Part 16
It is a great mistake for England to think that America is willing to pay mad prices for every English book. When bidding around the board at Sotheby’s the trade have often smiled when they dropped a “hot one” on me. I shall never forget when I bought a book for £640 in the Britwell sale and someone kindly remarked, “Why, Richard Heber gave two shillings for that very copy in 1826.” Needless to say it made not the slightest difference to me what he paid for it, I only knew that I was getting a great book and that no price was too high for it. Books of intrinsic worth, that exist in one or two copies, cannot be measured in terms of shillings and pence, or dollars and cents. Occasionally, however, when bidding, for moral (or immoral!) effect, I have dropped a common rarity on my competitors, and they have paid twice what I thought the book was worth. And I might have been mistaken at that! It’s all in the game. It is also a great mistake to think that when a book is knocked down to an English bookseller it will remain within the British Isles. There is nothing more fallacious than that. At least fifty per cent of the purchases of British dealers eventually wend their way to this country.
Once I had a serious qualm when relieving Great Britain of her cherished belongings. That was when I purchased privately the Battle Abbey Cartularies, the original documents of those valiant men who came over with William the Conqueror. There were hundreds of deeds and legal documents dating from the Battle of Hastings in 1066, bound in ninety-nine volumes. They were the very foundation of English history. It was with a feeling of genuine regret that I saw them leave England forever. I hope in their home in the New World they will have the tender attention and respect they received in their former abode in the west of England.
The muniment rooms in the great houses still retain valuable documents of all kinds. A search through the many volumes and calendars of papers issued by the English Historical Manuscripts Commission will reveal the wealth of material still remaining in Great Britain. I remember only last year looking with envious eyes upon the muniment chamber of a noble family. There were ancient papers, rolls, parchments of all kinds, bound volumes of letters, from floor to ceiling, some of which had been in the same family for over eight hundred years. What a treasure-trove for a student of the social and political history of Great Britain! In looking quite casually over the lot I found a paper bearing the signature of John Milton; another of Thomas Killigrew; a whole stack of Samuel Pepys! My mouth began to water. I even thought if I looked more thoroughly I might find one of William Shakespeare--who knows? Professor Wallace found several in the Public Record Office in London. The famous _impresa_ is in the Duke of Rutland’s collection at Belvoir Castle. Why not find one hidden away among these old musty records? It was, however, with a sense of relief that I heard the noble owner say to me: “You cannot carry these off, Doctor Rosenbach. Thank God, they are entailed, even my children’s children, if they fall on evil days, will be unable to dispose of them.” Down in my inmost soul I was delighted. Although I could never possess them, it warmed the cockles of my heart to hear the words that blasted my hopes forever. However, there are compensations. I was invited to visit the house any time I came to England, and to examine at my leisure these entrancing documents. My student days rushed back to me. How I should have been rejoiced, in the old days, when I was making original investigations into the beginnings of the English Drama under the guidance of my beloved teacher, Dr. Felix E. Schelling, to study these papers, with a chance of finding something that would add, if only a trifle, to our knowledge of the subject. I felt a renegade. I had deserted the halls of learning for the bookshop; I had given up my fellowship to enter a business that would, perhaps, put money in my purse.
I did not, when at college, appreciate what a high adventure the business was to prove, the excitement and anxiety of the chase, and that I had a better chance, a far greater opportunity, to unearth unpublished documents, and uncover original source-material, than ever I could have as an instructor in English in some university. After twenty-five years I am still of this opinion; although I sneakingly hanker for the time when I can quietly return to my early love, and carefully survey, without a thought of their commercial value, the many interesting things that have fallen to my collector’s bag. Perhaps I have been of some help to other students, who can investigate at their leisure the great mass of material that I have been the instrument of placing in their hands.
The study of English letters in the universities of this country is also responsible for the persistent demand for everything relating to the language and literature of Great Britain. Theses on almost every subject are being turned out regularly by candidates for the Ph.D. degree. I would do almost anything rather than be compelled to read most of them. I plead guilty, however, to having written one myself, long before I dreamed of entering the more diverting sport of book hunting. The quality of some of the work done by our scholars is extremely high, almost astounding, like Dr. Hotson’s bombshell describing accurately, for the first time, the death of Kit Marlowe. All the professors in the colleges and all the students in the seminars (how I hate this word!) are urging the university authorities to supply them with books. And there is only one place to buy them--England. It is no wonder, therefore, that we are probably getting ourselves thoroughly disliked on the other side by carrying off, like so many lusty buccaneers, the sacred treasuries of English thought. Admiral Drake, the “dragon” of Lope de Vega, on his West Indian voyage looted the pearls and emeralds of the New Empire, taking them back to England to show to the Mighty Queen Elizabeth. _Our_ pirates are almost as ambitious. We go after far more precious things, things that outwear time and are not dependent on taste or fashion. The demand for England’s books will not lessen; it will increase with every decade. There are some English collectors, like Sir R. L. Harmsworth, who are trying gallantly to stem the tide. Others are steeling themselves to heroic efforts to check the onrush, but mere man cannot conquer an economic situation of such dimensions. It will be impossible to check the welling flood unless the Government comes to the rescue.
