Part 9
Not quite in the same class as a forgery, a quaint and equally difficult sister art has gradually sprung into existence, called the facsimile page. Not that I mean to imply that the making of such pages is always done with an intent to deceive. There is a concern in London which supplies missing pages on order for any book you may have--a business that is done quite openly. Suppose you own a copy of the first edition of one of Shakespeare’s folios, in which either the title or last leaf is missing. If you don’t happen to be too fastidious and have merely the collector’s love for the complete, without his obsession for the perfect as well, you could take your first folio to this firm and in a short time receive a perfect page made to match the others of your book. Only the connoisseur and you yourself would know the difference.
Owing to the assistance of the camera to-day and the modern processes of engraving, it is not difficult to reproduce the printed word as it first appeared several centuries ago. The snag comes, however, in finding a paper that is exactly contemporaneous with the book itself. This London house happens to have a large and wonderful collection of old papers, taken chiefly from the flyleaves of early volumes. There are many unscrupulous dealers in the world, even in New York, who do not acknowledge to their customers that a book which they offer as genuine is made up in this manner. Any reputable firm would immediately call attention to it. One not quite so particular, with the naïveté of a child, always pleads, when caught, that he was ignorant of the guilty leaf, not being an expert himself. And yet he had ordered the damning page from the London house of facsimiles.
But sometimes it is almost impossible to tell which leaves in a book are facsimile. About seventy-five years ago there was an expert in this line in England by the name of Harris. With the greatest dexterity and cunning, he made leaves for incomplete books, which exactly duplicated the original ones. In those days such work was tedious and had to be accomplished entirely by hand, as it was long before the era of modern photographs. Harris’s work was in constant demand. An amusing story is told among booksellers of an order Harris executed for a celebrated collector whose copy of Caxton’s _History of Troy_ had two leaves missing. Five years later the collector called on Harris. He took this Caxton from his pocket and showed it to him. It was with the greatest difficulty that Harris himself could determine which two leaves were his. In fact, he had to verify them by his records.
If there are great holes or tears in old pages they can be filled in in such a marvelous manner as almost to defy detection. Here again the literary detective enters to discover a clew and solve the mystery. The fellow must have a specialized sense for this sort of thing, just as a born newspaperman has a nose for news. The true literary detective will tell you at a glance if anything is wrong with a printed page. This is a rare faculty, and in the book business amounts almost to genius. Some booksellers are never able to tell, during their entire careers, which are facsimile leaves and which aren’t. Only a few are adept at it.
Another trick is to supply original covers when they are missing from old and precious volumes. Sometimes a copy of an English classic appears in the auction room minus its blue or gray or yellow paper wrappers. In the twinkling of an eye brand-new ones are supplied, aged by the miraculous antiquer, and offered as being in pristine, immaculate state, “very rare in its original paper binding.”
Then, to enhance the illusion, an old signature is added to the cover and perhaps the price, “tuppence,” written in an old hand. It takes Sherlock Holmes himself to detect these impostures.
I know a gentleman in London who is so expert in detecting forgeries that he goes on a scent like a setter after a bird. But the real safeguard for the collector is to buy his books, not from the transient individual who has two or three bargains to offer, but from the man who is known first of all for his reputable dealing. Then collecting is sheer delight.
V
AMONG OLD MANUSCRIPTS
The First Folio had lain idly at anchor for two long, sultry days. Then, as a miniature gale swept the threatening clouds of a summer storm across Corson’s Inlet just before twilight on the second day, I bowed to the will of the fisherman’s god, whoever he may be, and hurried down the beach. Ordinarily I am not the sort of fisherman who waits for the psychological moment, but here it was upon me. After such weather, fish were sure to strike.
As I rowed out to my boat, I heard the telephone bell ring in the house I had just left. It had been an exhausting week for me; every bibliomaniac in the vicinity of Philadelphia had had a book to show and sell me, and my office had telephoned upon the slightest provocation. So when I heard that bell I pulled for the First Folio as though the devil were after me, and carefully rounding the bow, drew up on the port side away from the shore. Once aboard, the captain started the engine and made for the open sea. Even then I could not avoid seeing my man Harrison waving frantically from the beach.
