The Rowfant books.



TO F. L.



I mind that Forest Shepherd's saw,
For, when men preached of Heaven, quoth he,
"It's a' that's bricht, and a' that's braw,
But Bourhope's guid eneuch for me!"

Beneath the green deep-bosomed hills
That guard Saint Mary's Loch it lies,
The silence of the pasture fills
That shepherd's homely paradise.

Enough for him his mountain lake,
His glen the burn went singing through,
And Rowfant, when the thrushes wake,
May well seem good enough for you.

For all is old, and tried, and dear,
And all is fair, and round about
The brook that murmurs from the mere
Is dimpled with the rising trout.

But when the skies of shorter days
Are dark and all the ways are mire,
How bright upon your books the blaze
Gleams from the cheerful study fire,

On quartos where our fathers read,
Enthralled, the book of Shakespeare's play,
On all that Poe could dream of dread,
And all that Herrick sang of gay!

Fair first editions, duly prized,
Above them all, methinks, I rate
The tome where Walton's hand revised
His wonderful receipts for bait!

Happy, who rich in toys like these
Forgets a weary nation's ills,
Who from his study window sees
The circle of the Sussex hills!



SOME JAPANESE BOGIE-BOOKS



There is or used to be a poem for infant minds of a rather
Pharisaical character, which was popular in the nursery when I was a
youngster.  It ran something like this:-.


I thank my stars that I was born
A little British child.


Perhaps these were not the very words, but that was decidedly the
sentiment.  Look at the Japanese infants, from the pencil of the
famous Hokusai.  Though they are not British, were there ever two
jollier, happier small creatures?  Did Leech, or Mr. Du Maurier, or
Andrea della Robbia ever present a more delightful view of innocent,
well-pleased childhood?  Well, these Japanese children, if they are
in the least inclined to be timid or nervous, must have an awful
time of it at night in the dark, and when they make that eerie
"northwest passage" bedwards through the darkling house of which Mr.
Stevenson sings the perils and the emotions.  All of us who did not
suffer under parents brought up on the views of Mr. Herbert Spencer
have endured, in childhood, a good deal from ghosts.  But it is
nothing to what Japanese children bear, for our ghosts are to the
spectres of Japan as moonlight is to sunlight, or as water unto
whisky.  Personally I may say that few people have been plagued by
the terror that walketh in darkness more than myself.  At the early
age of ten I had the tales of the ingenious Mr. Edgar Poe and of
Charlotte Bronte "put into my hands" by a cousin who had served as a
Bashi Bazouk, and knew not the meaning of fear.  But I DID, and
perhaps even Nelson would have found out "what fear was," or the boy
in the Norse tale would have "learned to shiver," if he had been
left alone to peruse 'Jane Eyre,' and the 'Black Cat,' and the 'Fall
of the House of Usher,' as I was.  Every night I expected to wake up
in my coffin, having been prematurely buried; or to hear sighs in
the area, followed by light, unsteady footsteps on the stairs, and
then to see a lady all in a white shroud stained with blood and clay
stagger into my room, the victim of too rapid interment.  As to the
notion that my respected kinsman had a mad wife concealed on the
premises, and that a lunatic aunt, black in the face with suppressed
mania, would burst into my chamber, it was comparatively a harmless
fancy, and not particularly disturbing.  Between these and the
'Yellow Dwarf,' who (though only the invention of the Countess
D'Aulnoy) might frighten a nervous infant into hysterics, I
personally had as bad a time of it in the night watches as any happy
British child has survived.  But our ogres are nothing to the bogies
which make not only night but day terrible to the studious infants
of Japan and China.

Chinese ghosts are probably much the same as Japanese ghosts.  The
Japanese have borrowed most things, including apparitions and
awesome sprites and grisly fiends, from the Chinese, and then have
improved on the original model.  Now we have a very full, complete,
and horror-striking account of Chinese harnts (as the country people
in Tennessee call them) from Mr. Herbert Giles, who has translated
scores of Chinese ghost stories in his 'Strange Tales from a Chinese
Studio' (De la Rue, 1880).  Mr. Giles's volumes prove that China is
the place for Messrs. Gurney and Myers, the secretaries of the
Psychical Society.

Ghosts do not live a hole-and-corner life in China, but boldly come
out and take their part in the pleasures and business of life.  It
has always been a question with me whether ghosts, in a haunted
house, appear when there is no audience.  What does the spectre in
the tapestried chamber do when the house is NOT full, and no guest
is put in the room to bury strangers in, the haunted room?  Does the
ghost sulk and complain that there is "no house," and refuse to
rehearse his little performance, in a conscientious and
disinterestedly artistic spirit, when deprived of the artist's true
pleasure, the awakening of sympathetic emotion in the mind of the
spectator?  We give too little thought and sympathy to ghosts, who
in our old castles and country houses often find no one to appear to
from year's end to year's-end.  Only now and then is a guest placed
in the "haunted room."  Then I like to fancy the glee of the lady in
green or the radiant boy, or the headless man, or the old gentleman
in snuff-coloured clothes, as he, or she, recognises the presence of
a spectator, and prepares to give his or her best effects in the
familiar style.

Now in China and Japan certainly a ghost does not wait till people
enter the haunted room:  a ghost, like a person of fashion, "goes
everywhere."  Moreover, he has this artistic excellence, that very
often you don't know him from an embodied person.  He counterfeits
mortality so cleverly that he (the ghost) has been known to
personate a candidate for honours, and pass an examination for him.
A pleasing example of this kind, illustrating the limitations of
ghosts, is told in Mr. Giles's book.  A gentleman of Huai Shang
named Chou-t'ien-i had arrived at the age of fifty, but his family
consisted of but one son, a fine boy, "strangely averse from study,"
as if there were anything strange in THAT.  One day the son
disappeared mysteriously, as people do from West Ham.  In a year he
came back, said he had been detained in a Taoist monastery, and, to
all men's amazement, took to his books.  Next year he obtained is
B.A. degree, a First Class.  All the neighbourhood was overjoyed,
for Huai Shang was like Pembroke College (Oxford), where, according
to the poet, "First Class men are few and far between."  It was who
should have the honour of giving his daughter as bride to this
intellectual marvel.  A very nice girl was selected, but most
unexpectedly the B.A. would not marry.  This nearly broke his
father's heart.  The old gentleman knew, according to Chinese
belief, that if he had no grandchild there would be no one in the
next generation to feed his own ghost and pay it all the little
needful attentions.  "Picture then the father naming and insisting
on the day;" till K'o-ch'ang, B.A., got up and ran away.  His mother
tried to detain him, when his clothes "came off in her hand," and
the bachelor vanished!  Next day appeared the real flesh and blood
son, who had been kidnapped and enslaved.  The genuine K'o-ch'ang
was overjoyed to hear of his approaching nuptials.  The rites were
duly celebrated, and in less than a year the old gentleman welcomed
his much-longed-for grand child.  But, oddly enough, K'o-ch'ang,
though very jolly and universally beloved, was as stupid as ever,
and read nothing but the sporting intelligence in the newspapers.
It was now universally admitted that the learned K'o-ch'ang had been
an impostor, a clever ghost.  It follows that ghosts can take a very
good degree; but ladies need not be afraid of marrying ghosts, owing
to the inveterate shyness of these learned spectres.

The Chinese ghost is by no means always a malevolent person, as,
indeed, has already been made clear from the affecting narrative of
the ghost who passed an examination.  Even the spectre which answers
in China to the statue in 'Don Juan,' the statue which accepts
invitations to dinner, is anything but a malevolent guest.  So much
may be gathered from the story of Chu and Lu.  Chu was an
undergraduate of great courage and bodily vigour, but dull of wit.
He was a married man, and his children (as in the old Oxford legend)
often rushed into their mother's presence, shouting, "Mamma! mammal
papa's been plucked again!"  Once it chanced that Chu was at a wine
party, and the negus (a favourite beverage of the Celestials) had
done its work.  His young friends betted Chu a bird's-nest dinner
that he would not go to the nearest temple, enter the room devoted
to coloured sculptures representing the torments of Purgatory, and
carry off the image of the Chinese judge of the dead, their Osiris
or Rhadamanthus.  Off went old Chu, and soon returned with the
august effigy (which wore "a green face, a red beard, and a hideous
expression") in his arms.  The other men were frightened, and begged
Chu to restore his worship to his place on the infernal bench.
Before carrying back the worthy magistrate, Chu poured a libation on
the ground and said, "Whenever your excellency feels so disposed, I
shall be glad to take a cup of wine with you in a friendly way."
That very night, as Chu was taking a stirrup cup before going to
bed, the ghost of the awful judge came to the door and entered.  Chu
promptly put the kettle on, mixed the negus, and made a night of it
with the festive fiend.  Their friendship was never interrupted from
that moment.  The judge even gave Chu a new heart (literally)
whereby he was enabled to pass examinations; for the heart, in
China, is the seat of all the intellectual faculties.  For Mrs. Chu,
a plain woman with a fine figure, the ghost provided a new head, of
a handsome girl recently slain by a robber.  Even after Chu's death
the genial spectre did not neglect him, but obtained for him an
appointment as registrar in the next world, with a certain rank
attached.

The next world, among the Chinese, seems to be a paradise of
bureaucracy, patent places, jobs, mandarins' buttons and tails, and,
in short, the heaven of officialism.  All civilised readers are
acquainted with Mr. Stockton's humorous story of 'The Transferred
Ghost.'  In Mr. Stockton's view a man does not always get his own
ghostship; there is a vigorous competition among spirits for good
ghostships, and a great deal of intrigue and party feeling.  It may
be long before a disembodied spectre gets any ghostship at all, and
then, if he has little influence, he may be glad to take a chance of
haunting the Board of Trade, or the Post Office, instead of
"walking" in the Foreign Office.  One spirit may win a post as White
Lady in the imperial palace, while another is put off with a
position in an old college library, or perhaps has to follow the
fortunes of some seedy "medium" through boarding-houses and third-
rate hotels.  Now this is precisely the Chinese view of the fates
and fortunes of ghosts.  Quisque suos patimur manes.

In China, to be brief, and to quote a ghost (who ought to know what
he was speaking about), "supernaturals are to be found everywhere."
This is the fact that makes life so puzzling and terrible to a child
of a believing and trustful character.  These Oriental bogies do not
appear in the dark alone, or only in haunted houses, or at cross-
roads, or in gloomy woods.  They are everywhere:  every man has his
own ghost, every place has its peculiar haunting fiend, every
natural phenomenon has its informing spirit; every quality, as
hunger, greed, envy, malice, has an embodied visible shape prowling
about seeking what it may devour.  Where our science, for example,
sees (or rather smells) sewer gas, the Japanese behold a slimy,
meagre, insatiate wraith, crawling to devour the lives of men.
Where we see a storm of snow, their livelier fancy beholds a comic
snow-ghost, a queer, grinning old man under a vast umbrella.

The illustrations in this paper are only a few specimens chosen out
of many volumes of Japanese bogies.  We have not ventured to copy
the very most awful spectres, nor dared to be as horrid as we can.
These native drawings, too, are generally coloured regardless of
expense, and the colouring is often horribly lurid and satisfactory.
This embellishment, fortunately perhaps, we cannot reproduce.
Meanwhile, if any child looks into this essay, let him (or her) not
be alarmed by the pictures he beholds.  Japanese ghosts do not live
in this country; there are none of them even at the Japanese
Legation.  Just as bears, lions, and rattlesnakes are not to be
seriously dreaded in our woods and commons, so the Japanese ghost
cannot breathe (any more than a slave can) in the air of England or
America.  We do not yet even keep any ghostly zoological garden in
which the bogies of Japanese, Australians, Red Indians, and other
distant peoples may be accommodated.  Such an establishment is
perhaps to be desired in the interests of psychical research, but
that form of research has not yet been endowed by a cultivated and
progressive government.

The first to attract our attention represents, as I understand, the
common ghost, or simulacrum vulgare of psychical science.  To this
complexion must we all come, according to the best Japanese opinion.
Each of us contains within him "somewhat of a shadowy being," like
the spectre described by Dr. Johnson:  something like the Egyptian
"Ka," for which the curious may consult the works of Miss Amelia B.
Edwards and other learned Orientalists.  The most recent French
student of these matters, the author of 'L'Homme Posthume,' is of
opinion that we do not all possess this double, with its power of
surviving our bodily death.  He thinks, too, that our ghost, when it
does survive, has but rarely the energy and enterprise to make
itself visible to or audible by "shadow-casting men."  In some
extreme cases the ghost (according to our French authority, that of
a disciple of M. Comte) feeds fearsomely on the bodies of the
living.  In no event does he believe that a ghost lasts much longer
than a hundred years.  After that it mizzles into spectre, and is
resolved into its elements, whatever they may be.

A somewhat similar and (to my own mind) probably sound theory of
ghosts prevails among savage tribes, and among such peoples as the
ancient Greeks, the modern Hindoos, and other ancestor worshippers.
When feeding, as they all do, or used to do, the ghosts of the
ancestral dead, they gave special attention to the claims of the
dead of the last three generations, leaving ghosts older than the
century to look after their own supplies of meat and drink.  The
negligence testifies to a notion that very old ghosts are of little
account, for good or evil.  On the other hand, as regards the
longevity of spectres, we must not shut our eyes to the example of
the bogie in ancient armour which appears in Glamis Castle, or to
the Jesuit of Queen Elizabeth's date that haunts the library (and a
very nice place to haunt:  I ask no better, as a ghost in the
Pavilion at Lord's might cause a scandal) of an English nobleman.
With these instantiae contradictoriae, as Bacon calls them, present
to our minds, we must not (in the present condition of psychical
research) dogmatise too hastily about the span of life allotted to
the simulacrum vulgare.  Very probably his chances of a prolonged
existence are in inverse ratio to the square of the distance of time
which severs him from our modern days.  No one has ever even
pretended to see the ghost of an ancient Roman buried in these
islands, still less of a Pict or Scot, or a Palaeolithic man,
welcome as such an apparition would be to many of us.  Thus the
evidence does certainly look as if there were a kind of statute of
limitations among ghosts, which, from many points of view, is not an
arrangement at which we should repine.

The Japanese artist expresses his own sense of the casual and
fluctuating nature of ghosts by drawing his spectre in shaky lines,
as if the model had given the artist the horrors.  This simulacrum
rises out of the earth like an exhalation, and groups itself into
shape above the spade with which all that is corporeal of its late
owner has been interred.  Please remark the uncomforted and dismal
expression of the simulacrum.  We must remember that the ghost or
"Ka" is not the "soul," which has other destinies in the future
world, good or evil, but is only a shadowy resemblance, condemned,
as in the Egyptian creed, to dwell in the tomb and hover near it.
The Chinese and Japanese have their own definite theory of the next
world, and we must by no means confuse the eternal fortunes of the
permanent, conscious, and responsible self, already inhabiting other
worlds than ours, with the eccentric vagaries of the semi-material
tomb-haunting larva, which so often develops a noisy and bear-
fighting disposition quite unlike the character of its proprietor in
life.

The next bogie, so limp and washed-out as he seems, with his white,
drooping, dripping arms and hands, reminds us of that horrid French
species of apparition, "la lavandiere de la nuit," who washes dead
men's linen in the moonlit pools and rivers.  Whether this
simulacrum be meant for the spirit of the well (for everything has
its spirit in Japan), or whether it be the ghost of some mortal
drowned in the well, I cannot say with absolute certainty; but the
opinion of the learned tends to the former conclusion.  Naturally a
Japanese child, when sent in the dusk to draw water, will do so with
fear and trembling, for this limp, floppy apparition might scare the
boldest.  Another bogie, a terrible creation of fancy, I take to be
a vampire, about which the curious can read in Dom Calmet, who will
tell them how whole villages in Hungary have been depopulated by
vampires; or he may study in Fauriel's 'Chansons de la Grece
Moderne' the vampires of modern Hellas.