As I have said before, the most sagacious among Englishmen do not consider the matter a very serious one. They look with equanimity upon the situation. They really admire the pluck and spirit of our collectors, for the English are sportsmen of the first order. Recently I was speaking to one of them about the Pierpont Morgan Library. He said how marvelous it was that such a great collection should be given to the public during the owner’s lifetime. He knew of no gift to England of like magnitude. I reminded him of the splendid Althorp collection of Lord Spencer, given in 1892 by Mrs. John Rylands to Manchester, which equals anything in this country. We, however, have just begun. New collectors and new libraries abound. New foundations, with large sums for the purchase of books, are springing into being. And yet some of the English (not the wisest) say that the United States is a country where the dollars count most. A libel, of course. In fact, some of our amateurs are almost prodigal, nay, quixotic in their use of money. I know one who gave up a lucrative business in order to devote himself to the purchase of old books. Bravo! Would that there were more like him, not alone in this country, but in England as well.
Following the financial centre, the book mart has gradually shifted to New York. In a few years it will be impossible to purchase the finest English books in London. I have only recently sold to a well-known English collector some volumes purchased at the Britwell sale, not two years ago. I can foresee the day when Englishmen, with the taste and ability to buy, will be browsing in shops in Philadelphia, in New Orleans, in Minneapolis, in San Francisco, and taking their lucky finds back with them to their old home.
IX
THE COLLECTOR’S BEST BET
“I don’t give a tinker’s dam about the money value!” We were working, my uncle Moses and I, in his crowded bookshop on the second floor of the ancient red brick building on Commerce Street in old Philadelphia. Uncle Moses sat on top of a ladder before some shelves, arranging his volumes, while I endeavored to find an important document in his paper-stuffed desk. An old colored man, a messenger, had just staggered up the stairs to deliver an enormous package. It proved to be, as usual, a lot of crusty old books, and the last straw for me. I looked despairingly at my uncle. Where were these to find room? Each corner of the place, the chairs, tables, and his desk, was already filled; and the shelves, of course, were laden. I sighed. Why was Uncle Moses forever buying, buying, buying, and never--hardly ever--selling? And what was all this newly arrived lot worth? It didn’t look like much to me. It was then that he caught the trend of my thought and boomed at me from the other end of the room. I was, you must remember, only sixteen at the time, and had yet to learn that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
Uncle Moses quickly came down from his ladder and gloated proudly over the newly arrived pile of books. Then he fairly beamed as he turned to me. “My boy,” he exclaimed, “‘Americana!’ That’s the stuff to collect!” He picked up a volume, opened to the yellowed title page, and read aloud: “Here is a _Discovery of the Barmudas, otherwise called the Isle of Devils_. It is the work of Silvester Jourdain, 1610. Americana! Even Shakespeare knew the fascination of it. It was this little book which in part inspired him to write _The Tempest_!” He turned to light his old meerschaum pipe, and as he did so, his battered, picturesque top-hat, which had stood crowded between a row of books and the wall, fell to the floor. I felt a savage glow of delight at this mishap. But Uncle Moses ignored it. He was on a favorite subject, and he had his most appreciative audience: me. Although I had not been born with a caul over my face, he felt I had second sight--for books. And he delighted to catch my imagination as a fair wind takes a sail, filling it now this way, now that. It was something of a relaxation for him.
“Heaps of people,” he continued, “can’t seem to get it into their heads that there is just as much drama in the history of our own country as in any of the Old World empires. Hasn’t my friend Prescott made the conquerors of Mexico and Peru live before our eyes? Talk about William the Conqueror! What is the matter with Columbus, Cortés, and Pizarro?” I was thrilled now--thrilled to the marrow when he talked like that. And with gratification he watched me as I stood there transfixed.
“Think of the capture of the last Inca! Why, it is far more exciting than the Battle of Agincourt. It outweighs even Shakespeare’s graphic description in _King Henry V_.” He stopped for a moment, his penetrating dark eyes sparkling with excitement. “But it is not only the battles, the political intrigues,” he went on, “the early history of our great industries is just as important. For instance, the old forty-niners’ records of the first discovery of gold in California, the beginning of the steel mills, the first railroad prospectuses, all this country’s gigantic domestic activities! My boy, I envy you the years ahead in which you will discover for yourself the color, the romance, the mystery of your country’s history!”