Only the born Izaak Walton knows that lazy defiance of the world’s demands which comes with a rod and reel in one’s hand. Soon I was fishing; forgotten was the realm of books and manuscripts, forgotten the boring persistence of telephone bells, forgotten poor Harrison on the shore--forgotten everything in the world except the delight of a strike, the thrilling moments of playing my catch, and the breath-taking suspense of reeling in. How long I fished I don’t know. The sun emerged again in time to set, as the wind died out completely. I refuse to tell the number of fish I caught, for no one would believe me; but with the advent of a fine six-pounder I felt quite satisfied. I walked to a low deck chair and sat, resting. Perhaps I dozed for a few minutes; I don’t know. Suddenly I heard my name. I opened my eyes and was surprised to find the shore close by. We had forgotten to anchor and were drifting in.
“Doctah--doctah!” Harrison’s voice lost its slow drawl in excitement. “Mistah Lawlah done phone all dis afternoon! Why fo’ you don’ answah me, doctah? He say he done fin’ ole Mistah Franklin’s work book.”
How often had hopeful bookmen dreamed of one day discovering this work book of Benjamin Franklin! From my earliest days of collecting, I myself had persistently followed all rumors or clews concerning its whereabouts. None of them led anywhere. I even doubted that it still existed.
“Harrison,” I replied, “you can tell Mr. Lawler that I am not exactly partial to a fool’s errand on a hot day. Besides, I want to fish.” He went indoors, shouted my words over the telephone, then bolted down to the shore again.
“Oh, Lawdy, doctah, do come to de telephone! He sho am mad if you don’t.”
When I reached the house I explained once more to the manager of my Philadelphia place that I wished to be left alone to fish.
“Fish!” Mr. Lawler’s tone was derisive. “Why, if you’ll take the next train and meet me in Camden, I’ll show you where you can land a fish bigger than anything you could ever pull out of Corson’s Inlet!” This was bait for me, if not for the fish, and I asked for fuller information.
It seemed that after months of patient search Mr. Lawler had located the proprietor of an antique shop at Mount Holly, New Jersey, who owned an old copy book which he claimed was the original in which Franklin kept his accounts. Mr. Lawler had already seen it, and believed it to be authentic; and though I rather dreaded being disappointed once more, there was the chance of a find. I left for the station immediately; there I found no train due for hours. This was doubtless just the obstacle I needed to egg me on. I quickly hired an automobile and motored the seventy miles to Camden. Mr. Lawler met me. He seemed nervous and in a great hurry to make the final lap of our pilgrimage. We had twenty miles farther to go, and as we sped along we discussed the printer’s long-lost work book.
Franklin had mentioned its existence in various writings and letters. He had said that when he was a printer he kept all the records of his business in it.
At last we came to Mount Holly, and as we followed a quiet country street to its end I regretted the trip. The heat of the summer night was oppressive, and the entrance of the shop before which we stopped was the same as a thousand others scattered over the country. A dull light reflected against the usual sign, “Antiques,” hanging above the doorway. As I entered, a sensation of futility came over me. The rosewood whatnots holding their bits and pieces of glass or china depressed me; broken-down Windsors, old ships’ lanterns, hooked rugs, maple chests, and mahogany bureaus--was this atmosphere conducive to hope? I doubted it, and looked at Mr. Lawler with an accusatory eye. But so great was his excitement now that he had forgotten my existence. Suddenly his face lighted.
The proprietor of the shop, a calm, middle-aged man, came forward. He greeted me, smiling kindly. I must confess this smile revived hope. He seemed sure of himself in a quiet sort of way. I began to think that perhaps I hadn’t come on such a wild-goose chase after all. He was at his desk now, an old desk littered with papers. As his fingers searched through them I watched closely. Then, when he finally drew a long narrow book from beneath a pile of letters, I caught my breath.
I took it from him and went to the dim light. As I opened the battered covers I immediately recognized the work book of “the first civilized American,” as a recent biographer has so aptly called him. Not a page had been tampered with; it was entirely as it had been kept for Franklin, except that it was somewhat yellowed by its hundred and eighty years of age. Very carefully he had listed each work printed by his press. The title of every book, the number of copies made, and the quality of paper used, all commercial details, the costs and selling prices, were methodically written out. Other expenses, too, were set down.