Another plan, and perhaps even more satisfactory to a timid or
superstitious mind, is to read in a lonely house at midnight a story
named 'Carmilla,' printed in Mr. Sheridan Le Fanu's 'In a Glass
Darkly.'  That work will give you the peculiar sentiment of
vampirism, will produce a gelid perspiration, and reduce the patient
to a condition in which he will be afraid to look round the room.
If, while in this mood, some one tells him Mr. Augustus Hare's story
of Crooglin Grange, his education in the practice and theory of
vampires will be complete, and he will be a very proper and well-
qualified inmate of Earlswood Asylum.  The most awful Japanese
vampire, caught red-handed in the act, a hideous, bestial
incarnation of ghoulishness, we have carefully refrained from
reproducing.

Scarcely more agreeable is the bogie, or witch, blowing from her
mouth a malevolent exhalation, an embodiment of malignant and
maleficent sorcery.  The vapour which flies and curls from the mouth
constitutes "a sending," in the technical language of Icelandic
wizards, and is capable (in Iceland, at all events) of assuming the
form of some detestable supernatural animal, to destroy the life of
a hated rival.  In the case of our last example it is very hard
indeed to make head or tail of the spectre represented.  Chinks and
crannies are his domain; through these he drops upon you.  He is a
merry but not an attractive or genial ghost.  Where there are such
"visions about" it may be admitted that children, apt to believe in
all such fancies, have a youth of variegated and intense misery,
recurring with special vigour at bed-time.  But we look again at our
first picture, and hope and trust that Japanese boys and girls are
as happy as these jolly little creatures appear.



GHOSTS IN THE LIBRARY



Suppose, when now the house is dumb,
When lights are out, and ashes fall -
Suppose their ancient owners come
To claim our spoils of shop and stall,
Ah me! within the narrow hall
How strange a mob would meet and go,
What famous folk would haunt them all,
Octavo, quarto, folio!

The great Napoleon lays his hand
Upon this eagle-headed N,
That marks for his a pamphlet banned
By all but scandal-loving men, -
A libel from some nameless den
Of Frankfort,--Arnaud a la Sphere,
Wherein one spilt, with venal pen,
Lies o'er the loves of Moliere. {3}

Another shade--he does not see
"Boney," the foeman of his race -
The great Sir Walter, this is he
With that grave homely Border face.
He claims his poem of the chase
That rang Benvoirlich's valley through;
And THIS, that doth the lineage trace
And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch; {4}

For these were his, and these he gave
To one who dwelt beside the Peel,
That murmurs with its tiny wave
To join the Tweed at Ashestiel.
Now thick as motes the shadows wheel,
And find their own, and claim a share
Of books wherein Ribou did deal,
Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert. {5}

What famous folk of old are here!
A royal duke comes down to us,
And greatly wants his Elzevir,
His Pagan tutor, Lucius. {6}
And Beckford claims an amorous
Old heathen in morocco blue; {7}
And who demands Eobanus
But stately Jacques Auguste de Thou! {8}

They come, the wise, the great, the true,
They jostle on the narrow stair,
The frolic Countess de Verrue,
Lamoignon, ay, and Longepierre,
The new and elder dead are there -
The lords of speech, and song, and pen,
Gambetta, {9} Schlegel {10} and the rare
Drummond of haunted Hawthornden. {11}

Ah, and with those, a hundred more,
Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot:
Brave "Smiths" and "Thompsons" by the score,
Scrawled upon many a shabby "lot."
This playbook was the joy of Pott {12} -
Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves.
Our names, like his, remembered not,
Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves!

At least in pleasant company
We bookish ghosts, perchance, may flit;
A man may turn a page, and sigh,
Seeing one's name, to think of it.
Beauty, or Poet, Sage, or Wit,
May ope our book, and muse awhile,
And fall into a dreaming fit,
As now we dream, and wake, and smile!



LITERARY FORGERIES



In the whole amusing history of impostures, there is no more
diverting chapter than that which deals with literary frauds.  None
contains a more grotesque revelation of the smallness and the
complexity of human nature, and none--not even the records of the
Tichborne trial, nor of general elections--displays more pleasantly
the depths of mortal credulity.  The literary forger is usually a
clever man, and it is necessary for him to be at least on a level
with the literary knowledge and critical science of his time.  But
how low that level commonly appears to be!  Think of the success of
Ireland, a boy of eighteen; think of Chatterton; think of Surtees of
Mainsforth, who took in the great Sir Walter himself, the father of
all them that are skilled in ballad lore.  How simple were the
artifices of these ingenious impostors, their resources how scanty;
how hand-to-mouth and improvised was their whole procedure!  Times
have altered a little.  Jo Smith's revelation and famed 'Golden
Bible' only carried captive the polygamous populus qui vult decipi,
reasoners a little lower than even the believers in Anglo-Israel.
The Moabite Ireland, who once gave Mr. Shapira the famous MS. of
Deuteronomy, but did not delude M. Clermont-Ganneau, was doubtless a
smart man; he was, however, a little too indolent, a little too
easily satisfied.  He might have procured better and less
recognisable materials than his old "synagogue rolls;" in short, he
took rather too little trouble, and came to the wrong market.  A
literary forgery ought first, perhaps, to appeal to the credulous,
and only slowly should it come, with the prestige of having already
won many believers, before the learned world.  The inscriber of the
Phoenician inscriptions in Brazil (of all places) was a clever man.
His account of the voyage of Hiram to South America probably gained
some credence in Brazil, while in England it only carried captive
Mr. Day, author of 'The Prehistoric Use of Iron and Steel.'  But the
Brazilians, from lack of energy, have dropped the subject, and the
Phoenician inscriptions of Brazil are less successful, after all,
than the Moabite stone, about which one begins to entertain
disagreeable doubts.

The motives of the literary forger are curiously mixed; but they
may, perhaps, be analysed roughly into piety, greed, "push," and
love of fun.  Many literary forgeries have been pious frauds,
perpetrated in the interests of a church, a priesthood, or a dogma.
Then we have frauds of greed, as if, for example, a forger should
offer his wares for a million of money to the British Museum; or
when he tries to palm off his Samaritan Gospel on the "Bad
Samaritan" of the Bodleian.  Next we come to playful frauds, or
frauds in their origin playful, like (perhaps) the Shakespearian
forgeries of Ireland, the supercheries of Prosper Merimee, the sham
antique ballads (very spirited poems in their way) of Surtees, and
many other examples.  Occasionally it has happened that forgeries,
begun for the mere sake of exerting the imitative faculty, and of
raising a laugh against the learned, have been persevered with in
earnest.  The humorous deceits are, of course, the most pardonable,
though it is difficult to forgive the young archaeologist who took
in his own father with false Greek inscriptions.  But this story may
be a mere fable amongst archaeologists, who are constantly accusing
each other of all manner of crimes.  Then there are forgeries by
"pushing" men, who hope to get a reading for poems which, if put
forth as new, would be neglected.  There remain forgeries of which
the motives are so complex as to remain for ever obscure.  We may
generally ascribe them to love of notoriety in the forger; such
notoriety as Macpherson won by his dubious pinchbeck Ossian.  More
difficult still to understand are the forgeries which real scholars
have committed or connived at for the purpose of supporting some
opinion which they held with earnestness.  There is a vein of
madness and self-deceit in the character of the man who half-
persuades himself that his own false facts are true.  The Payne
Collier case is thus one of the most difficult in the world to
explain, for it is equally hard to suppose that Mr. Payne Collier
was taken in by the notes on the folio he gave the world, and to
hold that he was himself guilty of forgery to support his own
opinions.

The further we go back in the history of literary forgeries, the
more (as is natural) do we find them to be of a pious or priestly
character.  When the clergy alone can write, only the clergy can
forge.  In such ages people are interested chiefly in prophecies and
warnings, or, if they are careful about literature, it is only when
literature contains some kind of title-deeds.  Thus Solon is said to
have forged a line in the Homeric catalogue of the ships for the
purpose of proving that Salamis belonged to Athens.  But the great
antique forger, the "Ionian father of the rest," is, doubtless,
Onomacritus.  There exists, to be sure, an Egyptian inscription
professing to be of the fourth, but probably of the twenty-sixth,
dynasty.  The Germans hold the latter view; the French, from
patriotic motives, maintain the opposite opinion.  But this forgery
is scarcely "literary."

I never can think of Onomacritus without a certain respect:  he
began the forging business so very early, and was (apart from this
failing) such an imposing and magnificently respectable character.
The scene of the error and the detection of Onomacritus presents
itself always to me in a kind of pictorial vision.  It is night, the
clear, windless night of Athens; not of the Athens whose ruins
remain, but of the ancient city that sank in ashes during the
invasion of Xerxes.  The time is the time of Pisistratus the
successful tyrant; the scene is the ancient temple, the stately
house of Athene, the fane where the sacred serpent was fed on cakes,
and the primeval olive-tree grew beside the well of Posidon.  The
darkness of the temple's inmost shrine is lit by the ray of one
earthen lamp.  You dimly discern the majestic form of a venerable
man stooping above a coffer of cedar and ivory, carved with the
exploits of the goddess, and with boustrophedon inscriptions.  In
his hair this archaic Athenian wears the badge of the golden
grasshopper.  He is Onomacritus, the famous poet, and the trusted
guardian of the ancient oracles of Musaeus and Bacis.

What is he doing?  Why, he takes from the fragrant cedar coffer
certain thin stained sheets of lead, whereon are scratched the words
of doom, the prophecies of the Greek Thomas the Rhymer.  From his
bosom he draws another thin sheet of lead, also stained and
corroded.  On this he scratches, in imitation of the old "Cadmeian
letters," a prophecy that "the Isles near Lemnos shall disappear
under the sea."  So busy is he in this task, that he does not hear
the rustle of a chiton behind, and suddenly a man's hand is on his
shoulder!  Onomacritus turns in horror.  Has the goddess punished
him for tampering with the oracles?  No; it is Lasus, the son of
Hermiones, a rival poet, who has caught the keeper of the oracles in
the very act of a pious forgery.  (Herodotus, vii. 6.)

Pisistratus expelled the learned Onomacritus from Athens, but his
conduct proved, in the long run, highly profitable to the
reputations of Musaeus and Bacis.  Whenever one of their oracles was
not fulfilled, people said, "Oh, THAT is merely one of the
interpolations of Onomacritus!" and the matter was passed over.
This Onomacritus is said to have been among the original editors of
Homer under Pisistratus. {13}  He lived long, never repented, and,
many years later, deceived Xerxes into attempting his disastrous
expedition.  This he did by "keeping back the oracles unfavourable
to the barbarians," and putting forward any that seemed favourable.
The children of Pisistratus believed in him as spiritualists go on
giving credit to exposed and exploded "mediums."

Having once practised deceit, it is to be feared that Onomacritus
acquired a liking for the art of literary forgery, which, as will be
seen in the case of Ireland, grows on a man like dram-drinking.
Onomacritus is generally charged with the authorship of the poems
which the ancients usually attributed to Orpheus, the companion of
Jason.  Perhaps the most interesting of the poems of Orpheus to us
would have been his 'Inferno,' or [Greek text], in which the poet
gave his own account of his descent to Hades in search of Eurydice.
But only a dubious reference to one adventure in the journey is
quoted by Plutarch.  Whatever the exact truth about the Orphic poems
may be (the reader may pursue the hard and fruitless quest in
Lobeck's 'Aglaophamus' {14}), it seems certain that the period
between Pisistratus and Pericles, like the Alexandrian time, was a
great age for literary forgeries.  But of all these frauds the
greatest (according to the most "advanced" theory on the subject) is
the "Forgery of the Iliad and Odyssey!"  The opinions of the
scholars who hold that the Iliad and Odyssey, which we know and
which Plato knew, are not the epics known to Herodotus, but later
compositions, are not very clear nor consistent.  But it seems to be
vaguely held that about the time of Pericles there arose a kind of
Greek Macpherson.  This ingenious impostor worked on old epic
materials, but added many new ideas of his own about the gods,
converting the Iliad (the poem which we now possess) into a kind of
mocking romance, a Greek Don Quixote.  He also forged a number of
pseudo-archaic words, tenses, and expressions, and added the
numerous references to iron, a metal practically unknown, it is
asserted, to Greece before the sixth century.  If we are to believe,
with Professor Paley, that the chief incidents of the Iliad and
Odyssey were unknown to Sophocles, AEschylus, and the contemporary
vase painters, we must also suppose that the Greek Macpherson
invented most of the situations in the Odyssey and Iliad.  According
to this theory the 'cooker' of the extant epics was far the greatest
and most successful of all literary impostors, for he deceived the
whole world, from Plato downwards, till he was exposed by Mr. Paley.
There are times when one is inclined to believe that Plato must have
been the forger himself, as Bacon (according to the other
hypothesis) was the author of Shakespeare's plays.  Thus "Plato the
wise, and large-browed Verulam," would be "the first of those who"
forge!  Next to this prodigious imposture, no doubt, the false
'Letters of Phalaris' are the most important of classical forgeries.
And these illustrate, like most literary forgeries, the extreme
worthlessness of literary taste as a criterion of the authenticity
of writings.  For what man ever was more a man of taste than Sir
William Temple, "the most accomplished writer of the age," whom Mr.
Boyle never thought of without calling to mind those happy lines of
Lucretius, -


Quem tu, dea, tempore in omni
Omnibus ornatum voluisti excellere rebus.


Well, the ornate and excellent Temple held that "the Epistles of
Phalaris have more race, more spirit, more force of wit and genius,
than any others he had ever seen, either ancient or modern."  So
much for what Bentley calls Temple's "Nicety of Tast."  The greatest
of English scholars readily proved that Phalaris used (in the spirit
of prophecy) an idiom which did not exist to write about matters in
his time not invented, but "many centuries younger than he."  So let
the Nicety of Temple's Tast and its absolute failure be a warning to
us when we read (if read we must) German critics who deny Homer's
claim to this or that passage, and Plato's right to half his
accepted dialogues, on grounds of literary taste.  And farewell, as
Herodotus would have said, to the Letters of Phalaris, of Socrates,
of Plato; to the Lives of Pythagoras and of Homer, and to all the
other uncounted literary forgeries of the classical world, from the
Sibylline prophecies to the battle of the frogs and mice.

Early Christian frauds were, naturally, pious.  We have the
apocryphal Gospels, and the works of Dionysius the Areopagite, which
were not exposed till Erasmus's time.  Perhaps the most important of
pious forgeries (if forgery be exactly the right word in this case)
was that of 'The False Decretals.'  "Of a sudden," says Milman,
speaking of the pontificate of Nicholas I. (ob. 867 A.D.), "Of a
sudden was promulgated, unannounced, without preparation, not
absolutely unquestioned, but apparently over-awing at once all
doubt, a new Code, which to the former authentic documents added
fifty-nine letters and decrees of the twenty oldest Popes from
Clement to Melchiades, and the donation of Constantine, and in the
third part, among the decrees of the Popes and of the Councils from
Sylvester to Gregory II., thirty-nine false decrees, and the acts of
several unauthentic Councils."  "The whole is composed," Milman
adds, "with an air of profound piety and reverence."  The False
Decretals naturally assert the supremacy of the Bishop of Rome.
"They are full and minute on Church Property" (they were sure to be
that); in fact, they remind one of another forgery, pious and Aryan,
'The Institutes of Vishnu.'  "Let him not levy any tax upon
Brahmans," says the Brahman forger of the Institutes, which "came
from the mouths of Vishnu," as he sat "clad in a yellow robe,
imperturbable, decorated with all kinds of gems, while Lakshmi was
stroking his feet with her soft palms."  The Institutes took
excellent care of Brahmans and cows, as the Decretals did of the
Pope and the clergy, and the earliest Popes had about as much hand
in the Decretals as Vishnu had in his Institutes.  Hommenay, in
'Pantagruel,' did well to have the praise of the Decretals sung by
filles belles, blondelettes, doulcettes, et de bonne grace.  And
then Hommenay drank to the Decretals and their very good health.  "O
dives Decretales, tant par vous est le vin bon bon trouve"--"O
divine Decretals, how good you make good wine taste!"  "The miracle
would be greater," said Pantagruel, "if they made bad wine taste
good."  The most that can now be done by the devout for the
Decretals is "to palliate the guilt of their forger," whose name,
like that of the Greek Macpherson, is unknown.

