The Library | Page 4

of
Douce, and Malone, and Cousin. People who are studying any past
period of human history, or any old phase or expression of human
genius, will eagerly collect little contemporary volumes which seem
trash to other amateurs. For example, to a student of Moliere, it is a
happy chance to come across "La Carte du Royaume des
Pretieuses"--(The map of the kingdom of the "Precieuses")--written the
year before the comedian brought out his famous play "Les Precieuses
Ridicules." This geographical tract appeared in the very "Recueil des
Pieces Choisies," whose authors Magdelon, in the play, was expecting
to entertain, when Mascarille made his appearance. There is a faculty
which Horace Walpole named "serendipity,"--the luck of falling on just
the literary document which one wants at the moment. All collectors of
out of the way books know the pleasure of the exercise of serendipity,
but they enjoy it in different ways. One man will go home hugging a
volume of sermons, another with a bulky collection of catalogues,
which would have distended the pockets even of the wide great-coat
made for the purpose, that Charles Nodier used to wear when he went a
book-hunting. Others are captivated by black letter, others by the plays
of such obscurities as Nabbes and Glapthorne. But however various the

tastes of collectors of books, they are all agreed on one point,--the love
of printed paper. Even an Elzevir man can sympathise with Charles
Lamb's attachment to "that folio Beaumont and Fletcher which he
dragged home late at night from Barker's in Covent Garden." But it is
another thing when Lamb says, "I do not care for a first folio of
Shakespeare." A bibliophile who could say this could say anything.
No, there are, in every period of taste, books which, apart from their
literary value, all collectors admit to possess, if not for themselves, then
for others of the brotherhood, a peculiar preciousness. These books are
esteemed for curiosity, for beauty of type, paper, binding, and
illustrations, for some connection they may have with famous people of
the past, or for their rarity. It is about these books, the method of
preserving them, their enemies, the places in which to hunt for them,
that the following pages are to treat. It is a subject more closely
connected with the taste for curiosities than with art, strictly so called.
We are to be occupied, not so much with literature as with books, not
so much with criticism as with bibliography, the quaint duenna of
literature, a study apparently dry, but not without its humours. And here
an apology must be made for the frequent allusions and anecdotes
derived from French writers. These are as unavoidable, almost, as the
use of French terms of the sport in tennis and in fencing. In
bibliography, in the care for books AS books, the French are still the
teachers of Europe, as they were in tennis and are in fencing. Thus,
Richard de Bury, Chancellor of Edward III., writes in his
"Philobiblon:" "Oh God of Gods in Zion! what a rushing river of joy
gladdens my heart as often as I have a chance of going to Paris! There
the days seem always short; there are the goodly collections on the
delicate fragrant book-shelves." Since Dante wrote of -
"L'onor di quell' arte Ch' allumare e chiamata in Parisi,"
"the art that is called illuminating in Paris," and all the other arts of
writing, printing, binding books, have been most skilfully practised by
France. She improved on the lessons given by Germany and Italy in
these crafts. Twenty books about books are written in Paris for one that
is published in England. In our country Dibdin is out of date (the
second edition of his "Bibliomania" was published in 1811), and Mr.
Hill Burton's humorous "Book-hunter" is out of print. Meanwhile, in
France, writers grave and gay, from the gigantic industry of Brunet to

Nodier's quaint fancy, and Janin's wit, and the always entertaining
bibliophile Jacob (Paul Lacroix), have written, or are writing, on books,
manuscripts, engravings, editions, and bindings. In England, therefore,
rare French books are eagerly sought, and may be found in all the
booksellers' catalogues. On the continent there is no such care for our
curious or beautiful editions, old or new. Here a hint may be given to
the collector. If he "picks up" a rare French book, at a low price, he
would act prudently in having it bound in France by a good craftsman.
Its value, when "the wicked day of destiny" comes, and the collection is
broken up, will thus be made secure. For the French do not suffer our
English bindings gladly; while we have no narrow prejudice against the
works of Lortic and Cape, but the reverse. For these reasons then, and
also