Books and Bookmen [29]
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
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