If the early Christian centuries, and the Middle Ages, were chiefly
occupied with pious frauds, with forgeries of gospels, epistles, and
Decretals, the impostors of the Renaissance were busy, as an Oxford
scholar said, when he heard of a new MS. of the Greek Testament,
"with something really important," that is with classical
imitations.  After the Turks took Constantinople, when the learned
Greeks were scattered all over Southern Europe, when many genuine
classical manuscripts were recovered by the zeal of scholars, when
the plays of Menander were seen once, and then lost for ever, it was
natural that literary forgery should thrive.  As yet scholars were
eager rather than critical; they were collecting and unearthing,
rather than minutely examining the remains of classic literature.
They had found so much, and every year were finding so much more,
that no discovery seemed impossible.  The lost books of Livy and
Cicero, the songs of Sappho, the perished plays of Sophocles and
AEschylus might any day be brought to light.  This was the very
moment for the literary forger; but it is improbable that any
forgery of the period has escaped detection.  Three or four years
ago some one published a book to show that the 'Annals of Tacitus'
were written by Poggio Bracciolini.  This paradox gained no more
converts than the bolder hypothesis of Hardouin.  The theory of
Hardouin was all that the ancient classics were productions of a
learned company which worked, in the thirteenth century, under
Severus Archontius.  Hardouin made some exceptions to his sweeping
general theory.  Cicero's writings were genuine, he admitted, so
were Pliny's, of Virgil the Georgics; the satires and epistles of
Horace; Herodotus, and Homer.  All the rest of the classics were a
magnificent forgery of the illiterate thirteenth century, which had
scarce any Greek, and whose Latin, abundant in quantity, in quality
left much to be desired.

Among literary forgers, or passers of false literary coin, at the
time of the Renaissance, Annius is the most notorious.  Annius (his
real vernacular name was Nanni) was born at Viterbo, in 1432.  He
became a Dominican, and (after publishing his forged classics) rose
to the position of Maitre du Palais to the Pope, Alexander Borgia.
With Caesar Borgia it is said that Annius was never on good terms.
He persisted in preaching "the sacred truth" to his highness and
this (according to the detractors of Annius) was the only use he
made of the sacred truth.  There is a legend that Caesar Borgia
poisoned the preacher (1502), but people usually brought that charge
against Caesar when any one in any way connected with him happened
to die.  Annius wrote on the History and Empire of the Turks, who
took Constantinople in his time; but he is better remembered by his
'Antiquitatum Variarum Volumina XVII. cum comment.  Fr. Jo. Annii.'
These fragments of antiquity included, among many other desirable
things, the historical writings of Fabius Pictor, the predecessor of
Livy.  One is surprised that Annius, when he had his hand in, did
not publish choice extracts from the 'Libri Lintei,' the ancient
Roman annals, written on linen and preserved in the temple of Juno
Moneta.  Among the other discoveries of Annius were treatises by
Berosus, Manetho, Cato, and poems by Archilochus.  Opinion has been
divided as to whether Annius was wholly a knave, or whether he was
himself imposed upon.  Or, again, whether he had some genuine
fragments, and eked them out with his own inventions.  It is
observed that he did not dovetail the really genuine relics of
Berosus and Manetho into the works attributed to them.  This may be
explained as the result of ignorance or of cunning; there can be no
certain inference.  "Even the Dominicans," as Bayle says, admit that
Annius's discoveries are false, though they excuse them by averring
that the pious man was the dupe of others.  But a learned Lutheran
has been found to defend the 'Antiquitates' of the Dominican.

It is amusing to remember that the great and erudite Rabelais was
taken in by some pseudo-classical fragments.  The joker of jokes was
hoaxed.  He published, says Mr. Besant, "a couple of Latin
forgeries, which he proudly called 'Ex reliquiis venerandae
antiquitatis,' consisting of a pretended will and a contract."  The
name of the book is 'Ex reliquiis venerandae antiquitatis.  Lucii
Cuspidii Testamentum.  Item contractus venditionis antiquis
Romanorum temporibus initus.  Lugduni apud Gryphium (1532).'
Pomponius Laetus and Jovianus Pontanus were apparently authors of
the hoax.

Socrates said that he "would never lift up his hand against his
father Parmenides."  The fathers of the Church have not been so
respectfully treated by literary forgers during the Renaissance.
The 'Flowers of Theology' of St. Bernard, which were to be a
primrose path ad gaudia Paradisi (Strasburg, 1478), were really, it
seems, the production of Jean de Garlande.  Athanasius, his 'Eleven
Books concerning the Trinity,' are attributed to Vigilius, a
colonial Bishop in Northern Africa.  Among false classics were two
comic Latin fragments with which Muretus beguiled Scaliger.
Meursius has suffered, posthumously, from the attribution to him of
a very disreputable volume indeed.  In 1583, a book on
'Consolations,' by Cicero, was published at Venice, containing the
reflections with which Cicero consoled himself for the death of
Tullia.  It might as well have been attributed to Mrs. Blimber, and
described as replete with the thoughts by which that lady supported
herself under the affliction of never having seen Cicero or his
Tusculan villa.  The real author was Charles Sigonius, of Modena.
Sigonius actually did discover some Ciceronian fragments, and, if he
was not the builder, at least he was the restorer of Tully's lofty
theme.  In 1693, Francois Nodot, conceiving the world had not
already enough of Petronius Arbiter, published an edition, in which
he added to the works of that lax though accomplished author.
Nodot's story was that he had found a whole MS. of Petronius at
Belgrade, and he published it with a translation of his own Latin
into French.  Still dissatisfied with the existing supply of
Petronius' humour was Marchena, a writer of Spanish books, who
printed at Bale a translation and edition of a new fragment.  This
fragment was very cleverly inserted in a presumed lacuna.  In spite
of the ironical style of the preface many scholars were taken in by
this fragment, and their credulity led Marchena to find a new morsel
(of Catullus this time) at Herculaneum.  Eichstadt, a Jena
professor, gravely announced that the same fragment existed in a MS.
in the university library, and, under pretence of giving various
readings, corrected Marchena's faults in prosody.  Another sham
Catullus, by Corradino, a Venetian, was published in 1738.

The most famous forgeries of the eighteenth century were those of
Macpherson, Chatterton, and Ireland.  Space (fortunately) does not
permit a discussion of the Ossianic question.  That fragments of
Ossianic legend (if not of Ossianic poetry) survive in oral Gaelic
traditions, seems certain.  How much Macpherson knew of these, and
how little he used them in the bombastic prose which Napoleon loved
(and spelled "Ocean"), it is next to impossible to discover.  The
case of Chatterton is too well known to need much more than mention.
The most extraordinary poet for his years who ever lived began with
the forgery of a sham feudal pedigree for Mr. Bergum, a pewterer.
Ireland started on his career in much the same way, unless Ireland's
'Confessions' be themselves a fraud, based on what he knew about
Chatterton.  Once launched in his career, Chatterton drew endless
stores of poetry from "Rowley's MS." and the muniment chest in St.
Mary Redcliffe's.  Jacob Bryant believed in them and wrote an
'Apology' for the credulous.  Bryant, who believed in his own system
of mythology, might have believed in anything.  When Chatterton sent
his "discoveries" to Walpole (himself somewhat of a mediaeval
imitator), Gray and Mason detected the imposture, and Walpole, his
feelings as an antiquary injured took no more notice of the boy.
Chatterton's death was due to his precocity.  Had his genius come to
him later, it would have found him wiser, and better able to command
the fatal demon of intellect, for which he had to find work, like
Michael Scott in the legend.

The end of the eighteenth century, which had been puzzled or
diverted by the Chatterton and Macpherson frauds, witnessed also the
great and famous Shakespearian forgeries.  We shall never know the
exact truth about the fabrication of the Shakespearian documents,
and 'Vortigern' and the other plays.  We have, indeed, the
confession of the culprit:  habemus confitentem reum, but Mr. W. H.
Ireland was a liar and a solicitor's clerk, so versatile and
accomplished that we cannot always trust him, even when he is
narrating the tale of his own iniquities.  The temporary but wide
and turbulent success of the Ireland forgeries suggests the
disagreeable reflection that criticism and learning are (or a
hundred years ago were) worth very little as literary touchstones.
A polished and learned society, a society devoted to Shakespeare and
to the stage, was taken in by a boy of eighteen.  Young Ireland not
only palmed off his sham prose documents, most makeshift imitations
of the antique, but even his ridiculous verses on the experts.
James Boswell went down on his knees and thanked Heaven for the
sight of them, and, feeling thirsty after these devotions, drank hot
brandy and water.  Dr. Parr was not less readily gulled, and
probably the experts, like Malone, who held aloof, were as much
influenced by jealousy as by science.  The whole story of young
Ireland's forgeries is not only too long to be told here, but forms
the topic of a novel ('The Talk of the Town') by Mr. James Payn.
The frauds in his hands lose neither their humour nor their
complicated interest of plot.  To be brief, then, Mr. Samuel Ireland
was a gentleman extremely fond of old literature and old books.  If
we may trust the 'Confessions' (1805) of his candid son, Mr. W. H.
Ireland, a more harmless and confiding old person than Samuel never
collected early English tracts.  Living in his learned society, his
son, Mr. W. H. Ireland, acquired not only a passion for black
letters, but a desire to emulate Chatterton.  His first step in
guilt was the forgery of an autograph on an old pamphlet, with which
he gratified Samuel Ireland.  He also wrote a sham inscription on a
modern bust of Cromwell, which he represented as an authentic
antique.  Finding that the critics were taken in, and attributed
this new bust to the old sculptor Simeon, Ireland conceived a very
low and not unjustifiable opinion of critical tact.  Critics would
find merit in anything which seemed old enough.  Ireland's next
achievement was the forgery of some legal documents concerning
Shakespeare.  Just as the bad man who deceived the guileless Mr.
Shapira forged his 'Deuteronomy' on the blank spaces of old
synagogue rolls, so young Ireland used the cut-off ends of old rent
rolls.  He next bought up quantities of old fly-leaves of books, and
on this ancient paper he indicted a sham confession of faith, which
he attributed to Shakespeare.  Being a strong "evangelical," young
Mr. Ireland gave a very Protestant complexion to this edifying
document.  And still the critics gaped and wondered and believed.

Ireland's method was to write in an ink made by blending various
liquids used in the marbling of paper for bookbinding.  This stuff
was supplied to him by a bookbinder's apprentice.  When people asked
questions as to whence all the new Shakespeare manuscripts came, he
said they were presented to him by a gentleman who wished to remain
anonymous.  Finally, the impossibility of producing this gentleman
was one of the causes of the detection of the fraud.  According to
himself, Ireland performed prodigies of acuteness.  Once he had
forged, at random, the name of a contemporary of Shakespeare.  He
was confronted with a genuine signature, which, of course, was quite
different.  He obtained leave to consult his "anonymous gentleman,"
rushed home, forged the name again on the model of what had been
shown to him, and returned with this signature as a new gift from
his benefactor.  That nameless friend had informed him (he swore)
that there were two persons of the same name, and that both
signatures were genuine.  Ireland's impudence went the length of
introducing an ancestor of his own, with the same name as himself,
among the companions of Shakespeare.  If 'Vortigern' had succeeded
(and it was actually put on the stage with all possible pomp),
Ireland meant to have produced a series of pseudo-Shakespearian
plays from William the Conqueror to Queen Elizabeth.  When busy with
'Vortigern,' he was detected by a friend of his own age, who pounced
on him while he was at work, as Lasus pounced on Onomacritus.  The
discoverer, however, consented to "stand in" with Ireland, and did
not divulge his secret.  At last, after the fiasco of 'Vortigern,'
suspicion waxed so strong, and disagreeable inquiries for the
anonymous benefactor were so numerous, that Ireland fled from his
father's house.  He confessed all, and, according to his own
account, fell under the undying wrath of Samuel Ireland.  Any reader
of Ireland's confessions will be likely to sympathise with old
Samuel as the dupe of his son.  The whole story is told with a
curious mixture of impudence and humour, and with great
plausibility.  Young Ireland admits that his "desire for laughter"
was almost irresistible, when people--learned, pompous, sagacious
people--listened attentively to the papers.  One feels half inclined
to forgive the rogue for the sake of his youth, his cleverness, his
humour.  But the 'Confessions' are, not improbably, almost as
apocryphal as the original documents.  They were written for the
sake of money, and it is impossible to say how far the same
mercenary motive actuated Ireland in his forgeries.  Dr. Ingleby, in
his 'Shakespeare Fabrications,' takes a very rigid view of the
conduct, not only of William, but of old Samuel Ireland.  Sam,
according to Dr. Ingleby, was a partner in the whole imposture, and
the confession was only one element in the scheme of fraud.  Old
Samuel was the Fagin of a band of young literary Dodgers.  He
"positively trained his whole family to trade in forgery," and as
for Mr. W. H. Ireland, he was "the most accomplished liar that ever
lived," which is certainly a distinction in its way.  The point of
the joke is that, after the whole conspiracy exploded, people were
anxious to buy examples of the forgeries.  Mr. W. H. Ireland was
equal to the occasion.  He actually forged his own, or (according to
Dr. Ingleby) his father's forgeries, and, by thus increasing the
supply, he deluged the market with sham shams, with imitations of
imitations.  If this accusation be correct, it is impossible not to
admire the colossal impudence of Mr. W. H. Ireland.  Dr. Ingleby, in
the ardour of his honest indignation, pursues William into his
private life, which, it appears, was far from exemplary.  But
literary criticism should be content with a man's works; his
domestic life is matter, as Aristotle often says, "for a separate
kind of investigation."  Old Ritson used to say that "every literary
impostor deserved hanging as much as a common thief."  W. H.
Ireland's merits were never recognised by the law.

How old Ritson would have punished "the old corrector," it is
"better only guessing," as the wicked say, according to Clough, in
regard to their own possible chastisement.  The difficulty is to
ascertain who the apocryphal old corrector really was.  The story of
his misdeeds was recently brought back to mind by the death, at an
advanced age, of the learned Shakespearian, Mr. J. Payne Collier.
Mr. Collier was, to put it mildly, the Shapira of the old corrector.
He brought that artist's works before the public; but WHY? how
deceived, or how influenced, it is once more "better only guessing."
Mr. Collier first introduced to the public notice his singular copy
of a folio Shakespeare (second edition), loaded with ancient
manuscript emendations, in 1849.  His account of this book was
simple and plausible.  He chanced, one day, to be in the shop of Mr.
Rudd, the bookseller, in Great Newport Street, when a parcel of
second-hand volumes arrived from the country.  When the parcel was
opened, the heart of the Bibliophile began to sing, for the packet
contained two old folios, one of them an old folio Shakespeare of
the second edition (1632).  The volume (mark this) was "much
cropped," greasy, and imperfect.  Now the student of Mr. Hamilton's
'Inquiry' into the whole affair is already puzzled.  In later days,
Mr. Collier said that his folio had previously been in the
possession of a Mr. Parry.  On the other hand, Mr. Parry (then a
very aged man) failed to recognise his folio in Mr. Collier's, for
HIS copy was "cropped," whereas the leaves of Mr. Collier's example
were NOT mutilated.  Here, then ('Inquiry,' pp.  12, 61), we have
two descriptions of the outward aspect of Mr. Collier's dubious
treasure.  In one account it is "much cropped" by the book-binder's
cruel shears; in the other, its unmutilated condition is contrasted
with that of a copy which has been "cropped."  In any case, Mr.
Collier hoped, he says, to complete an imperfect folio he possessed,
with leaves taken from the folio newly acquired for thirty
shillings.  But the volumes happened to have the same defects, and
the healing process was impossible.  Mr. Collier chanced to be going
into the country, when in packing the folio he had bought of Rudd he
saw it was covered with manuscript corrections in an old hand.
These he was inclined to attribute to one Thomas Perkins, whose name
was written on the fly-leaf, and who might have been a connection of
Richard Perkins, the actor (flor. 1633)  The notes contained many
various readings, and very numerous changes in punctuation.  Some of
these Mr. Collier published in his 'Notes and Emendations' (1852),
and in an edition of the 'Plays.'  There was much discussion, much
doubt, and the folio of the old corrector (who was presumed to have
marked the book in the theatre during early performances) was
exhibited to the Society of Antiquaries.  Then Mr. Collier presented
the treasure to the Duke of Devonshire, who again lent it for
examination to the British Museum.  Mr. Hamilton published in the
Times (July, 1859) the results of his examination of the old
corrector.  It turned out that the old corrector was a modern myth.
He had first made his corrections in pencil and in a modern hand,
and then he had copied them over in ink, and in a forged ancient
hand.  The same word sometimes recurred in both handwritings.  The
ink, which looked old, was really no English ink at all, not even
Ireland's mixture.  It seemed to be sepia, sometimes mixed with a
little Indian ink.  Mr. Hamilton made many other sad discoveries.
He pointed out that Mr. Collier had published, from a Dulwich MS., a
letter of Mrs. Alleyne's (the actor's wife), referring to
Shakespeare as "Mr. Shakespeare of the Globe."  Now the Dulwich MS.
was mutilated and blank in the very place where this interesting
reference should have occurred.  Such is a skeleton history of the
old corrector, his works and ways.  It is probable that--thanks to
his assiduities--new Shakespearian documents will in future be
received with extreme scepticism; and this is all the fruit, except
acres of newspaper correspondence, which the world has derived from
Mr. Collier's greasy and imperfect but unique "corrected folio."