Monday Morning, December 27, 1773.
The Tea-Ship being arrived, every Inhabitant who wishes to preserve the Liberty of America, is desired to meet at the STATE-HOUSE, This Morning, precisely at TEN o’Clock, to advise what is best to be done on this alarming Crisis.
Time has proved to me that my uncle prophesied well when he said that Americana would have a unique and splendid place in the book world. And although his prophecies were made many years ago, it is not too late to-day to start collecting Americana. But, of course, to-morrow it may be. They get scarcer every day; they will never be any cheaper; and of one thing you may be sure: the value of Americana will increase with the rising fortunes of America.
So many of the books and documents on which history is based have been absorbed by public libraries and by historical societies that the available source material itself has dwindled. In the old days, when such friends of Moses Polock as James Lenox, Doctor Brinley, old Menzies, John Carter Brown, Brayton Ives, Henry C. Murphy, James Carson Brevoort, and countless others were enslaved by an inordinate passion for books, they did not have to go far afield to find the things that delighted their souls. The most precious relics were to be found almost at their doorsteps. If they were in Philadelphia, it was to the bookstalls along Second Street they went; in New York, to the drowsy old shops of lower Broadway. In these and other places serious-minded young collectors--can’t you see them in their stovepipe hats, their high, tight collars, and enormous black satin cravats?--searched in leisurely mood through the untouched treasure-hoards of Americana. Indeed, those were the days when you could pick up Smith’s _History of Virginia_ for fifty dollars almost as easily as you can secure to-day the latest novel of a popular writer.
But, budding collectors, do not despair. Who knows but there are nuggets hidden this very minute, at your hand? Hidden only because you do not realize their potential value. Things which are considered valueless to-day may soar high in favor in the near future. You know that our grandfathers, not to mention their sisters and their cousins and their aunts, could have bought the autograph letters of such historical figures as Lincoln, Grant, Lee, and Jefferson Davis for a few dollars during the years that immediately followed the Civil War. And it was not until twenty years later that collectors began to gather together everything they could find concerning Lincoln, for it was not until then that he became a figure permanently great in the thoughts of the people. His merest pen scratch took on a definite value, which has increased steadily since then.
The World War has now been over for nearly nine years. Mementos of the conflict which are to-day tolerated merely for their sentimental value will be highly esteemed twenty years from now. They will be coveted objects, not only in the eyes of the collector, but to the perhaps more discerning ones of the historian as well.
The way of the transgressor is not much harder than that of the enthusiastic biblio-fiend. The only difference is that the latter is sure of his eventual reward. Not a day passes that some man or woman does not appear in my library, either in Philadelphia or in New York, to offer me some curious and interesting book, tract, or letter relating to the history of this country. Very often I have to pay heavily for certain desirable documents. But, like my uncle Moses, I don’t give a tinker’s dam about the money value. I hope I am a cheerful giver when, as a result of my purchase, I discover material hitherto unknown to the historians of our country.
When my brother Philip was in Spain last year he spent several weeks touring through the picturesque towns and villages of Granada. Can you imagine his surprise and joy, when one day he stopped at an ancient monastery and bought a bundle of old papers which contained a most valuable and interesting document--the original manuscript signed by the Emperor Charles V, wherein Hernando Cortés, Adelantado of the Indies, was appointed Knight of the Order of Santiago. As this order was an honor considered at that time the most distinguished and aristocratic in all Castile, it naturally showed Cortés in a light hitherto unnoted by historians. To-day this magnificent document is in the collection of my dear friend, Mr. H. V. Jones, in Minneapolis. Mr. Jones in a surprisingly short time has formed one of the finest libraries of books relating to this country.
From the very day that Christopher Columbus discussed his great project with Queen Isabella, the stream of American history has at all times flowed tumultuously, and never without color and romance.
When Columbus returned to Spain from the New World, he stopped on February 14, 1493, at Santa Maria, one of the islands of the Azores, probably to take water. Four days before this he had encountered the most terrific storm of his great voyage, and was convinced that he, his men, and his vessels must perish. Now Columbus realized in his heart that he was going back to Spain with news of a discovery second in importance to no other. And when it seemed that his ship might sink at any moment, he set to work to make a record of his mighty adventure, hoping that by some will of the Fates it would not be lost to posterity. So, on February fourteenth, he carefully prepared as complete an account of his marvelous voyage as was possible under the circumstances. He wrote the details of his journey on a stout piece of parchment, wrapped it carefully in a piece of waterproof cloth, then placed it in an iron-bound barrel and threw it into the raging ocean. But the Fates were kinder to Columbus than to this account made in a time of stress.
