Books and Bookmen [38]
that of which the affecting history is now to
be told, Blinton had been running the usual round of crime. He had
(as far as intentions went) defrauded a bookseller in Holywell
Street by purchasing from him, for the sum of two shillings, what he
took to be a very rare Elzevir. It is true that when he got home
and consulted 'Willems,' he found that he had got hold of the wrong
copy, in which the figures denoting the numbers of pages are printed
right, and which is therefore worth exactly "nuppence" to the
collector. But the intention is the thing, and Blinton's intention
was distinctly fraudulent. When he discovered his error, then "his
language," as Dibdin says, "was that of imprecation." Worse (if
possible) than this, Blinton had gone to a sale, begun to bid for
'Les Essais de Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne' (Foppens, MDCLIX.),
and, carried away by excitement, had "plunged" to the extent of 15
pounds, which was precisely the amount of money he owed his plumber
and gasfitter, a worthy man with a large family. Then, meeting a
friend (if the book-hunter has friends), or rather an accomplice in
lawless enterprise, Blinton had remarked the glee on the other's
face. The poor man had purchased a little old Olaus Magnus, with
woodcuts, representing were-wolves, fire-drakes, and other fearful
wild-fowl, and was happy in his bargain. But Blinton, with fiendish
joy, pointed out to him that the index was imperfect, and left him
sorrowing.
Deeds more foul have yet to be told. Thomas Blinton had discovered
a new sin, so to speak, in the collecting way. Aristophanes says of
one of his favourite blackguards, "Not only is he a villain, but he
has invented an original villainy." Blinton was like this. He
maintained that every man who came to notoriety had, at some period,
published a volume of poems which he had afterwards repented of and
withdrawn. It was Blinton's hideous pleasure to collect stray
copies of these unhappy volumes, these 'Peches de Jeunesse,' which,
always and invariably, bear a gushing inscription from the author to
a friend. He had all Lord John Manners's poems, and even Mr.
Ruskin's. He had the 'Ode to Despair' of Smith (now a comic
writer), and the 'Love Lyrics' of Brown, who is now a permanent
under-secretary, than which nothing can be less gay nor more
permanent. He had the amatory songs which a dignitary of the Church
published and withdrew from circulation. Blinton was wont to say he
expected to come across 'Triolets of a Tribune,' by Mr. John Bright,
and 'Original Hymns for Infant Minds,' by Mr. Henry Labouchere, if
he only hunted long enough.
On the day of which I speak he had secured a volume of love-poems
which the author had done his best to destroy, and he had gone to
his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to friends of the
author, who was on the club committee. Ah, was this a kind action?
In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of his iniquities, and
nobody will be surprised to hear that he met the appropriate
punishment of his offence. Blinton had passed, on the whole, a
happy day, notwithstanding the error about the Elzevir. He dined
well at his club, went home, slept well, and started next morning
for his office in the City, walking, as usual, and intending to
pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the book-stalls. At the
very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a man turning over the
rubbish in the cheap box. Blinton stared at him, fancied he knew
him, thought he didn't, and then became a prey to the glittering eye
of the other. The Stranger, who wore the conventional cloak and
slouched soft hat of Strangers, was apparently an accomplished
mesmerist, or thought-reader, or adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He
resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni (in the novel of that name), Mendoza
(in 'Codlingsby'), the soul-less man in 'A Strange Story,' Mr. Home,
Mr. Irving Bishop, a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most
other mysterious characters of history and fiction. Before his
Awful Will, Blinton's mere modern obstinacy
be told, Blinton had been running the usual round of crime. He had
(as far as intentions went) defrauded a bookseller in Holywell
Street by purchasing from him, for the sum of two shillings, what he
took to be a very rare Elzevir. It is true that when he got home
and consulted 'Willems,' he found that he had got hold of the wrong
copy, in which the figures denoting the numbers of pages are printed
right, and which is therefore worth exactly "nuppence" to the
collector. But the intention is the thing, and Blinton's intention
was distinctly fraudulent. When he discovered his error, then "his
language," as Dibdin says, "was that of imprecation." Worse (if
possible) than this, Blinton had gone to a sale, begun to bid for
'Les Essais de Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne' (Foppens, MDCLIX.),
and, carried away by excitement, had "plunged" to the extent of 15
pounds, which was precisely the amount of money he owed his plumber
and gasfitter, a worthy man with a large family. Then, meeting a
friend (if the book-hunter has friends), or rather an accomplice in
lawless enterprise, Blinton had remarked the glee on the other's
face. The poor man had purchased a little old Olaus Magnus, with
woodcuts, representing were-wolves, fire-drakes, and other fearful
wild-fowl, and was happy in his bargain. But Blinton, with fiendish
joy, pointed out to him that the index was imperfect, and left him
sorrowing.
Deeds more foul have yet to be told. Thomas Blinton had discovered
a new sin, so to speak, in the collecting way. Aristophanes says of
one of his favourite blackguards, "Not only is he a villain, but he
has invented an original villainy." Blinton was like this. He
maintained that every man who came to notoriety had, at some period,
published a volume of poems which he had afterwards repented of and
withdrawn. It was Blinton's hideous pleasure to collect stray
copies of these unhappy volumes, these 'Peches de Jeunesse,' which,
always and invariably, bear a gushing inscription from the author to
a friend. He had all Lord John Manners's poems, and even Mr.
Ruskin's. He had the 'Ode to Despair' of Smith (now a comic
writer), and the 'Love Lyrics' of Brown, who is now a permanent
under-secretary, than which nothing can be less gay nor more
permanent. He had the amatory songs which a dignitary of the Church
published and withdrew from circulation. Blinton was wont to say he
expected to come across 'Triolets of a Tribune,' by Mr. John Bright,
and 'Original Hymns for Infant Minds,' by Mr. Henry Labouchere, if
he only hunted long enough.
On the day of which I speak he had secured a volume of love-poems
which the author had done his best to destroy, and he had gone to
his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to friends of the
author, who was on the club committee. Ah, was this a kind action?
In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of his iniquities, and
nobody will be surprised to hear that he met the appropriate
punishment of his offence. Blinton had passed, on the whole, a
happy day, notwithstanding the error about the Elzevir. He dined
well at his club, went home, slept well, and started next morning
for his office in the City, walking, as usual, and intending to
pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the book-stalls. At the
very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a man turning over the
rubbish in the cheap box. Blinton stared at him, fancied he knew
him, thought he didn't, and then became a prey to the glittering eye
of the other. The Stranger, who wore the conventional cloak and
slouched soft hat of Strangers, was apparently an accomplished
mesmerist, or thought-reader, or adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He
resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni (in the novel of that name), Mendoza
(in 'Codlingsby'), the soul-less man in 'A Strange Story,' Mr. Home,
Mr. Irving Bishop, a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most
other mysterious characters of history and fiction. Before his
Awful Will, Blinton's mere modern obstinacy