The recency and (to a Shakespearian critic) the importance of these
forgeries obscures the humble merit of Surtees, with his ballads of
the 'Slaying of Antony Featherstonhaugh,' and of 'Bartram's Dirge.'
Surtees left clever lacunae in these songs, 'collected from oral
tradition,' and furnished notes so learned that they took in Sir
Walter Scott.  There are moments when I half suspect "the Shirra
himsel" (who blamelessly forged so many extracts from 'Old Plays')
of having composed 'Kinmont Willie.'  To compare old Scott of
Satchell's account of Kinmont Willie with the ballad is to feel
uncomfortable doubts.  But this is a rank impiety.  The last ballad
forgery of much note was the set of sham Macedonian epics and
popular songs (all about Alexander the Great, and other heroes)
which a schoolmaster in the Rhodope imposed on M. Verkovitch.  The
trick was not badly done, and the imitation of "ballad slang" was
excellent.  The 'Oera Linda' book, too, was successful enough to be
translated into English.  With this latest effort of the tenth muse,
the crafty muse of Literary Forgery, we may leave a topic which
could not be exhausted in a ponderous volume.  We have not room even
for the forged letters of Shelley, to which Mr. Browning, being
taken in thereby, wrote a preface, nor for the forged letters of Mr.
Ruskin, which occasionally hoax all the newspapers.



BIBLIOMANIA IN FRANCE



The love of books for their own sake, for their paper, print,
binding, and for their associations, as distinct from the love of
literature, is a stronger and more universal passion in France than
elsewhere in Europe.  In England publishers are men of business; in
France they aspire to be artists.  In England people borrow what
they read from the libraries, and take what gaudy cloth-binding
chance chooses to send them.  In France people buy books, and bind
them to their heart's desire with quaint and dainty devices on the
morocco covers.  Books are lifelong friends in that country; in
England they are the guests of a week or of a fortnight.  The
greatest French writers have been collectors of curious editions;
they have devoted whole treatises to the love of books.  The
literature and history of France are full of anecdotes of the good
and bad fortunes of bibliophiles, of their bargains, discoveries,
disappointments.  There lies before us at this moment a small
library of books about books,--the 'Bibliophile Francais,' in seven
large volumes, 'Les Sonnets d'un Bibliophile,' 'La Bibliomanie en
1878,' 'La Bibliotheque d'un Bibliophile' (1885) and a dozen other
works of Janin, Nodier, Beraldi, Pieters, Didot, great collectors
who have written for the instruction of beginners and the pleasure
of every one who takes delight in printed paper.

The passion for books, like other forms of desire, has its changes
of fashion.  It is not always easy to justify the caprices of taste.
The presence or absence of half an inch of paper in the "uncut"
margin of a book makes a difference of value that ranges from five
shillings to a hundred pounds.  Some books are run after because
they are beautifully bound; some are competed for with equal
eagerness because they never have been bound at all.  The
uninitiated often make absurd mistakes about these distinctions.
Some time ago the Daily Telegraph reproached a collector because his
books were "uncut," whence, argued the journalist, it was clear that
he had never read them.  "Uncut," of course, only means that the
margins have not been curtailed by the binders' plough.  It is a
point of sentiment to like books just as they left the hands of the
old printers,--of Estienne, Aldus, or Louis Elzevir.

It is because the passion for books is a sentimental passion that
people who have not felt it always fail to understand it.  Sentiment
is not an easy thing to explain.  Englishmen especially find it
impossible to understand tastes and emotions that are not their
own,--the wrongs of Ireland, (till quite recently) the aspirations
of Eastern Roumelia, the demands of Greece.  If we are to understand
the book-hunter, we must never forget that to him books are, in the
first place, RELICS.  He likes to think that the great writers whom
he admires handled just such pages and saw such an arrangement of
type as he now beholds.  Moliere, for example, corrected the proofs
for this edition of the 'Precieuses Ridicules,' when he first
discovered "what a labour it is to publish a book, and how GREEN
(NEUF) an author is the first time they print him."  Or it may be
that Campanella turned over, with hands unstrung, and still broken
by the torture, these leaves that contain his passionate sonnets.
Here again is the copy of Theocritus from which some pretty page may
have read aloud to charm the pagan and pontifical leisure of Leo X.
This Gargantua is the counterpart of that which the martyred Dolet
printed for (or pirated from, alas!) Maitre Francois Rabelais.  This
woeful ballade, with the woodcut of three thieves hanging from one
gallows, came near being the "Last Dying Speech and Confession of
Francois Villon."  This shabby copy of 'The Eve of St. Agnes' is
precisely like that which Shelley doubled up and thrust into his
pocket when the prow of the piratical felucca crashed into the
timbers of the Don Juan.  Some rare books have these associations,
and they bring you nearer to the authors than do the modern
reprints.  Bibliophiles will tell you that it is the early READINGS
they care for,--the author's first fancies, and those more hurried
expressions which he afterwards corrected.  These READINGS have
their literary value, especially in the masterpieces of the great;
but the sentiment after all is the main thing.

Other books come to be relics in another way.  They are the copies
which belonged to illustrious people,--to the famous collectors who
make a kind of catena (a golden chain of bibliophiles) through the
centuries since printing was invented.  There are Grolier (1479-
1565),--not a bookbinder, as an English newspaper supposed (probably
when Mr. Sala was on his travels),--De Thou (1553-1617), the great
Colbert, the Duc de la Valliere (1708-1780), Charles Nodier, a man
of yesterday, M. Didot, and the rest, too numerous to name.  Again,
there are the books of kings, like Francis I., Henri III., and Louis
XIV.  These princes had their favourite devices.  Nicolas Eve,
Padeloup, Derome, and other artists arrayed their books in morocco,-
-tooled with skulls, cross-bones, and crucifixions for the
voluptuous pietist Henri III., with the salamander for Francis I.,
and powdered with fleurs de lys for the monarch who "was the State."
There are relics also of noble beauties.  The volumes of Marguerite
d'Angouleme are covered with golden daisies.  The cipher of Marie
Antoinette adorns too many books that Madame du Barry might have
welcomed to her hastily improvised library.  The three daughters of
Louis XV. had their favourite colours of morocco, citron, red, and
olive, and their books are valued as much as if they bore the bees
of De Thou, or the intertwined C's of the illustrious and ridiculous
Abbe Cotin, the Trissotin of the comedy.  Surely in all these things
there is a human interest, and our fingers are faintly thrilled, as
we touch these books, with the far-off contact of the hands of kings
and cardinals, scholars and coquettes, pedants, poets, and
precieuses, the people who are unforgotten in the mob that inhabited
dead centuries.

So universal and ardent has the love of magnificent books been in
France, that it would be possible to write a kind of bibliomaniac
history of that country.  All her rulers, kings, cardinals, and
ladies have had time to spare for collecting.  Without going too far
back, to the time when Bertha span and Charlemagne was an amateur,
we may give a few specimens of an anecdotical history of French
bibliolatry, beginning, as is courteous, with a lady.  "Can a woman
be a bibliophile?" is a question which was once discussed at the
weekly breakfast party of Guilbert de Pixerecourt, the famous book-
lover and playwright, the "Corneille of the Boulevards."  The
controversy glided into a discussion as to "how many books a man can
love at a time;" but historical examples prove that French women
(and Italian, witness the Princess d'Este) may be bibliophiles of
the true strain.  Diane de Poictiers was their illustrious
patroness.  The mistress of Henri II. possessed, in the Chateau
d'Anet, a library of the first triumphs of typography.  Her taste
was wide in range, including songs, plays, romances, divinity; her
copies of the Fathers were bound in citron morocco, stamped with her
arms and devices, and closed with clasps of silver.  In the love of
books, as in everything else, Diane and Henri II. were inseparable.
The interlaced H and D are scattered over the covers of their
volumes; the lily of France is twined round the crescents of Diane,
or round the quiver, the arrows, and the bow which she adopted as
her cognisance, in honour of the maiden goddess.  The books of Henri
and of Diane remained in the Chateau d'Anet till the death of the
Princesse de Conde in 1723, when they were dispersed.  The son of
the famous Madame de Guyon bought the greater part of the library,
which has since been scattered again and again.  M. Leopold Double,
a well-known bibliophile, possessed several examples. {15}

Henry III. scarcely deserves, perhaps, the name of a book-lover, for
he probably never read the works which were bound for him in the
most elaborate way.  But that great historian, Alexandre Dumas,
takes a far more friendly view of the king's studies, and, in 'La
Dame de Monsoreau,' introduces us to a learned monarch.  Whether he
cared for the contents of his books or not, his books are among the
most singular relics of a character which excites even morbid
curiosity.  No more debauched and worthless wretch ever filled a
throne; but, like the bad man in Aristotle, Henri III. was "full of
repentance."  When he was not dancing in an unseemly revel, he was
on his knees in his chapel.  The board of one of his books, of which
an engraving lies before me, bears his cipher and crown in the
corners; but the centre is occupied in front with a picture of the
Annunciation, while on the back is the crucifixion and the breeding
heart through which the swords have pierced.  His favourite device
was the death's-head, with the motto Memento Mori, or Spes mea Deus.
While he was still only Duc d'Anjou, Henri loved Marie de Cleves,
Princesse de Conde.  On her sudden death he expressed his grief, as
he had done his piety, by aid of the petits fers of the bookbinder.
Marie's initials were stamped on his book-covers in a chaplet of
laurels.  In one corner a skull and cross-bones were figured; in the
other the motto Mort m'est vie; while two curly objects, which did
duty for tears, filled up the lower corners.  The books of Henri
III., even when they are absolutely worthless as literature, sell
for high prices; and an inane treatise on theology, decorated with
his sacred emblems, lately brought about 120 pounds in a London
sale.

Francis I., as a patron of all the arts, was naturally an amateur of
bindings.  The fates of books were curiously illustrated by the
story of the copy of Homer, on large paper, which Aldus, the great
Venetian printer, presented to Francis I.  After the death of the
late Marquis of Hastings, better known as an owner of horses than of
books, his possessions were brought to the hammer.  With the
instinct, the flair, as the French say, of the bibliophile, M.
Ambroise Firmin Didot, the biographer of Aldus, guessed that the
marquis might have owned something in his line.  He sent his agent
over to England, to the country town where the sale was to be held.
M. Didot had his reward.  Among the books which were dragged out of
some mouldy store-room was the very Aldine Homer of Francis I., with
part of the original binding still clinging to the leaves.  M. Didot
purchased the precious relic, and sent it to what M. Fertiault (who
has written a century of sonnets on bibliomania) calls the hospital
for books.


Le dos humide, je l'eponge;
Ou manque un coin, vite une allonge,
Pour tous j'ai maison de sante.


M. Didot, of course, did not practise this amateur surgery himself,
but had the arms and devices of Francis I. restored by one of those
famous binders who only work for dukes, millionnaires, and
Rothschilds.

During the religious wars and the troubles of the Fronde, it is
probable that few people gave much time to the collection of books.
The illustrious exceptions are Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin, who
possessed a "snuffy Davy" of his own, an indefatigable prowler among
book-stalls and dingy purlieus, in Gabriel Naude.  In 1664, Naude,
who was a learned and ingenious writer, the apologist for "great men
suspected of magic," published the second edition of his 'Avis pour
dresser une Bibliotheque,' and proved himself to be a true lover of
the chase, a mighty hunter (of books) before the Lord.  Naude's
advice to the collector is rather amusing.  He pretends not to care
much for bindings, and quotes Seneca's rebuke of the Roman
bibliomaniacs, Quos voluminum suorum frontes maxime placent
titulique,--who chiefly care for the backs and lettering of their
volumes.  The fact is that Naude had the wealth of Mazarin at his
back, and we know very well, from the remains of the Cardinal's
library which exist, that he liked as well as any man to see his
cardinal's hat glittering on red or olive morocco in the midst of
the beautiful tooling of the early seventeenth century.  When once
he got a book, he would not spare to give it a worthy jacket.
Naude's ideas about buying were peculiar.  Perhaps he sailed rather
nearer the wind than even Monkbarns would have cared to do.  His
favourite plan was to buy up whole libraries in the gross,
"speculative lots" as the dealers call them.  In the second place,
he advised the book-lover to haunt the retreats of Libraires
fripiers, et les vieux fonds et magasins.  Here he truly observes
that you may find rare books, broches,--that is, unbound and uncut,-
-just as Mr. Symonds bought two uncut copies of 'Laon and Cythna' in
a Bristol stall for a crown.  "You may get things for four or five
crowns that would cost you forty or fifty elsewhere," says Naude.
Thus a few years ago M. Paul Lacroix bought for two francs, in a
Paris shop, the very copy of 'Tartuffe' which had belonged to Louis
XIV.  The example may now be worth perhaps 200 pounds.  But we are
digressing into the pleasures of the modern sportsman.

It was not only in second-hand bookshops that Naude hunted, but
among the dealers in waste paper.  "Thus did Poggio find Quintilian
on the counter of a wood-merchant, and Masson picked up 'Agobardus'
at the shop of a binder, who was going to use the MS. to patch his
books withal."  Rossi, who may have seen Naude at work, tells us how
he would enter a shop with a yard-measure in his hand, buying books,
we are sorry to say, by the ell.  "The stalls where he had passed
were like the towns through which Attila or the Tartars had swept,
with ruin in their train,--ut non hominis unius sedulitas, sed
calamitas quaedam per omnes bibliopolarum tabernas pervasisse
videatur!"  Naude had sorrows of his own.  In 1652 the Parliament
decreed the confiscation of the splendid library of Mazarin, which
was perhaps the first free library in Europe,--the first that was
open to all who were worthy of right of entrance.  There is a
painful description of the sale, from which the book-lover will
avert his eyes.  On Mazarin's return to power he managed to collect
again and enrich his stores, which form the germ of the existing
Bibliotheque Mazarine.