Certainly this, the first record of America, written by the brave hand of Columbus, would be the most precious relic in all the chronicles of our country. Alas, that it never has been found! And if I thought there were one chance in a million of finding it I would take my power boat, the First Folio, and cruise in the neighborhood of the Azores forever!
It is also curious that another letter, which Columbus wrote the day after he arrived at Santa Maria to his friend Luis de Santangel, has never been found. Nor has another and more concise account of his experiences, which he wrote in an exultant vein to the _Reyes Catolicos_, Ferdinand and Isabella, immediately upon landing in Lisbon, ever seen the light of day.
Every school child is taught the date of Columbus’s arrival at Palos, March 15, 1493. On that very same day he dispatched two letters to the Court, then sitting at Barcelona. Another, much briefer and more to the point, he sent to another friend, Gabriel Sanchez, then the royal treasurer.
About one month after Columbus returned to Spain, a second letter which he indited to Luis de Santangel was printed on two leaves, folio size. Evidently these were sent out in all directions and must have been in great demand. You can well realize that the excitement created by the publication of his stupendous discovery was tremendous. And yet it is very strange that but one copy of the entire edition has survived. These two leaves are the actual cornerstone of American history. They are worth not only their weight in radium many times over, but, to the book lover, his very chances of Paradise! They are now, I am proud to state, not in some musty old castle of Spain, but in the Lenox Foundation, a part of the New York Public Library, in the heart of New York City. There, if you show the appropriate desire, you may see it any day. Some authorities think this letter was printed by Rosenbach, one of the earliest Spanish printers, and probably one of my forbears. The old fool! Why didn’t he save at least one copy for his descendants?
Of the second edition of this letter, with the Fates still pursuing, there is likewise but one remaining copy. To-day it reposes in a very safe place, the Ambrosian Library in Milan. The present Pope, Pius XI, who should be the patron saint of all modern book collectors, was first the assistant in this library, and finally the librarian. In bygone years his knowledge of books and his infectious enthusiasm inspired many a bookman. How it must have delighted him to have this great letter of Columbus in his care!
Edition after edition of the first Columbus letter soon appeared. The news was so astounding that all who could read wanted to see for themselves the discoverer’s own description of this amazing new land. Four editions appeared in Rome, two in Basle, three in Paris, and one in Antwerp. These were all published in Latin or Italian. Florence printed the news four separate times; strange to relate, the first edition in German did not appear until 1497. But the Germans enhanced their edition with one of the most amusing woodcuts I have ever seen. It is a picture of the King of Spain and Columbus, who seem to be explaining their great achievement (doubtless as an offering) to Jesus Christ. There were six copies of it known until recently, three of which are in this country: one in the Lenox Library, one in the John Carter Brown collection at Providence, Rhode Island, and one in the safekeeping of the Huntington Library. But only last year, when I visited an old library in the west of England, the private collection of a friend of mine, I had a curious experience.
It was at that hour which is neither day nor night, and the dressing gong for dinner had sounded. I put my hand out in the half light to steady myself after “tea,” and touched--not the _fille de chambre_, as Sterne relates in his _Sentimental Journey_, but the edges of something projecting from a shelf of an old bookcase. I had the strange feeling of an omen about to be realized, one of those peculiar premonitions women are always boasting of. I loosened the books on either side, drew out the object, and went soberly to the nearest window, to find that I had not one but two copies of this German Columbus letter! That was enough to stagger anyone. One is now in the collection of that great lover and connoisseur of books, Mr. Grenville Kane, of Tuxedo Park, New York, who is now the _doyen_ of American collectors; the other is cherished by my old friend Mr. H. V. Jones.
The story of this country unfolds itself like some gorgeous panorama as you look through the books which chronicle the stirring times of the early adventurers. Who wouldn’t choose to hear tales from actual eyewitnesses, rather than read them rehashed in a fusty history book? The principal performers in the great historical dramas have themselves told us stories of daring, of bravery, of great disasters and victories. Such men were Amerigo Vespucci; Waldseemüller, the famous geographer, whose _Cosmographiæ Introductio_, published at St. Dié in 1507, was the first book which gave the name, America, to the New World; Peter Martyr, the first historian of the Indies, who described the voyages of his friends and contemporaries, Columbus, Vasco da Gama, Magellan, Cabot, and Vespucci. Martyr’s _Decades of the New World_ should quicken the pulse of every lover of American history, for it contains most of the knowledge we have of the very earliest “inventions,” as they were called.