Books and Bookmen [28]
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
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