Among princes and popes it is pleasant to meet one man of letters,
and he the greatest of the great age, who was a bibliophile.  The
enemies and rivals of Moliere--De Vise, De Villiers, and the rest--
are always reproaching him--with his love of bouquins.  There is
some difference of opinion among philologists about the derivation
of bouquin, but all book-hunters know the meaning of the word.  The
bouquin is the "small, rare volume, black with tarnished gold,"
which lies among the wares of the stall-keeper, patient in rain and
dust, till the hunter comes who can appreciate the quarry.  We like
to think of Moliere lounging through the narrow streets in the
evening, returning, perhaps, from some noble house where he has been
reading the proscribed 'Tartuffe,' or giving an imitation of the
rival actors at the Hotel Bourgogne.  Absent as the contemplateur
is, a dingy book-stall wakens him from his reverie.  His lace
ruffles are soiled in a moment with the learned dust of ancient
volumes.  Perhaps he picks up the only work out of all his library
that is known to exist,--un ravissant petit Elzevir, 'De Imperio
Magni Mogolis' (Lugd.  Bat. 1651).  On the title-page of this tiny
volume, one of the minute series of 'Republics' which the Elzevirs
published, the poet has written his rare signature, "J. B. P.
Moliere," with the price the book cost him, "1 livre, 10 sols."  "Il
n'est pas de bouquin qui s'echappe de ses mains," says the author of
'La Guerre Comique,' the last of the pamphlets which flew about
during the great literary quarrel about "L'Ecole des Femmes."
Thanks to M. Soulie the catalogue of Moliere's library has been
found, though the books themselves have passed out of view.  There
are about three hundred and fifty volumes in the inventory, but
Moliere's widow may have omitted as valueless (it is the foible of
her sex) many rusty bouquins, now worth far more than their weight
in gold.  Moliere owned no fewer than two hundred and forty volumes
of French and Italian comedies.  From these he took what suited him
wherever he found it.  He had plenty of classics, histories,
philosophic treatises, the essays of Montaigne, a Plutarch, and a
Bible.

We know nothing, to the regret of bibliophiles, of Moliere's taste
in bindings.  Did he have a comic mask stamped on the leather (that
device was chased on his plate), or did he display his cognizance
and arms, the two apes that support a shield charged with three
mirrors of Truth?  It is certain--La Bruyere tells us as much--that
the sillier sort of book-lover in the seventeenth century was much
the same sort of person as his successor in our own time.  "A man
tells me he has a library," says La Bruyere (De la Mode); "I ask
permission to see it.  I go to visit my friend, and he receives me
in a house where, even on the stairs, the smell of the black morocco
with which his books are covered is so strong that I nearly faint.
He does his best to revive me; shouts in my ear that the volumes
'have gilt edges,' that they are 'elegantly tooled,' that they are
'of the good edition,' . . . and informs me that 'he never reads,'
that 'he never sets foot in this part of his house,' that he 'will
come to oblige me!'  I thank him for all his kindness, and have no
more desire than himself to see the tanner's shop that he calls his
library."

Colbert, the great minister of Louis XIV., was a bibliophile at whom
perhaps La Bruyere would have sneered.  He was a collector who did
not read, but who amassed beautiful books, and looked forward, as
business men do, to the day when he would have time to study them.
After Grolier, De Thou, and Mazarin, Colbert possessed probably the
richest private library in Europe.  The ambassadors of France were
charged to procure him rare books and manuscripts, and it is said
that in a commercial treaty with the Porte he inserted a clause
demanding a certain quantity of Levant morocco for the use of the
royal bookbinders.  England, in those days, had no literature with
which France deigned to be acquainted.  Even into England, however,
valuable books had been imported; and we find Colbert pressing the
French ambassador at St. James's to bid for him at a certain sale of
rare heretical writings.  People who wanted to gain his favour
approached him with presents of books, and the city of Metz gave him
two real curiosities--the famous "Metz Bible" and the Missal of
Charles the Bald.  The Elzevirs sent him their best examples, and
though Colbert probably saw more of the gilt covers of his books
than of their contents, at least he preserved and handed down many
valuable works.  As much may be said for the reprobate Cardinal
Dubois, who, with all his faults, was a collector.  Bossuet, on the
other hand, left little or nothing of interest except a copy of the
1682 edition of Moliere, whom he detested and condemned to "the
punishment of those who laugh."  Even this book, which has a curious
interest, has slipped out of sight, and may have ceased to exist.

If Colbert and Dubois preserved books from destruction, there are
collectors enough who have been rescued from oblivion by books.  The
diplomacy of D'Hoym is forgotten; the plays of Longepierre, and his
quarrels with J. B. Rousseau, are known only to the literary
historian.  These great amateurs have secured an eternity of gilt
edges, an immortality of morocco.  Absurd prices are given for any
trash that belonged to them, and the writer of this notice has
bought for four shillings an Elzevir classic, which when it bears
the golden fleece of Longepierre is worth about 100 pounds.
Longepierre, D'Hoym, McCarthy, and the Duc de la Valliere, with all
their treasures, are less interesting to us than Graille, Coche and
Loque, the neglected daughters of Louis XV.  They found some pale
consolation in their little cabinets of books, in their various
liveries of olive, citron, and red morocco.

A lady amateur of high (book-collecting) reputation, the Comtesse de
Verrue, was represented in the Beckford sale by one of three copies
of 'L'Histoire de Melusine,' of Melusine, the twy-formed fairy, and
ancestress of the house of Lusignan.  The Comtesse de Verrue, one of
the few women who have really understood book-collecting, {16} was
born January 18, 1670, and died November 18, 1736.  She was the
daughter of Charles de Luynes and of his second wife, Anne de Rohan.
When only thirteen she married the Comte de Verrue, who somewhat
injudiciously presented her, a fleur de quinze ans, as Ronsard says,
at the court of Victor Amadeus of Savoy.  It is thought that the
countess was less cruel than the fleur Angevine of Ronsard.  For
some reason the young matron fled from the court of Turin and
returned to Paris, where she built a magnificent hotel, and received
the most distinguished company.  According to her biographer, the
countess loved science and art jusqu'au delire, and she collected
the furniture of the period, without neglecting the blue china of
the glowing Orient.  In ebony bookcases she possessed about eighteen
thousand volumes, bound by the greatest artists of the day.
"Without care for the present, without fear of the future, doing
good, pursuing the beautiful, protecting the arts, with a tender
heart and open hand, the countess passed through life, calm, happy,
beloved, and admired."  She left an epitaph on herself, thus rudely
translated:-


Here lies, in sleep secure,
A dame inclined to mirth,
Who, by way of making sure,
Chose her Paradise on earth.


During the Revolution, to like well-bound books was as much as to
proclaim one an aristocrat.  Condorcet might have escaped the
scaffold if he had only thrown away the neat little Horace from the
royal press, which betrayed him for no true Republican, but an
educated man.  The great libraries from the chateaux of the nobles
were scattered among all the book-stalls.  True sons of freedom tore
off the bindings, with their gilded crests and scutcheons.  One
revolutionary writer declared, and perhaps he was not far wrong,
that the art of binding was the worst enemy of reading.  He always
began his studies by breaking the backs of the volumes he was about
to attack.  The art of bookbinding in these sad years took flight to
England, and was kept alive by artists robust rather than refined,
like Thompson and Roger Payne.  These were evil days, when the
binder had to cut the aristocratic coat of arms out of a book cover,
and glue in a gilt cap of liberty, as in a volume in an Oxford
amateur's collection.

When Napoleon became Emperor, he strove in vain to make the troubled
and feverish years of his power produce a literature.  He himself
was one of the most voracious readers of novels that ever lived.  He
was always asking for the newest of the new, and unfortunately even
the new romances of his period were hopelessly bad.  Barbier, his
librarian, had orders to send parcels of fresh fiction to his
majesty wherever he might happen to be, and great loads of novels
followed Napoleon to Germany, Spain, Italy, Russia.  The conqueror
was very hard to please.  He read in his travelling carriage, and
after skimming a few pages would throw a volume that bored him out
of the window into the highway.  He might have been tracked by his
trail of romances, as was Hop-o'-my-Thumb, in the fairy tale, by the
white stones he dropped behind him.  Poor Barbier, who ministered to
a passion for novels that demanded twenty volumes a day, was at his
wit's end.  He tried to foist on the Emperor the romances of the
year before last; but these Napoleon had generally read, and he
refused, with imperial scorn, to look at them again.  He ordered a
travelling library of three thousand volumes to be made for him, but
it was proved that the task could not be accomplished in less than
six years.  The expense, if only fifty copies of each example had
been printed, would have amounted to more than six million francs.
A Roman emperor would not have allowed these considerations to stand
in his way; but Napoleon, after all, was a modern.  He contented
himself with a selection of books conveniently small in shape, and
packed in sumptuous cases.  The classical writers of France could
never content Napoleon, and even from Moscow in 1812, he wrote to
Barbier clamorous for new books, and good ones.  Long before they
could have reached Moscow, Napoleon was flying homeward before
Kotousoff and Benningsen.

Napoleon was the last of the book-lovers who governed France.  The
Duc d'Aumale, a famous bibliophile, has never "come to his own," and
of M. Gambetta it is only known that his devotional library, at
least, has found its way into the market.  We have reached the era
of private book-fanciers:  of Nodier, who had three libraries in his
time, but never a Virgil; and of Pixerecourt, the dramatist, who
founded the Societe des Bibliophiles Francais.  The Romantic
movement in French literature brought in some new fashions in book-
hunting.  The original editions of Ronsard, Des Portes, Belleau, and
Du Bellay became invaluable; while the writings of Gautier, Petrus
Borel, and others excited the passion of collectors.  Pixerecourt
was a believer in the works of the Elzevirs.  On one occasion, when
he was outbid by a friend at an auction, he cried passionately, "I
shall have that book at your sale!" and, the other poor bibliophile
soon falling into a decline and dying, Pixerecourt got the volume
which he so much desired.  The superstitious might have been excused
for crediting him with the gift of jettatura,--of the evil eye.  On
Pixerecourt himself the evil eye fell at last; his theatre, the
Gaiete, was burned down in 1835, and his creditors intended to
impound his beloved books.  The bibliophile hastily packed them in
boxes, and conveyed them in two cabs and under cover of night to the
house of M. Paul Lacroix.  There they languished in exile till the
affairs of the manager were settled.

Pixerecourt and Nodier, the most reckless of men, were the leaders
of the older school of bibliomaniacs.  The former was not a rich
man; the second was poor, but he never hesitated in face of a price
that he could not afford.  He would literally ruin himself in the
accumulation of a library, and then would recover his fortunes by
selling his books.  Nodier passed through life without a Virgil,
because he never succeeded in finding the ideal Virgil of his
dreams,--a clean, uncut copy of the right Elzevir edition, with the
misprint, and the two passages in red letters.  Perhaps this failure
was a judgment on him for the trick by which he beguiled a certain
collector of Bibles.  He INVENTED an edition, and put the collector
on the scent, which he followed vainly, till he died of the sickness
of hope deferred.

One has more sympathy with the eccentricities of Nodier than with
the mere extravagance of the new haute ecole of bibliomaniacs, the
school of millionnaires, royal dukes, and Rothschilds.  These
amateurs are reckless of prices, and by their competition have made
it almost impossible for a poor man to buy a precious book.  The
dukes, the Americans, the public libraries, snap them all up in the
auctions.  A glance at M. Gustave Brunet's little volume, 'La
Bibliomanie en 1878,' will prove the excesses which these people
commit.  The funeral oration of Bossuet over Henriette Marie of
France (1669), and Henriette Anne of England (1670), quarto, in the
original binding, are sold for 200 pounds.  It is true that this
copy had possibly belonged to Bossuet himself, and certainly to his
nephew.  There is an example, as we have seen, of the 1682 edition
of Moliere,--of Moliere whom Bossuet detested,--which also belonged
to the eagle of Meaux.  The manuscript notes of the divine on the
work of the poor player must be edifying, and in the interests of
science it is to be hoped that this book may soon come into the
market.  While pamphlets of Bossuet are sold so dear, the first
edition of Homer--the beautiful edition of 1488, which the three
young Florentine gentlemen published--may be had for 100 pounds.
Yet even that seems expensive, when we remember that the copy in the
library of George III. cost only seven shillings.  This exquisite
Homer, sacred to the memory of learned friendships, the chief
offering of early printing at the altar of ancient poetry, is really
one of the most interesting books in the world.  Yet this Homer is
less valued than the tiny octavo which contains the ballades and
huitains of the scamp Francois Villon (1533).  'The History of the
Holy Grail' (L'Hystoire du Sainct Greaal:  Paris, 1523), in a
binding stamped with the four crowns of Louis XIV., is valued at
about 500 pounds.  A chivalric romance of the old days, which was
treasured even in the time of the grand monarque, when old French
literature was so much despised, is certainly a curiosity.  The
Rabelais of Madame de Pompadour (in morocco) seems comparatively
cheap at 60 pounds.  There is something piquant in the idea of
inheriting from that famous beauty the work of the colossal genius
of Rabelais. {17}

The natural sympathy of collectors "to middle fortune born" is not
with the rich men whose sport in book-hunting resembles the battue.
We side with the poor hunters of the wild game, who hang over the
fourpenny stalls on the quais, and dive into the dusty boxes after
literary pearls.  These devoted men rise betimes, and hurry to the
stalls before the common tide of passengers goes by.  Early morning
is the best moment in this, as in other sports.  At half past seven,
in summer, the bouquiniste, the dealer in cheap volumes at second-
hand, arrays the books which he purchased over night, the stray
possessions of ruined families, the outcasts of libraries.  The old-
fashioned bookseller knew little of the value of his wares; it was
his object to turn a small certain profit on his expenditure.  It is
reckoned that an energetic, business-like old bookseller will turn
over 150,000 volumes in a year.  In this vast number there must be
pickings for the humble collector who cannot afford to encounter the
children of Israel at Sotheby's or at the Hotel Drouot.

Let the enthusiast, in conclusion, throw a handful of lilies on the
grave of the martyr of the love of books,--the poet Albert Glatigny.
Poor Glatigny was the son of a garde champetre; his education was
accidental, and his poetic taste and skill extraordinarily fine and
delicate.  In his life of starvation (he had often to sleep in
omnibuses and railway stations), he frequently spent the price of a
dinner on a new book.  He lived to read and to dream, and if he
bought books he had not the wherewithal to live.  Still, he bought
them,--and he died!  His own poems were beautifully printed by
Lemerre, and it may be a joy to him (si mentem mortalia tangunt)
that they are now so highly valued that the price of a copy would
have kept the author alive and happy for a month.



OLD FRENCH TITLE-PAGES



Nothing can be plainer, as a rule, than a modern English title-page.
Its only beauty (if beauty it possesses) consists in the arrangement
and 'massing' of lines of type in various sizes.  We have returned
almost to the primitive simplicity of the oldest printed books,
which had no title-pages, properly speaking, at all, or merely gave,
with extreme brevity, the name of the work, without printer's mark,
or date, or place.  These were reserved for the colophon, if it was
thought desirable to mention them at all.  Thus, in the black-letter
example of Guido de Columna's 'History of Troy,' written about 1283,
and printed at Strasburg in 1489, the title-page is blank, except
for the words,


Hystoria Troiana Guidonis,


standing alone at the top of the leaf.  The colophon contains all
the rest of the information, 'happily completed in the City of
Strasburg, in the year of Grace Mcccclxxxix, about the Feast of St.
Urban.'  The printer and publisher give no name at all.

This early simplicity is succeeded, in French books, from, say,
1510, and afterwards, by the insertion either of the printer's
trademark, or, in black-letter books, of a rough woodcut,
illustrative of the nature of the volume.  The woodcuts have
occasionally a rude kind of grace, with a touch of the classical
taste of the early Renaissance surviving in extreme decay.

[Illustration with title page:  Les demandes tamours auec les
refpofesioyeufes.  Demade refponfe.]

An excellent example is the title-page of 'Les Demandes d'amours,
avec les responses joyeuses,' published by Jacques Moderne, at Lyon,
1540.  There is a certain Pagan breadth and joyousness in the figure
of Amor, and the man in the hood resembles traditional portraits of
Dante.

There is more humour, and a good deal of skill, in the title-page of
a book on late marriages and their discomforts, 'Les dictz et
complainctes de trop Tard marie' (Jacques Moderne, Lyon, 1540),
where we see the elderly and comfortable couple sitting gravely
under their own fig-tree.

