POSTSCRIPTUM.
ALTHOUGH, strictly speaking,
the following anecdote does not
illustrate any form of real injury
to books, it is so racy, and in these days
of extravagant biddings so tantalizing, that
I must step just outside the strict line of pertinence
in order to place it on record, It
was sent to me, as a personal experience, by
my friend, Mr. George Clulow, a well-known
bibliophile, and "Xylographer'' to "Ye Sette
of ye Odde Volumes.'' The date is 1881.
He writes:—
"Apropos of the Gainsborough `find,' of
which you tell in `The Enemies of Books,' I
should like to narrate an experience of my
own, of some twenty years ago:
"Late one evening, at my father's house, I
saw a catalogue of a sale of furniture, farm
implements and books, which was announced
to take place on the following morning at a
country rectory in Derbyshire, some four
miles from the nearest railway station.
"It was summer time—the country at its
best—and with the attraction of an old book,
I decided on a day's holiday, and eight o'clock
the next morning found me in the train for
C—, and after a variation in my programme,
caused by my having walked three miles
west before I discovered that my destination
was three miles east of the railway station, I
arrived at the rectory at noon, and found
assembled some thirty or forty of the
neighbouring farmers, their wives, men-servants
and maid-servants, all seemingly bent on a
day's idling, rather than business. The sale
was announced for noon, but it was an hour
later before the auctioneer put in an appearance,
and the first operation in which he took
part, and in which he invited my assistance,
was to make a hearty meal of bread and
cheese and beer in the rectory kitchen. This
over, the business of the day began by a
sundry collection of pots, pans, and kettles
being brought to the competition of the
public, followed by some lots of bedding, etc.
The catalogue gave books as the first part of
the sale, and, as three o'clock was reached,
my patience was gone, and I protested
to the auctioneer against his not selling in
accordance with his catalogue. To this he
replied that there was not time enough, and
that he would sell the books to-morrow!
This was too much for me, and I suggested
that he had broken faith with the buyers, and
had brought me to C— on a false pretence.
This, however, did not seem to disturb his
good humour, or to make him unhappy, and
his answer was to call `Bill,' who was acting
as porter, and to tell him to give the gentleman
the key of the `book room,' and to
bring down any of the books he might pick
out, and he `would sell 'em.' I followed
`Bill,' and soon found myself in a charming
nook of a library, full of books, mostly old
divinity, but with a large number of the best
miscellaneous literature of the sixteenth
century, English and foreign. A very short
look over the shelves produced some thirty
Black Letter books, three or four illuminated
missals, and some book rarities of a more
recent date. `Bill' took them downstairs, and
I wondered what would happen! I was not
long in doubt, for book by book, and in lots of
two and three, my selection was knocked down
in rapid succession, at prices varying from
1
s. 6
d. to 3
s. 6
d., this latter sum seeming to
be the utmost limit to the speculative turn of
my competitors. The
bonne bouche of the lot
was, however, kept back by the auctioneer,
because, as he said, it was `a pretty book,'
and I began to respect his critical judgment,
for `a pretty book' it was, being a large paper
copy of Dibdin's Bibliographical Decameron,
three volumes, in the original binding. Suffice
it to say that, including this charming book,
my purchases did not amount to £13, and I
had pretty well a cart-load of books for my
money—more than I wanted much! Having
brought them home, I `weeded them out,' and
the `weeding' realised four times what I gave
for the whole, leaving me with some real
book treasures.
"Some weeks afterwards I heard that the
remainder of the books were literally treated
as waste lumber, and carted off to the neighbouring
town, and were to be had, any one
of them, for sixpence, from a cobbler who
had allowed his shop to be used as a store
house for them. The news of their being
there reached the ears of an old bookseller
in one of the large towns, and he, I think,
cleared out the lot. So curious an instance
of the most total ignorance on the part of
the sellers, and I may add on the part of
the possible buyers also, I think is worth
noting.''
How would the reader in this Year of
Grace, 1887, like such an experience as
that?