Books and Bookmen [37]
with frontispieces, illustrative of some
scene in the comedy. Thus, in the 'Misanthrope' (Rihou 1667) we see
Alceste, green ribbons and all, discoursing with Philinte, or
perhaps listening to the famous sonnet of Oronte; it is not easy to
be quite certain, but the expression of Alceste's face looks rather
as if he were being baited with a sonnet. From the close of the
seventeenth century onwards, the taste for title-pages declined,
except when Moreau or Gravelot drew vignettes on copper, with
abundance of cupids and nymphs. These were designed for very
luxurious and expensive books; for others, men contented themselves
with a bald simplicity, which has prevailed till our own time. In
recent years the employment of publishers' devices has been less
unusual and more agreeable. Thus Poulet Malassis had his armes
parlantes, a chicken very uncomfortably perched on a rail. In
England we have the cipher and bees of Messrs. Macmillan, the Trees
of Life and Knowledge of Messrs. Kegan Paul and Trench, the Ship,
which was the sign of Messrs. Longman's early place of business, and
doubtless other symbols, all capable of being quaintly treated in a
title-page.
A BOOKMAN'S PURGATORY
Thomas Blinton was a book-hunter. He had always been a book-hunter,
ever since, at an extremely early age, he had awakened to the errors
of his ways as a collector of stamps and monograms. In book-hunting
he saw no harm; nay, he would contrast its joys, in a rather
pharisaical style, with the pleasures of shooting and fishing. He
constantly declined to believe that the devil came for that renowned
amateur of black letter, G. Steevens. Dibdin himself, who tells the
story (with obvious anxiety and alarm), pretends to refuse credit to
the ghastly narrative. "His language," says Dibdin, in his account
of the book-hunter's end, "was, too frequently, the language of
imprecation." This is rather good, as if Dibdin thought a gentleman
might swear pretty often, but not "TOO frequently." "Although I am
not disposed to admit," Dibdin goes on, "the WHOLE of the testimony
of the good woman who watched by Steevens's bedside, although my
prejudices (as they may be called) will not allow me to believe that
the windows shook, and that strange noises and deep groans were
heard at midnight in his room, yet no creature of common sense (and
this woman possessed the quality in an eminent degree) could mistake
oaths for prayers;" and so forth. In short, Dibdin clearly holds
that the windows did shake "without a blast," like the banners in
Branxholme Hall when somebody came for the Goblin Page.
But Thomas Blinton would hear of none of these things. He said that
his taste made him take exercise; that he walked from the City to
West Kensington every day, to beat the covers of the book-stalls,
while other men travelled in the expensive cab or the unwholesome
Metropolitan Railway. We are all apt to hold favourable views of
our own amusements, and, for my own part, I believe that trout and
salmon are incapable of feeling pain. But the flimsiness of
Blinton's theories must be apparent to every unbiassed moralist.
His "harmless taste" really involved most of the deadly sins, or at
all events a fair working majority of them. He coveted his
neighbours' books. When he got the chance he bought books in a
cheap market and sold them in a dear market, thereby degrading
literature to the level of trade. He took advantage of the
ignorance of uneducated persons who kept book-stalls. He was
envious, and grudged the good fortune of others, while he rejoiced
in their failures. He turned a deaf ear to the appeals of poverty.
He was luxurious, and laid out more money than he should have done
on his selfish pleasures, often adorning a volume with a morocco
binding when Mrs. Blinton sighed in vain for some old point
d'Alencon lace. Greedy, proud, envious, stingy, extravagant, and
sharp in his dealings, Blinton was guilty of most of the sins which
the Church recognises as "deadly."
On the very day before
scene in the comedy. Thus, in the 'Misanthrope' (Rihou 1667) we see
Alceste, green ribbons and all, discoursing with Philinte, or
perhaps listening to the famous sonnet of Oronte; it is not easy to
be quite certain, but the expression of Alceste's face looks rather
as if he were being baited with a sonnet. From the close of the
seventeenth century onwards, the taste for title-pages declined,
except when Moreau or Gravelot drew vignettes on copper, with
abundance of cupids and nymphs. These were designed for very
luxurious and expensive books; for others, men contented themselves
with a bald simplicity, which has prevailed till our own time. In
recent years the employment of publishers' devices has been less
unusual and more agreeable. Thus Poulet Malassis had his armes
parlantes, a chicken very uncomfortably perched on a rail. In
England we have the cipher and bees of Messrs. Macmillan, the Trees
of Life and Knowledge of Messrs. Kegan Paul and Trench, the Ship,
which was the sign of Messrs. Longman's early place of business, and
doubtless other symbols, all capable of being quaintly treated in a
title-page.
A BOOKMAN'S PURGATORY
Thomas Blinton was a book-hunter. He had always been a book-hunter,
ever since, at an extremely early age, he had awakened to the errors
of his ways as a collector of stamps and monograms. In book-hunting
he saw no harm; nay, he would contrast its joys, in a rather
pharisaical style, with the pleasures of shooting and fishing. He
constantly declined to believe that the devil came for that renowned
amateur of black letter, G. Steevens. Dibdin himself, who tells the
story (with obvious anxiety and alarm), pretends to refuse credit to
the ghastly narrative. "His language," says Dibdin, in his account
of the book-hunter's end, "was, too frequently, the language of
imprecation." This is rather good, as if Dibdin thought a gentleman
might swear pretty often, but not "TOO frequently." "Although I am
not disposed to admit," Dibdin goes on, "the WHOLE of the testimony
of the good woman who watched by Steevens's bedside, although my
prejudices (as they may be called) will not allow me to believe that
the windows shook, and that strange noises and deep groans were
heard at midnight in his room, yet no creature of common sense (and
this woman possessed the quality in an eminent degree) could mistake
oaths for prayers;" and so forth. In short, Dibdin clearly holds
that the windows did shake "without a blast," like the banners in
Branxholme Hall when somebody came for the Goblin Page.
But Thomas Blinton would hear of none of these things. He said that
his taste made him take exercise; that he walked from the City to
West Kensington every day, to beat the covers of the book-stalls,
while other men travelled in the expensive cab or the unwholesome
Metropolitan Railway. We are all apt to hold favourable views of
our own amusements, and, for my own part, I believe that trout and
salmon are incapable of feeling pain. But the flimsiness of
Blinton's theories must be apparent to every unbiassed moralist.
His "harmless taste" really involved most of the deadly sins, or at
all events a fair working majority of them. He coveted his
neighbours' books. When he got the chance he bought books in a
cheap market and sold them in a dear market, thereby degrading
literature to the level of trade. He took advantage of the
ignorance of uneducated persons who kept book-stalls. He was
envious, and grudged the good fortune of others, while he rejoiced
in their failures. He turned a deaf ear to the appeals of poverty.
He was luxurious, and laid out more money than he should have done
on his selfish pleasures, often adorning a volume with a morocco
binding when Mrs. Blinton sighed in vain for some old point
d'Alencon lace. Greedy, proud, envious, stingy, extravagant, and
sharp in his dealings, Blinton was guilty of most of the sins which
the Church recognises as "deadly."
On the very day before