[Illustration of 'Les dictz et complainctes...]

Jacques Moderne was a printer curious in these quaint devices, and
used them in most of his books:  for example, in 'How Satan and the
God Bacchus accuse the Publicans that spoil the wine,' Bacchus and
Satan (exactly like each other, as Sir Wilfrid Lawson will not be
surprised to hear) are encouraging dishonest tavern-keepers to stew
in their own juice in a caldron over a huge fire.  From the same
popular publisher came a little tract on various modes of sport, if
the name of sport can be applied to the netting of fish and birds.
The work is styled 'Livret nouveau auquel sont contenuz xxv receptes
de prendre poissons et oiseaulx avec les mains.'  A countryman clad
in a goat's skin with the head and horns drawn over his head as a
hood, is dragging ashore a net full of fishes.  There is no more
characteristic frontispiece of this black-letter sort than the
woodcut representing a gallows with three men hanging on it, which
illustrates Villon's 'Ballade des Pendus,' and is reproduced in Mr.
John Payne's 'Poems of Master Francis Villon of Paris' (London,
1878). {18}

Earlier in date than these vignettes of Jacques Moderne, but much
more artistic and refined in design, are some frontispieces of small
octavos printed en lettres rondes, about 1530.  In these rubricated
letters are used with brilliant effect.  One of the best is the
title-page of Galliot du Pre's edition of 'Le Rommant de la Rose'
(Paris, 1529). {19}  Galliot du Pre's artist, however, surpassed
even the charming device of the Lover plucking the Rose, in his
title-page, of the same date, for the small octavo edition of Alain
Chartier's poems, which we reproduce here.

[Illustration of title page]

The arrangement of letters, and the use of red, make a charming
frame, as it were, to the drawing of the mediaeval ship, with the
Motto VOGUE LA GALEE.

Title-pages like these, with designs appropriate to the character of
the text, were superseded presently by the fashion of badges,
devices, and mottoes.  As courtiers and ladies had their private
badges, not hereditary, like crests, but personal--the crescent of
Diane, the salamander of Francis I., the skulls and cross-bones of
Henri III., the marguerites of Marguerite, with mottoes like the Le
Banny de liesse, Le traverseur des voies perilleuses, Tout par
Soulas, and the like, so printers and authors had their emblems, and
their private literary slogans.  These they changed, accordinging

[Another illustration titled:  Le Pastissier Francois, MDCLV, title
page]

to fancy, or the vicissitudes of their lives.  Clement Marot's motto
was La Mort n'y Mord.  It is indicated by the letters L. M. N. M. in
the curious title of an edition of Marot's works published at Lyons
by Jean de Tournes in 1579.  The portrait represents the poet when
the tide of years had borne him far from his youth, far from
L'Adolescence Clementine.

[Another illustration titled:  Le Pastissier Francois, 1655, showing
a kitchen scene]

The unfortunate Etienne Dolet, perhaps the only publisher who was
ever burned, used an ominous device, a trunk of a tree, with the axe
struck into it.  In publishing 'Les Marguerites de la Marguerite des
Princesses, tres illustre Royne de Navarre,' Jean de Tournes
employed a pretty allegorical device.  Love, with the bandage thrust
back from his eyes, and with the bow and arrows in his hand, has
flown up to the sun, which he seems to touch; like Prometheus in the
myth when he stole the fire, a shower of flowers and flames falls
around him.  Groueleau, of Paris, had for motto Nul ne s'y frotte,
with the thistle for badge.  These are beautifully combined in the
title-page of his version of Apuleius, 'L'Amour de Cupido et de
Psyche' (Paris, 1557).  There is probably no better date for
frontispieces, both for ingenuity of device and for elegance of
arrangement of title, than the years between 1530 and 1560.  By
1562, when the first edition of the famous Fifth Book of Rabelais
was published, the printers appear to have thought devices wasted on
popular books, and the title of the Master's posthumous chapters is
printed quite simply.

In 1532-35 there was a more adventurous taste--witness the title of
'Gargantua.'  This beautiful title decorates the first known
edition, with a date of the First Book of Rabelais.  It was sold,
most appropriately, devant nostre Dame de Confort.  Why should so
glorious a relic of the Master have been carried out of England, at
the Sunderland sale?  All the early titles of Francois Juste's Lyons
editions of Rabelais are on this model.  By 1542 he dropped the
framework of architectural design.  By 1565 Richard Breton, in
Paris, was printing Rabelais with a frontispiece of a classical dame
holding a heart to the sun, a figure which is almost in the taste of
Stothard, or Flaxman.

The taste for vignettes, engraved on copper, not on wood, was
revived under the Elzevirs.  Their pretty little title-pages are not
so well known but that we offer examples.  In the essay on the
Elzevirs in this volume will be found a copy of the vignette of the
'Imitatio Christi,' and of 'Le Pastissier Francois' a reproduction
is given here (pp. 114, 115).  The artists they employed had plenty
of fancy, not backed by very profound skill in design.

In the same genre as the big-wigged classicism of the Elzevir
vignettes, in an age when Louis XIV. and Moliere (in tragedy) wore
laurel wreaths over vast perruques, are the early frontispieces of
Moliere's own collected works.  Probably the most interesting of all
French title-pages are those drawn by Chauveau for the two volumes
'Les Oeuvres de M. de Moliere,' published in 1666 by Guillaume de
Luynes.  The first shows Moliere in two characters, as Mascarille,
and as Sganarelle, in 'Le Cocu Imaginaire.'  Contrast the full-blown
jollity of the fourbum imperator, in his hat, and feather, and wig,
and vast canons, and tremendous shoe-tie, with the lean melancholy
of jealous Sganarelle.  These are two notable aspects of the genius
of the great comedian.  The apes below are the supporters of his
scutcheon.

The second volume shows the Muse of Comedy crowning Mlle. de Moliere
(Armande Bejart) in the dress of Agnes, while her husband is in the
costume, apparently, of Tartuffe, or of Sganarelle in 'L'Ecole des
Femmes.'  'Tartuffe' had not yet been licensed for a public stage.
The interest of the portraits and costumes makes these title-pages
precious, they are historical documents rather than mere
curiosities.

These title-pages of Moliere are the highwater mark of French taste
in this branch of decoration.  In the old quarto first editions of
Corneille's early plays, such as 'Le Cid' (Paris 1637), the printers
used lax and sprawling combinations of flowers and fruit.  These, a
little better executed, were the staple of Ribou, de Luynes, Quinet,
and the other Parisian booksellers who, one after another, failed to
satisfy Moliere as publishers.

The basket of fruits on the title-page of 'Iphigenie,' par M. Racine
(Barbin, Paris, 1675), is almost, but not quite, identical with the
similar ornament of De Vise's 'La Cocue Imaginaire' (Ribou, Paris
1662).  Many of Moliere's plays appearing first, separately, in
small octavo, were adorned with frontispieces, illustrative of some
scene in the comedy.  Thus, in the 'Misanthrope' (Rihou 1667) we see
Alceste, green ribbons and all, discoursing with Philinte, or
perhaps listening to the famous sonnet of Oronte; it is not easy to
be quite certain, but the expression of Alceste's face looks rather
as if he were being baited with a sonnet.  From the close of the
seventeenth century onwards, the taste for title-pages declined,
except when Moreau or Gravelot drew vignettes on copper, with
abundance of cupids and nymphs.  These were designed for very
luxurious and expensive books; for others, men contented themselves
with a bald simplicity, which has prevailed till our own time.  In
recent years the employment of publishers' devices has been less
unusual and more agreeable.  Thus Poulet Malassis had his armes
parlantes, a chicken very uncomfortably perched on a rail.  In
England we have the cipher and bees of Messrs. Macmillan, the Trees
of Life and Knowledge of Messrs. Kegan Paul and Trench, the Ship,
which was the sign of Messrs. Longman's early place of business, and
doubtless other symbols, all capable of being quaintly treated in a
title-page.



A BOOKMAN'S PURGATORY



Thomas Blinton was a book-hunter.  He had always been a book-hunter,
ever since, at an extremely early age, he had awakened to the errors
of his ways as a collector of stamps and monograms.  In book-hunting
he saw no harm; nay, he would contrast its joys, in a rather
pharisaical style, with the pleasures of shooting and fishing.  He
constantly declined to believe that the devil came for that renowned
amateur of black letter, G. Steevens.  Dibdin himself, who tells the
story (with obvious anxiety and alarm), pretends to refuse credit to
the ghastly narrative.  "His language," says Dibdin, in his account
of the book-hunter's end, "was, too frequently, the language of
imprecation."  This is rather good, as if Dibdin thought a gentleman
might swear pretty often, but not "TOO frequently."  "Although I am
not disposed to admit," Dibdin goes on, "the WHOLE of the testimony
of the good woman who watched by Steevens's bedside, although my
prejudices (as they may be called) will not allow me to believe that
the windows shook, and that strange noises and deep groans were
heard at midnight in his room, yet no creature of common sense (and
this woman possessed the quality in an eminent degree) could mistake
oaths for prayers;" and so forth.  In short, Dibdin clearly holds
that the windows did shake "without a blast," like the banners in
Branxholme Hall when somebody came for the Goblin Page.

But Thomas Blinton would hear of none of these things.  He said that
his taste made him take exercise; that he walked from the City to
West Kensington every day, to beat the covers of the book-stalls,
while other men travelled in the expensive cab or the unwholesome
Metropolitan Railway.  We are all apt to hold favourable views of
our own amusements, and, for my own part, I believe that trout and
salmon are incapable of feeling pain.  But the flimsiness of
Blinton's theories must be apparent to every unbiassed moralist.
His "harmless taste" really involved most of the deadly sins, or at
all events a fair working majority of them.  He coveted his
neighbours' books.  When he got the chance he bought books in a
cheap market and sold them in a dear market, thereby degrading
literature to the level of trade.  He took advantage of the
ignorance of uneducated persons who kept book-stalls.  He was
envious, and grudged the good fortune of others, while he rejoiced
in their failures.  He turned a deaf ear to the appeals of poverty.
He was luxurious, and laid out more money than he should have done
on his selfish pleasures, often adorning a volume with a morocco
binding when Mrs. Blinton sighed in vain for some old point
d'Alencon lace.  Greedy, proud, envious, stingy, extravagant, and
sharp in his dealings, Blinton was guilty of most of the sins which
the Church recognises as "deadly."

On the very day before that of which the affecting history is now to
be told, Blinton had been running the usual round of crime.  He had
(as far as intentions went) defrauded a bookseller in Holywell
Street by purchasing from him, for the sum of two shillings, what he
took to be a very rare Elzevir.  It is true that when he got home
and consulted 'Willems,' he found that he had got hold of the wrong
copy, in which the figures denoting the numbers of pages are printed
right, and which is therefore worth exactly "nuppence" to the
collector.  But the intention is the thing, and Blinton's intention
was distinctly fraudulent.  When he discovered his error, then "his
language," as Dibdin says, "was that of imprecation."  Worse (if
possible) than this, Blinton had gone to a sale, begun to bid for
'Les Essais de Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne' (Foppens, MDCLIX.),
and, carried away by excitement, had "plunged" to the extent of 15
pounds, which was precisely the amount of money he owed his plumber
and gasfitter, a worthy man with a large family.  Then, meeting a
friend (if the book-hunter has friends), or rather an accomplice in
lawless enterprise, Blinton had remarked the glee on the other's
face.  The poor man had purchased a little old Olaus Magnus, with
woodcuts, representing were-wolves, fire-drakes, and other fearful
wild-fowl, and was happy in his bargain.  But Blinton, with fiendish
joy, pointed out to him that the index was imperfect, and left him
sorrowing.

Deeds more foul have yet to be told.  Thomas Blinton had discovered
a new sin, so to speak, in the collecting way.  Aristophanes says of
one of his favourite blackguards, "Not only is he a villain, but he
has invented an original villainy."  Blinton was like this.  He
maintained that every man who came to notoriety had, at some period,
published a volume of poems which he had afterwards repented of and
withdrawn.  It was Blinton's hideous pleasure to collect stray
copies of these unhappy volumes, these 'Peches de Jeunesse,' which,
always and invariably, bear a gushing inscription from the author to
a friend.  He had all Lord John Manners's poems, and even Mr.
Ruskin's.  He had the 'Ode to Despair' of Smith (now a comic
writer), and the 'Love Lyrics' of Brown, who is now a permanent
under-secretary, than which nothing can be less gay nor more
permanent.  He had the amatory songs which a dignitary of the Church
published and withdrew from circulation.  Blinton was wont to say he
expected to come across 'Triolets of a Tribune,' by Mr. John Bright,
and 'Original Hymns for Infant Minds,' by Mr. Henry Labouchere, if
he only hunted long enough.

On the day of which I speak he had secured a volume of love-poems
which the author had done his best to destroy, and he had gone to
his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to friends of the
author, who was on the club committee.  Ah, was this a kind action?
In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of his iniquities, and
nobody will be surprised to hear that he met the appropriate
punishment of his offence.  Blinton had passed, on the whole, a
happy day, notwithstanding the error about the Elzevir.  He dined
well at his club, went home, slept well, and started next morning
for his office in the City, walking, as usual, and intending to
pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the book-stalls.  At the
very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a man turning over the
rubbish in the cheap box.  Blinton stared at him, fancied he knew
him, thought he didn't, and then became a prey to the glittering eye
of the other.  The Stranger, who wore the conventional cloak and
slouched soft hat of Strangers, was apparently an accomplished
mesmerist, or thought-reader, or adept, or esoteric Buddhist.  He
resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni (in the novel of that name), Mendoza
(in 'Codlingsby'), the soul-less man in 'A Strange Story,' Mr. Home,
Mr. Irving Bishop, a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most
other mysterious characters of history and fiction.  Before his
Awful Will, Blinton's mere modern obstinacy shrank back like a child
abashed.  The Stranger glided to him and whispered, "Buy these."

"These" were a complete set of Auerbach's novels, in English, which,
I need not say, Blinton would never have dreamt of purchasing had he
been left to his own devices.

"Buy these!" repeated the Adept, or whatever he was, in a cruel
whisper.  Paying the sum demanded, and trailing his vast load of
German romance, poor Blinton followed the fiend.

They reached a stall where, amongst much trash, Glatigny's 'Jour de
l'An d'un Vagabond' was exposed.

"Look," said Blinton, "there is a book I have wanted some time.
Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and it is an amusing trifle."

" Nay, buy THAT," said the implacable Stranger, pointing with a
hooked forefinger at Alison's 'History of Europe' in an indefinite
number of volumes.  Blinton shuddered.

"What, buy THAT, and why?  In heaven's name, what could I do with
it?"

"Buy it," repeated the persecutor, "and THAT" (indicating the
'Ilios' of Dr. Schliemann, a bulky work), "and THESE" (pointing to
all Mr. Theodore Alois Buckley's translations of the Classics), "and
THESE" (glancing at the collected writings of the late Mr. Hain
Friswell, and at a 'Life,' in more than one volume, of Mr.
Gladstone).

The miserable Blinton paid, and trudged along carrying the bargains
under his arm.  Now one book fell out, now another dropped by the
way.  Sometimes a portion of Alison came ponderously to earth;
sometimes the 'Gentle Life' sunk resignedly to the ground.  The
Adept kept picking them up again, and packing them under the arms of
the weary Blinton.

The victim now attempted to put on an air of geniality, and tried to
enter into conversation with his tormentor.

"He DOES know about books," thought Blinton, "and he must have a
weak spot somewhere."

So the wretched amateur made play in his best conversational style.
He talked of bindings, of Maioli, of Grolier, of De Thou, of Derome,
of Clovis Eve, of Roger Payne, of Trautz, and eke of Bauzonnet.  He
discoursed of first editions, of black letter, and even of
illustrations and vignettes.  He approached the topic of Bibles, but
here his tyrant, with a fierce yet timid glance, interrupted him.

