Book-Lovers, Bibliomaniacs and Book Clubs | Page 8

the closet-door and take away the key of it, and you will then sleep in peace.'
"'Sleep in peace!' resumed Ferdinand; 'Sleep in wretchedness, you mean! I can have no peace unless you indulge me with the key of the book-case. To whom do such gems belong?'
"'Sir, they are not stolen goods!'
"'Madam, I ask pardon. I did not mean to question their being honest property, but'--
"'Sir, they are not mine or my husband's.'
"'Who, madam, who is the lucky owner?'
"'An elderly gentleman of the name of--sir, I am not at liberty to mention his name, but they belong to an elderly gentleman.'
"'Will he part with them? Where does he live? Can you introduce me to him?'
"The good woman soon answered all Ferdinand's rapid queries, but the result was by no means satisfactory to him.
"He learnt that these uncommonly scarce and precious volumes belonged to an ancient gentleman whose name was studiously concealed, but who was in the habit of coming once or twice a week, during the autumn, to smoke his pipe and lounge over his books, sometimes making extracts from them and sometimes making observations in the margin with a pencil. Whenever a very curious passage occurred, he would take out a small memorandum book and put on a pair of large tortoise-shell spectacles with powerful magnifying glasses in order to insert this passage with particular care and neatness. He usually concluded his evening amusements by sleeping in the very bed in which Ferdinand had been lying.
"Such intelligence only sharpened the curiosity and increased the restlessness of poor Ferdinand. He retired to his bibliomaniacal bed, but not to repose. The morning sunbeams, which irradiated the bookcase with complete effect, shone upon his pallid countenance and thoughtful brow. He rose at five, walked in the meadows till seven, returned and breakfasted, stole upstairs to take a farewell peep at his beloved Morte d'Arthur, sighed 'three times and more,' paid his reckoning, apologized for the night's adventure, told the landlady he would shortly come and visit her again and try to pay his respects to the anonymous old gentleman.
"'Meanwhile,' said he, 'I will leave no bookseller's shop in the neighbourhood unvisited till I gain intelligence of his name and character.'
"The landlady eyed him steadily, took a pinch of snuff with a significant air, and returning with a smile of triumph to her kitchen, thanked her stars that she had got rid of such a madman!"
To return, however, to the subject more immediately in hand, it will be observed that the present age is more prolific of bibliophiles than any preceding one, and that the growing interest in collecting fine books is attended by a relatively increasing demand for a higher standard of excellency of manufacture. A few years ago, there were only two or three publishers in this country who "specialized" in fine editions, while at present there are no less than thirty publishing houses, large and small, and as many more "private presses" engaged in the production of beautiful books to appease the demands of book-buyers. Many of these are well established and conducted upon thoroughly honest business principles; some, unfortunately, are not. The publication and sale of books--especially the so-called "de luxe" editions--is, like some other branches of industry, beset with numerous evils; so many sharp practices, indeed, having been resorted to by a few conscienceless publishers, and by a certain class of unscrupulous agents, that buyers have become wary, not to say weary, of being made the victims of their deceptive inventions. It is indeed lamentable that a few such pestiferous schemers should thus bring a certain degree of reproach upon the entire publishing business. It is a common practice among these soi-disant publishers--many of whom possess neither capital, credit, nor sense of honor--to buy some lot of etchings or old prints from a junk-shop, or second-hand dealer, at a trifling price, and thereupon work the same off on credulous admirers of rare prints for possibly a thousand times their real value. And it is a common practice for these insidious sharks further to prey upon unsuspecting book-buyers by obtaining publications of reputable houses and falsifying them by the insertion of spurious titles calculated to delude the buyer into the belief that there are "only fifty copies issued." Many of them are ostracized book-salesmen who have at some previous time enjoyed the confidence of their employers, but have been ex-communicated by all honest publishers and booksellers on account of dishonest proclivities. They are therefore set adrift to prey upon the public, and are a constant menace to both publishers and buyers. I shall pay my further respects to these counterfeiters later on when I come to the subject of Book Clubs; in the mean while, it need hardly be pointed out that reprehensible methods of this kind are uniformly condemned