Books and Bookmen [40]
most necessary questions,
Blinton's tormentor had hurried that amateur out of the room.
"Come on to the sale," he cried.
"What sale?" said Blinton.
"Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky day."
"But I have forgotten my catalogue."
"Where is it?"
"In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of the
ebony book-case at home."
The stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated itself
till the hand disappeared from view round the corner. In a moment
the hand returned with the catalogue. The pair sped on to Messrs.
Sotheby's auction-rooms in Wellington Street. Every one knows the
appearance of a great book-sale. The long table, surrounded by
eager bidders, resembles from a little distance a roulette table,
and communicates the same sort of excitement. The amateur is at a
loss to know how to conduct himself. If he bids in his own person
some bookseller will outbid him, partly because the bookseller
knows, after all, he knows little about books, and suspects that the
amateur may, in this case, know more. Besides, professionals always
dislike amateurs, and, in this game, they have a very great
advantage. Blinton knew all this, and was in the habit of giving
his commissions to a broker. But now he felt (and very naturally)
as if a demon had entered into him. 'Tirante il Bianco
Valorosissimo Cavaliere' was being competed for, an excessively rare
romance of chivalry, in magnificent red Venetian morocco, from
Canevari's library. The book is one of the rarest of the Venetian
Press, and beautifully adorned with Canevari's device,--a simple and
elegant affair in gold and colours. "Apollo is driving his chariot
across the green waves towards the rock, on which winged Pegasus is
pawing the ground," though why this action of a horse should be
called "pawing" (the animal notoriously not possessing paws) it is
hard to say. Round this graceful design is the inscription [Greek
text] (straight not crooked). In his ordinary mood Blinton could
only have admired 'Tirante il Bianco' from a distance. But now, the
demon inspiring him, he rushed into the lists, and challenged the
great Mr. -, the Napoleon of bookselling. The price had already
reached five hundred pounds.
"Six hundred," cried Blinton.
"Guineas," said the great Mr. -.
"Seven hundred," screamed Blinton.
"Guineas," replied the other.
This arithmetical dialogue went on till even Mr. -- struck his flag,
with a sigh, when the maddened Blinton had said "Six thousand." The
cheers of the audience rewarded the largest bid ever made for any
book. As if he had not done enough, the Stranger now impelled
Blinton to contend with Mr. -- for every expensive work that
appeared. The audience naturally fancied that Blinton was in the
earlier stage of softening of the brain, when a man conceives
himself to have inherited boundless wealth, and is determined to
live up to it. The hammer fell for the last time. Blinton owed
some fifty thousand pounds, and exclaimed audibly, as the influence
of the fiend died out, "I am a ruined man."
"Then your books must be sold," cried the Stranger, and, leaping on
a chair, he addressed the audience:-
"Gentlemen, I invite you to Mr. Blinton's sale, which will
immediately take place. The collection contains some very
remarkable early English poets, many first editions of the French
classics, most of the rarer Aldines, and a singular assortment of
Americana."
In a moment, as if by magic, the shelves round the room were filled
with Blinton's books, all tied up in big lots of some thirty volumes
each. His early Molieres were fastened to old French dictionaries
and school-books. His Shakespeare quartos were in the same lot with
tattered railway novels. His copy (almost unique) of Richard
Barnfield's much too 'Affectionate Shepheard' was coupled with odd
volumes of 'Chips from a German Workshop' and a cheap, imperfect
example of 'Tom Brown's School-Days.' Hookes's 'Amanda' was at the
bottom of a lot of American devotional
Blinton's tormentor had hurried that amateur out of the room.
"Come on to the sale," he cried.
"What sale?" said Blinton.
"Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky day."
"But I have forgotten my catalogue."
"Where is it?"
"In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of the
ebony book-case at home."
The stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated itself
till the hand disappeared from view round the corner. In a moment
the hand returned with the catalogue. The pair sped on to Messrs.
Sotheby's auction-rooms in Wellington Street. Every one knows the
appearance of a great book-sale. The long table, surrounded by
eager bidders, resembles from a little distance a roulette table,
and communicates the same sort of excitement. The amateur is at a
loss to know how to conduct himself. If he bids in his own person
some bookseller will outbid him, partly because the bookseller
knows, after all, he knows little about books, and suspects that the
amateur may, in this case, know more. Besides, professionals always
dislike amateurs, and, in this game, they have a very great
advantage. Blinton knew all this, and was in the habit of giving
his commissions to a broker. But now he felt (and very naturally)
as if a demon had entered into him. 'Tirante il Bianco
Valorosissimo Cavaliere' was being competed for, an excessively rare
romance of chivalry, in magnificent red Venetian morocco, from
Canevari's library. The book is one of the rarest of the Venetian
Press, and beautifully adorned with Canevari's device,--a simple and
elegant affair in gold and colours. "Apollo is driving his chariot
across the green waves towards the rock, on which winged Pegasus is
pawing the ground," though why this action of a horse should be
called "pawing" (the animal notoriously not possessing paws) it is
hard to say. Round this graceful design is the inscription [Greek
text] (straight not crooked). In his ordinary mood Blinton could
only have admired 'Tirante il Bianco' from a distance. But now, the
demon inspiring him, he rushed into the lists, and challenged the
great Mr. -, the Napoleon of bookselling. The price had already
reached five hundred pounds.
"Six hundred," cried Blinton.
"Guineas," said the great Mr. -.
"Seven hundred," screamed Blinton.
"Guineas," replied the other.
This arithmetical dialogue went on till even Mr. -- struck his flag,
with a sigh, when the maddened Blinton had said "Six thousand." The
cheers of the audience rewarded the largest bid ever made for any
book. As if he had not done enough, the Stranger now impelled
Blinton to contend with Mr. -- for every expensive work that
appeared. The audience naturally fancied that Blinton was in the
earlier stage of softening of the brain, when a man conceives
himself to have inherited boundless wealth, and is determined to
live up to it. The hammer fell for the last time. Blinton owed
some fifty thousand pounds, and exclaimed audibly, as the influence
of the fiend died out, "I am a ruined man."
"Then your books must be sold," cried the Stranger, and, leaping on
a chair, he addressed the audience:-
"Gentlemen, I invite you to Mr. Blinton's sale, which will
immediately take place. The collection contains some very
remarkable early English poets, many first editions of the French
classics, most of the rarer Aldines, and a singular assortment of
Americana."
In a moment, as if by magic, the shelves round the room were filled
with Blinton's books, all tied up in big lots of some thirty volumes
each. His early Molieres were fastened to old French dictionaries
and school-books. His Shakespeare quartos were in the same lot with
tattered railway novels. His copy (almost unique) of Richard
Barnfield's much too 'Affectionate Shepheard' was coupled with odd
volumes of 'Chips from a German Workshop' and a cheap, imperfect
example of 'Tom Brown's School-Days.' Hookes's 'Amanda' was at the
bottom of a lot of American devotional