"Buy those!" he hissed through his teeth.

"Those" were the complete publications of the Folk Lore Society.

Blinton did not care for folk lore (very bad men never do), but he
had to act as he was told.

Then, without pause or remorse, he was charged to acquire the
'Ethics' of Aristotle, in the agreeable versions of Williams and
Chase.  Next he secured 'Strathmore,' 'Chandos,' 'Under Two Flags,'
and 'Two Little Wooden Shoes,' and several dozens more of Ouida's
novels.  The next stall was entirely filled with school-books, old
geographies, Livys, Delectuses, Arnold's 'Greek Exercises,'
Ollendorffs, and what not.

"Buy them all," hissed the fiend.  He seized whole boxes and piled
them on Blinton's head.

He tied up Ouida's novels, in two parcels, with string, and fastened
each to one of the buttons above the tails of Blinton's coat.

"You are tired?" asked the tormentor.  "Never mind, these books will
soon be off your hands."

So speaking, the Stranger, with amazing speed, hurried Blinton back
through Holywell Street, along the Strand, and up to Piccadilly,
stopping at last at the door of Blinton's famous and very expensive
binder.

The binder opened his eyes, as well he might, at the vision of
Blinton's treasures.  Then the miserable Blinton found himself, as
it were automatically and without any exercise of his will, speaking
thus:-

"Here are some things I have picked up,--extremely rare,--and you
will oblige me by binding them in your best manner, regardless of
expense.  Morocco, of course; crushed levant morocco, double, every
book of them, petits fers, my crest and coat of arms, plenty of
gilding.  Spare no cost.  Don't keep me waiting, as you generally
do;" for indeed book-binders are the most dilatory of the human
species.

Before the astonished binder could ask the most necessary questions,
Blinton's tormentor had hurried that amateur out of the room.

"Come on to the sale," he cried.

"What sale?" said Blinton.

"Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky day."

"But I have forgotten my catalogue."

"Where is it?"

"In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of the
ebony book-case at home."

The stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated itself
till the hand disappeared from view round the corner.  In a moment
the hand returned with the catalogue.  The pair sped on to Messrs.
Sotheby's auction-rooms in Wellington Street.  Every one knows the
appearance of a great book-sale.  The long table, surrounded by
eager bidders, resembles from a little distance a roulette table,
and communicates the same sort of excitement.  The amateur is at a
loss to know how to conduct himself.  If he bids in his own person
some bookseller will outbid him, partly because the bookseller
knows, after all, he knows little about books, and suspects that the
amateur may, in this case, know more.  Besides, professionals always
dislike amateurs, and, in this game, they have a very great
advantage.  Blinton knew all this, and was in the habit of giving
his commissions to a broker.  But now he felt (and very naturally)
as if a demon had entered into him.  'Tirante il Bianco
Valorosissimo Cavaliere' was being competed for, an excessively rare
romance of chivalry, in magnificent red Venetian morocco, from
Canevari's library.  The book is one of the rarest of the Venetian
Press, and beautifully adorned with Canevari's device,--a simple and
elegant affair in gold and colours.  "Apollo is driving his chariot
across the green waves towards the rock, on which winged Pegasus is
pawing the ground," though why this action of a horse should be
called "pawing" (the animal notoriously not possessing paws) it is
hard to say.  Round this graceful design is the inscription [Greek
text] (straight not crooked).  In his ordinary mood Blinton could
only have admired 'Tirante il Bianco' from a distance.  But now, the
demon inspiring him, he rushed into the lists, and challenged the
great Mr. -, the Napoleon of bookselling.  The price had already
reached five hundred pounds.

"Six hundred," cried Blinton.

"Guineas," said the great Mr. -.

"Seven hundred," screamed Blinton.

"Guineas," replied the other.

This arithmetical dialogue went on till even Mr. -- struck his flag,
with a sigh, when the maddened Blinton had said "Six thousand."  The
cheers of the audience rewarded the largest bid ever made for any
book.  As if he had not done enough, the Stranger now impelled
Blinton to contend with Mr. -- for every expensive work that
appeared.  The audience naturally fancied that Blinton was in the
earlier stage of softening of the brain, when a man conceives
himself to have inherited boundless wealth, and is determined to
live up to it.  The hammer fell for the last time.  Blinton owed
some fifty thousand pounds, and exclaimed audibly, as the influence
of the fiend died out, "I am a ruined man."

"Then your books must be sold," cried the Stranger, and, leaping on
a chair, he addressed the audience:-

"Gentlemen, I invite you to Mr. Blinton's sale, which will
immediately take place.  The collection contains some very
remarkable early English poets, many first editions of the French
classics, most of the rarer Aldines, and a singular assortment of
Americana."

In a moment, as if by magic, the shelves round the room were filled
with Blinton's books, all tied up in big lots of some thirty volumes
each.  His early Molieres were fastened to old French dictionaries
and school-books.  His Shakespeare quartos were in the same lot with
tattered railway novels.  His copy (almost unique) of Richard
Barnfield's much too 'Affectionate Shepheard' was coupled with odd
volumes of 'Chips from a German Workshop' and a cheap, imperfect
example of 'Tom Brown's School-Days.'  Hookes's 'Amanda' was at the
bottom of a lot of American devotional works, where it kept company
with an Elzevir Tacitus and the Aldine 'Hypnerotomachia.'  The
auctioneer put up lot after lot, and Blinton plainly saw that the
whole affair was a "knock-out."  His most treasured spoils were
parted with at the price of waste paper.  It is an awful thing to be
present at one's own sale.  No man would bid above a few shillings.
Well did Blinton know that after the knock-out the plunder would be
shared among the grinning bidders.  At last his 'Adonais,' uncut,
bound by Lortic, went, in company with some old 'Bradshaws,' the
'Court Guide' of 1881, and an odd volume of the 'Sunday at Home,'
for sixpence.  The Stranger smiled a smile of peculiar malignity.
Blinton leaped up to protest; the room seemed to shake around him,
but words would not come to his lips.

Then he heard a familiar voice observe, as a familiar grasp shook
his shoulder,--

"Tom, Tom, what a nightmare you are enjoying!"

He was in his own arm-chair, where he had fallen asleep after
dinner, and Mrs. Blinton was doing her best to arouse him from his
awful vision.  Beside him lay 'L'Enfer du Bibliophile, vu et decrit
par Charles Asselineau.'  (Paris:  Tardieu, MDCCCLX.)


If this were an ordinary tract, I should have to tell how Blinton's
eyes were opened, how he gave up book-collecting, and took to
gardening, or politics, or something of that sort.  But truth
compels me to admit that Blinton's repentance had vanished by the
end of the week, when he was discovered marking M. Claudin's
catalogue, surreptitiously, before breakfast.  Thus, indeed, end all
our remorses.  "Lancelot falls to his own love again," as in the
romance.  Much, and justly, as theologians decry a death-bed
repentance, it is, perhaps, the only repentance that we do not
repent of.  All others leave us ready, when occasion comes, to fall
to our old love again; and may that love never be worse than the
taste for old books!  Once a collector, always a collector.  Moi qui
parle, I have sinned, and struggled, and fallen.  I have thrown
catalogues, unopened, into the waste-paper basket.  I have withheld
my feet from the paths that lead to Sotheby's and to Puttick's.  I
have crossed the street to avoid a book-stall.  In fact, like the
prophet Nicholas, "I have been known to be steady for weeks at a
time."  And then the fatal moment of temptation has arrived, and I
have succumbed to the soft seductions of Eisen, or Cochin, or an old
book on Angling.  Probably Grolier was thinking of such weaknesses
when he chose his devices Tanquam Ventus, and quisque suos patimur
Manes.  Like the wind we are blown about, and, like the people in
the AEneid, we are obliged to suffer the consequences of our own
extravagance.



BALLADE OF THE UNATTAINABLE



The Books I cannot hope to buy,
Their phantoms round me waltz and wheel,
They pass before the dreaming eye,
Ere Sleep the dreaming eye can seal.
A kind of literary reel
They dance; how fair the bindings shine!
Prose cannot tell them what I feel,--
The Books that never can be mine!

There frisk Editions rare and shy,
Morocco clad from head to heel;
Shakspearian quartos; Comedy
As first she flashed from Richard Steele;
And quaint De Foe on Mrs. Veal;
And, lord of landing net and line,
Old Izaak with his fishing creel,--
The Books that never can be mine!

Incunables! for you I sigh,
Black letter, at thy founts I kneel,
Old tales of Perrault's nursery,
For you I'd go without a meal!
For Books wherein did Aldus deal
And rare Galliot du Pre I pine.
The watches of the night reveal
The Books that never can be mine!

ENVOY.

Prince, bear a hopeless Bard's appeal;
Reverse the rules of Mine and Thine;
Make it legitimate to steal
The Books that never can be mine!



LADY BOOK-LOVERS



The biographer of Mrs. Aphra Behn refutes the vulgar error that "a
Dutchman cannot love."  Whether or not a lady can love books is a
question that may not be so readily settled.  Mr. Ernest Quentin
Bauchart has contributed to the discussion of this problem by
publishing a bibliography, in two quarto volumes, of books which
have been in the libraries of famous beauties of old, queens and
princesses of France.  There can be no doubt that these ladies were
possessors of exquisite printed books and manuscripts wonderfully
bound, but it remains uncertain whether the owners, as a rule, were
bibliophiles; whether their hearts were with their treasures.
Incredible as it may seem to us now, literature was highly respected
in the past, and was even fashionable.  Poets were in favour at
court, and Fashion decided that the great must possess books, and
not only books, but books produced in the utmost perfection of art,
and bound with all the skill at the disposal of Clovis Eve, and
Padeloup, and Duseuil.  Therefore, as Fashion gave her commands, we
cannot hastily affirm that the ladies who obeyed were really book-
lovers.  In our more polite age, Fashion has decreed that ladies
shall smoke, and bet, and romp, but it would be premature to assert
that all ladies who do their duty in these matters are born romps,
or have an unaffected liking for cigarettes.  History, however,
maintains that many of the renowned dames whose books are now the
most treasured of literary relics were actually inclined to study as
well as to pleasure, like Marguerite de Valois and the Comtesse de
Verrue, and even Madame de Pompadour.  Probably books and arts were
more to this lady's liking than the diversions by which she beguiled
the tedium of Louis XV.; and many a time she would rather have been
quiet with her plays and novels than engaged in conscientiously
conducted but distasteful revels.

Like a true Frenchman, M. Bauchart has only written about French
lady book-lovers, or about women who, like Mary Stuart, were more
than half French.  Nor would it be easy for an English author to
name, outside the ranks of crowned heads, like Elizabeth, any
Englishwomen of distinction who had a passion for the material side
of literature, for binding, and first editions, and large paper, and
engravings in early "states."  The practical sex, when studious, is
like the same sex when fond of equestrian exercise.  "A lady says,
'My heyes, he's an 'orse, and he must go,'" according to Leech's
groom.  In the same way, a studious girl or matron says, "This is a
book," and reads it, if read she does, without caring about the
date, or the state, or the publisher's name, or even very often
about the author's.  I remember, before the publication of a novel
now celebrated, seeing a privately printed vellum-bound copy on
large paper in the hands of a literary lady.  She was holding it
over the fire, and had already made the vellum covers curl wide open
like the shells of an afflicted oyster.

When I asked what the volume was, she explained that "It is a book
which a poor man has written, and he's had it printed to see whether
some one won't be kind enough to publish it."  I ventured, perhaps
pedantically, to point out that the poor man could not be so very
poor, or he would not have made so costly an experiment on Dutch
paper.  But the lady said she did not know how that might be, and
she went on toasting the experiment.  In all this there is a fine
contempt for everything but the spiritual aspect of literature;
there is an aversion to the mere coquetry and display of morocco and
red letters, and the toys which amuse the minds of men.  Where
ladies have caught "the Bibliomania," I fancy they have taken this
pretty fever from the other sex.  But it must be owned that the
books they have possessed, being rarer and more romantic, are even
more highly prized by amateurs than examples from the libraries of
Grolier, and Longepierre, and D'Hoym.  M. Bauchart's book is a
complete guide to the collector of these expensive relics.  He
begins his dream of fair women who have owned books with the pearl
of the Valois, Marguerite d'Angouleme, the sister of Francis I.  The
remains of her library are chiefly devotional manuscripts.  Indeed,
it is to be noted that all these ladies, however frivolous,
possessed the most devout and pious books, and whole collections of
prayers copied out by the pen, and decorated with miniatures.
Marguerite's library was bound in morocco, stamped with a crowned M
in interlacs sown with daisies, or, at least, with conventional
flowers which may have been meant for daisies.  If one could choose,
perhaps the most desirable of the specimens extant is 'Le Premier
Livre du Prince des Poetes, Homere,' in Salel's translation.  For
this translation Ronsard writes a prologue, addressed to the manes
of Salel, in which he complains that he is ridiculed for his poetry.
He draws a characteristic picture of Homer and Salel in Elysium,
among the learned lovers:


qui parmi les fleurs devisent
Au giron de leur dame.


Marguerite's manuscript copy of the First Book of the Iliad is a
small quarto, adorned with daisies, fleurs de-lis, and the crowned
M.  It is in the Duc d'Aumale's collection at Chantilly.  The books
of Diane de Poitiers are more numerous and more famous.  When first
a widow she stamped her volumes with a laurel springing from a tomb,
and the motto, "Sola vivit in illo."  But when she consoled herself
with Henri II. she suppressed the tomb, and made the motto
meaningless.  Her crescent shone not only on her books, but on the
palace walls of France, in the Louvre, Fontainebleau, and Anet, and
her initial D. is inextricably interlaced with the H. of her royal
lover.  Indeed, Henri added the D to his own cypher, and this must
have been so embarrassing for his wife Catherine, that people have
good-naturedly tried to read the curves of the D's as C's.  The D's,
and the crescents, and the bows of his Diana are impressed even on
the covers of Henri's Book of Hours.  Catherine's own cypher is a
double C enlaced with an H, or double K's (Katherine) combined in
the same manner.  These, unlike the D.H., are surmounted with a
crown--the one advantage which the wife possessed over the
favourite.  Among Diane's books are various treatises on medicines
and on surgery, and plenty of poetry and Italian novels.  Among the
books exhibited at the British Museum in glass cases is Diane's copy
of Bembo's 'History of Venice.'  An American collector, Mr. Barlow,
of New York, is happy enough to possess her 'Singularitez de la
France Antarctique' (Antwerp, 1558).

Catherine de Medicis got splendid books on the same terms as foreign
pirates procure English novels--she stole them.  The Marshal
Strozzi, dying in the French service, left a noble collection, on
which Catherine laid her hands.  Brantome says that Strozzi's son
often expressed to him a candid opinion about this transaction.
What with her own collection and what with the Marshal's, Catherine
possessed about four thousand volumes.  On her death they were in
peril of being seized by her creditors, but her almoner carried them
to his own house, and De Thou had them placed in the royal library.
Unluckily it was thought wiser to strip the books of the coats with
Catherine's compromising device, lest her creditors should single
them out, and take them away in their pockets.  Hence, books with
her arms and cypher are exceedingly rare.  At the sale of the
collections of the Duchesse de Berry, a Book of Hours of Catherine's
was sold for 2,400 pounds.

Mary Stuart of Scotland was one of the lady book-lovers whose taste
was more than a mere following of the fashion.  Some of her books,
like one of Marie Antoinette's, were the companions of her
captivity, and still bear the sad complaints which she entrusted to
these last friends of fallen royalty.  Her note-book, in which she
wrote her Latin prose exercises when a girl, still survives, bound
in red morocco, with the arms of France.  In a Book of Hours, now
the property of the Czar, may be partly deciphered the quatrains
which she composed in her sorrowful years, but many of them are
mutilated by the binder's shears.  The Queen used the volume as a
kind of album:  it contains the signatures of the "Countess of
Schrewsbury" (as M. Bauchart has it), of Walsingham, of the Earl of
Sussex, and of Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham.  There is also
the signature, "Your most infortunat, ARBELLA SEYMOUR;" and "Fr.
Bacon."

This remarkable manuscript was purchased in Paris, during the
Revolution, by Peter Dubrowsky, who carried it to Russia.  Another
Book of Hours of the Queen's bears this inscription, in a sixteenth-
century hand:  "Ce sont les Heures de Marie Setuart Renne.
Marguerite de Blacuod de Rosay."  In De Blacuod it is not very easy
to recognise "Blackwood."  Marguerite was probably the daughter of
Adam Blackwood, who wrote a volume on Mary Stuart's sufferings
(Edinburgh, 1587).

The famous Marguerite de Valois, the wife of Henri IV., had
certainly a noble library, and many beautifully bound books stamped
with daisies are attributed to her collections.  They bear the
motto, "Expectata non eludet," which appears to refer, first to the
daisy ("Margarita"), which is punctual in the spring, or rather is
"the constellated flower that never sets," and next, to the lady,
who will "keep tryst."  But is the lady Marguerite de Valois?
Though the books have been sold at very high prices as relics of the
leman of La Mole, it seems impossible to demonstrate that they were
ever on her shelves, that they were bound by Clovis Eve from her own
design. "No mention is made of them in any contemporary document,
and the judicious are reduced to conjectures."  Yet they form a most
important collection, systematically bound, science and philosophy
in citron morocco, the poets in green, and history and theology in
red.  In any case it is absurd to explain "Expectata non eludet" as
a reference to the lily of the royal arms, which appears on the
centre of the daisy-pied volumes.  The motto, in that case, would
run, "Expectata (lilia) non eludent."  As it stands, the feminine
adjective, "expectata," in the singular, must apply either to the
lady who owned the volumes, or to the "Margarita," her emblem, or to
both.  Yet the ungrammatical rendering is that which M. Bauchart
suggests.  Many of the books, Marguerite's or not, were sold at
prices over 100 pounds in London, in 1884 and 1883.  The Macrobius,
and Theocritus, and Homer are in the Cracherode collection at the
British Museum.  The daisy crowned Ronsard went for 430 pounds at
the Beckford sale.  These prices will probably never be reached
again.

If Anne of Austria, the mother of Louis XIV., was a bibliophile, she
may be suspected of acting on the motive, "Love me, love my books."
About her affection for Cardinal Mazarin there seems to be no doubt:
the Cardinal had a famous library, and his royal friend probably
imitated his tastes.  In her time, and on her volumes, the
originality and taste of the skilled binder, Le Gascon, begin to
declare themselves.  The fashionable passion for lace, to which La
Fontaine made such sacrifices, affected the art of book decorations,
and Le Gascon's beautiful patterns of gold points and dots are
copies of the productions of Venice.  The Queen-Mother's books
include many devotional treatises, for, whatever other fashions
might come and go, piety was always constant before the Revolution.
Anne of Austria seems to have been particularly fond of the lives
and works of Saint Theresa, and Saint Francois de Sales, and John of
the Cross.  But she was not unread in the old French poets, such as
Coquillart; she condescended to Ariosto; she had that dubious
character, Theophile de Viaud, beautifully bound; she owned the
Rabelais of 1553; and, what is particularly interesting, M. de
Lignerolles possesses her copy of 'L'Eschole des Femmes, Comedie par
J. B. P. Moliere.  Paris:  Guillaume de Luynes, 1663.'  In 12
[degree sign], red morocco, gilt edges, and the Queen's arms on the
covers.  This relic is especially valuable when we remember that
'L'Ecole des Femmes' and Arnolphe's sermon to Agnes, and his comic
threats of future punishment first made envy take the form of
religious persecution.  The devout Queen-Mother was often appealed
to by the enemies of Moliere, yet Anne of Austria had not only seen
his comedy, but possessed this beautiful example of the first
edition.  M. Paul Lacroix supposes that this copy was offered to the
Queen-Mother by Moliere himself.  The frontispiece (Arnolphe
preaching to Agnes) is thought to be a portrait of Moliere, but in
the reproduction in M. Louis Lacour's edition it is not easy to see
any resemblance.  Apparently Anne did not share the views, even in
her later years, of the converted Prince de Conty, for several
comedies and novels remain stamped with her arms and device.

The learned Marquise de Rambouillet, the parent of all the
'Precieuses,' must have owned a good library, but nothing is
chronicled save her celebrated book of prayers and meditations,
written out and decorated by Jarry.  It is bound in red morocco,
double with green, and covered with V's in gold.  The Marquise
composed the prayers for her own use, and Jarry was so much struck
with their beauty that he asked leave to introduce them into the
Book of Hours which he had to copy, "for the prayers are often so
silly," said he, "that I am ashamed to write them out."

Here is an example of the devotions which Jarry admired, a prayer to
Saint Louis.  It was published in 'Miscellanies Bibliographiques' by
M. Prosper Blanchemain.


PRIERE A SAINT-LOUIS,
ROY DE FRANCE.

Grand Roy, bien que votre couronne ayt este des plus esclatantes de
la Terre, celle que vous portez dans le ciel est incomparablement
plus precieuse.  L'une estoit perissable l'autre est immortelle et
ces lys dont la blancheur se pouvoit ternir, sont maintenant
incorruptibles.  Vostre obeissance envers vostre mere; vostre
justice envers vos sujets; et vos guerres contre les infideles, vous
ont acquis la veneration de tous les peuples; et la France doit a
vos travaux et a vostre piete l'inestimable tresor de la sanglante
et glorieuse couronne du Sauveur du monde.  Priez-le incomparable
Saint qu'il donne une paix perpetuelle au Royaume dont vous avez
porte le sceptre; qu'il le preserve d'heresie; qu'il y face toujours
regner saintement vostre illustre Sang; et que tous ceux qui ont
l'honneur d'en descendre soient pour jamais fideles a son Eglise.


The daughter of the Marquise, the fair Julie, heroine of that "long
courting" by M. de Montausier, survives in those records as the
possessor of 'La Guirlande de Julie,' the manuscript book of poems
by eminent hands.  But this manuscript seems to have been all the
library of Julie; therein she could constantly read of her own
perfections.  To be sure she had also 'L'Histoire de Gustave
Adolphe,' a hero for whom, like Major Dugald Dalgetty, she cherished
a supreme devotion.  In the 'Guirlande' Chapelain's verses turn on
the pleasing fancy that the Protestant Lion of the North, changed
into a flower (like Paul Limayrac in M. Banville's ode), requests
Julie to take pity on his altered estate:


Sois pitoyable a ma langueur;
Et si je n'ay place en ton coeur
Que je l'aye au moins sur ta teste.


These verses were reckoned consummate.

The 'Guirlande' is still, with happier fate than attends most books,
in the hands of the successors of the Duc and Duchesse de
Montausier.

Like Julie, Madame de Maintenon was a precieuse, but she never had
time to form a regular library.  Her books, however, were bound by
Duseuil, a binder immortal in the verse of Pope; or it might be more
correct to say that Madame de Maintenon's own books are seldom
distinguishable from those of her favourite foundation, St. Cyr.
The most interesting is a copy of the first edition of 'Esther,' in
quarto (1689), bound in red morocco, and bearing, in Racine's hand,
'A Madame la Marquise de Maintenon, offert avec respect,--RACINE."

Doubtless Racine had the book bound before he presented it.  "People
are discontented," writes his son Louis, "if you offer them a book
in a simple marbled paper cover."  I could wish that this worthy
custom were restored, for the sake of the art of binding, and also
because amateur poets would be more chary of their presentation
copies.  It is, no doubt, wise to turn these gifts with their sides
against the inner walls of bookcases, to be bulwarks against the
damp, but the trouble of acknowledging worthless presents from
strangers is considerable. {20}

Another interesting example of Madame de Maintenon's collections is
Dacier's 'Remarques Critiques sur les OEuvres d'Horace,' bearing the
arms of Louis XIV., but with his wife's signature on the fly-leaf
(1681).

Of Madame de Montespan, ousted from the royal favour by Madame de
Maintenon, who "married into the family where she had been
governess," there survives one bookish relic of interest.  This is
'OEuvres Diverses par un auteur de sept ans,' in quarto, red
morocco, printed on vellum, and with the arms of the mother of the
little Duc du Maine (1678).  When Madame de Maintenon was still
playing mother to the children of the king and of Madame de
Montespan, she printed those "works" of her eldest pupil.

These ladies were only bibliophiles by accident, and were devoted,
in the first place, to pleasure, piety, or ambition.  With the
Comtesse de Verrue, whose epitaph will be found on an earlier page,
we come to a genuine and even fanatical collector.  Madame de Verrue
(1670-1736) got every kind of diversion out of life, and when she
ceased to be young and fair, she turned to the joys of "shopping."
In early years, "pleine de coeur, elle le donna sans comptes."  In
later life, she purchased, or obtained on credit, everything that
caught her fancy, also sans comptes.  "My aunt," says the Duc de
Luynes, "was always buying, and never baulked her fancy."  Pictures,
books, coins, jewels, engravings, gems (over 8,000), tapestries, and
furniture were all alike precious to Madame de Verrue.  Her snuff-
boxes defied computation; she had them in gold, in tortoise-shell,
in porcelain, in lacquer, and in jasper, and she enjoyed the
delicate fragrance of sixty different sorts of snuff.  Without
applauding the smoking of cigarettes in drawing-rooms, we may admit
that it is less repulsive than steady applications to tobacco in
Madame de Verrue's favourite manner.

The Countess had a noble library, for old tastes survived in her
commodious heart, and new tastes she anticipated.  She possessed
'The Romance of the Rose,' and 'Villon,' in editions of Galliot du
Pre (1529-1533) undeterred by the satire of Boileau.  She had
examples of the 'Pleiade,' though they were not again admired in
France till 1830.  She was also in the most modern fashion of to-
day, for she had the beautiful quarto of La Fontaine's 'Contes,' and
Bouchier's illustrated Moliere (large paper).  And, what I envy her
more, she had Perrault's 'Fairy Tales,' in blue morocco--the blue
rose of the folklorist who is also a book-hunter.  It must also be
confessed that Madame de Verrue had a large number of books such as
are usually kept under lock and key, books which her heirs did not
care to expose at the sale of her library.  Once I myself (moi
chetif) owned a novel in blue morocco, which had been in the
collection of Madame de Verrue.  In her old age this exemplary woman
invented a peculiarly comfortable arm-chair, which, like her novels,
was covered with citron and violet morocco; the nails were of
silver.  If Madame de Verrue has met the Baroness Bernstein, their
conversation in the Elysian Fields must be of the most gallant and
interesting description.

Another literary lady of pleasure, Madame de Pompadour, can only be
spoken of with modified approval.  Her great fault was that she did
not check the decadence of taste and sense in the art of
bookbinding.  In her time came in the habit of binding books (if
binding it can be called) with flat backs, without the nerves and
sinews that are of the very essence of book-covers.  Without these
no binding can be permanent, none can secure the lasting existence
of a volume.  It is very deeply to be deplored that by far the most
accomplished living English artist in bookbinding has reverted to
this old and most dangerous heresy.  The most original and graceful
tooling is of much less real value than permanence, and a book bound
with a flat back, without nerfs, might practically as well not be
bound at all.  The practice was the herald of the French and may
open the way for the English Revolution.  Of what avail were the
ingenious mosaics of Derome to stem the tide of change, when the
books whose sides they adorned were not really BOUND at all?  Madame
de Pompadour's books were of all sorts, from the inevitable works of
devotions to devotions of another sort, and the 'Hours' of Erycina
Ridens.  One of her treasures had singular fortunes, a copy of
'Daphnis and Chloe,' with the Regent's illustrations, and those of
Cochin and Eisen (Paris, quarto, 1757, red morocco).  The covers are
adorned with billing and cooing doves, with the arrows of Eros, with
burning hearts, and sheep and shepherds.  Eighteen years ago this
volume was bought for 10 francs in a village in Hungary.  A
bookseller gave 8 pounds for it in Paris.  M. Bauchart paid for it
150 pounds; and as it has left his shelves, probably he too made no
bad bargain.  Madame de Pompadour's 'Apology for Herodotus' (La
Haye, 1735) has also its legend.  It belonged to M. Paillet, who
coveted a glorified copy of the 'Pastissier Francois,' in M.
Bauchart's collection.  M Paillet swopped it, with a number of
others, for the 'Pastissier:'


J'avais 'L'Apologie
Pour Herodote,' en reliure ancienne, amour
De livre provenant de chez la Pompadour
Il me le soutira! {21}


Of Marie Antoinette, with whom our lady book-lovers of the old
regime must close, there survive many books.  She had a library in
the Tuileries, as well as at le petit Trianon.  Of all her great and
varied collections, none is now so valued as her little book of
prayers, which was her consolation in the worst of all her evil
days, in the Temple and the Conciergerie.  The book is 'Office de la
Divine Providence' (Paris, 1757, green morocco).  On the fly-leaf
the Queen wrote, some hours before her death, these touching lines:
"Ce 16 Octobre, a 4 h. 0.5 du matin.  Mon Dieu! ayez pitie de moi!
Mes yeux n'ont plus de larmes pour prier pour vous, mes pauvres
enfants.  Adieu, adieu!--MARIE ANTOINETTE."

There can be no sadder relic of a greater sorrow, and the last
consolation of the Queen did not escape the French popular genius
for cruelty and insult.  The arms on the covers of the prayer-book
have been cut out by some fanatic of Equality and Fraternity.



Footnotes:

{1}  See illustrations, pp.  114, 115.

{2}  "Slate" is a professional term for a severe criticism.  Clearly
the word is originally "slat," a narrow board of wood, with which a
person might be beaten.

{3}  Histoire des Intrigues Amoureuses de Moliere, et de celles de
sa femme.  (A la Sphere.)  A Francfort, chez Frederic Arnaud,
MDCXCVII.  This anonymous tract has actually been attributed to
Racine.  The copy referred to is marked with a large N in red, with
an eagle's head.

{4}  The Lady of the Lake, 1810.

The Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1806.

"To Mrs. Robert Laidlaw, Peel.  From the Author."

{5}  Dictys Cretensis.  Apud Lambertum Roulland.  Lut.  Paris.,
1680.  In red morocco, with the arms of Colbert.

{6}  L. Annaei Senecae Opera Omnia. Lug.  Bat., apud Elzevirios.
1649.  With book-plate of the Duke of Sussex.

{7}  Stratonis Epigrammata.  Altenburgi, 1764.  Straton bound up in
one volume with Epictetus!  From the Beckford library.

{8}  Opera Helii Eobani Hessi.  Yellow morocco, with the first arms
of De Thou.  Includes a poem addressed "LANGE, decus meum."
Quantity of penultimate "Eobanus" taken for granted, metri gratia.

{9}  La Journee du Chretien.  Coutances, 1831.  With inscription,
"Leon Gambetta.  Rue St. Honore.  Janvier 1, 1848."

{10}  Villoison's Homer.  Venice, 1788.  With Tessier's ticket and
Schlegel's book-plate.

{11}  Les Essais de Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne.  "Pour Francois
le Febvre de Lyon, 1695."  With autograph of Gul. Drummond, and
cipresso e palma.

{12}  "The little old foxed Moliere," once the property of William
Pott, unknown to fame.

{13}  That there ever were such editors is much disputed.  The story
may be a fiction of the age of the Ptolemies.

{14}  Or, more easily, in Maury's Religions de la Grece.

{15}  See Essay on 'Lady Book-Lovers.'

{16}  See Essay on 'Lady Book-Lovers.'

{17}  For a specimen of Madame Pompadour's binding see overleaf.
She had another Rabelais in calf, lately to be seen in a shop in
Pall Mall.

{18}  Mr. Payne does not give the date of the edition from which he
copies the cut.  Apparently it is of the fifteenth century.

{19}  Reproduced in The Library, p. 94.

{20}  Country papers, please copy.  Poets at a distance will kindly
accept this intimation.

{21}  Bibliotheque d'un Bibliophile.  Lille, 1885.