I looked at Mr. Lawler gratefully, and he, inwardly gloating, acted as though the finding of historically invaluable account books was all in an evening’s work. Of course, I could not leave without it, and I lost no time in buying it from the owner. Ten minutes later two jubilant bookmen climbed into the waiting automobile outside, making a triumphal exit as they carried off their treasure from the town of Mount Holly.
It was impossible to realize, when I purchased it, the full historical worth of Franklin’s account book. Not until I returned home, where I found leisure to study every word, to compare the contents with published facts concerning Franklin, did I recognize its true import and value to all students of printing in this country. But how did it happen to be in Mount Holly after all those years? This question obsessed me for a long time. The former owner, from whom I purchased it, could tell me nothing. I began searching through the records of Franklin’s career as a printer, and found he was in business with David Hall until 1766, at which time they dissolved their partnership. Then it was that he requested his great friend, James Parker, a noted printer in New York, to audit the accounts for him. Later Parker moved to Burlington, New Jersey, probably taking this account book with him. As Burlington is but a few miles from Mount Holly, it is not difficult to imagine how it might have been carried there by some one of Parker’s descendants.
Many people imagine they own things of great worth, especially if these things are old. They become excited when they run across a letter in some trunk which has not been opened for years. They are sure they have found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They are severely shocked, however, when the experienced dealer’s appraisal of the ancestral letters is extremely low. Indeed, the dealer is quite different from the law courts of England, which consider a man innocent until he is proved guilty. Every expert is more or less suspicious of any proffered autograph, especially if the so-called originals are supposed to have been written by celebrated figures of a century or so ago.
The false scent and the fruitless hunt, these the skillful buyer learns to avoid. Sometimes the letters are genuine--sometimes! But it is amazing, too, what tales otherwise honest men and women will fabricate in their eagerness to sell an autograph letter or document. They will swear to heaven that they remember that auspicious day, “over forty years ago, when I was but a mere child,” when the letter was first shown them. I have had many such experiences. Several times I have recognized straight forgeries, letters which were actually written quite recently, and clumsily made to appear old and important. However, there are times when one is due for a delightful surprise. What you believe to be idle vaporings turn out to be something delightfully different.
One day some years ago an old gentleman called upon me in New York. I happened to be walking through my reception room when he arrived, and did not catch his name. But in deference to his extreme age--he appeared to be more than ninety--I immediately invited him into the library. He was very plainly dressed, almost dingy in appearance. I entered into conversation with him and he seemed remarkably well informed. Every celebrity of the past sixty years he appeared to know intimately. We talked of prominent literary figures, of great political and financial leaders. He knew them all!
He even told me of an incident which occurred one evening at Windsor Castle when he dined with Queen Victoria. I looked at him queryingly, deploring that exaggerated ego which is the pleasure and consolation of old age. He continued with anecdotes of Palmerston, Gladstone, Disraeli, and Lord Salisbury. Lincoln had been his friend, he said, as well as all the Presidents from Lincoln’s time; and every corner and crevice of the White House was known to him. I thought to myself that here was certainly an old liar, if ever there was one. A regular Baron Munchausen!
Then I naturally turned the conversation to old books and manuscripts. I mentioned a famous volume, and he said he owned it. I mentioned another; he owned that too! If he had been a younger man I should have had it clearly understood that I no longer cared to be taken for a credulous fool. But being a Philadelphian, of course I could not resist mentioning Benjamin Franklin. The syllables of his name had hardly left my lips when my visitor announced, with something of regret in his voice, that he had once owned the manuscript of Franklin’s famous _Autobiography_!
With unbelieving amazement I stared at him. Then it dawned upon me that the gentleman before me was a distinguished American diplomat and everything he said was the truth! As Minister to France many years ago, he had handled with extraordinary tact several serious political situations; one time editor of the _New York Evening Post_, he was also an essayist and historian. I leaned forward and said in a voice which made no attempt to disguise either my surprise or my pleasure, “Have I the honor of addressing the Honorable John Bigelow?”
Mr. Bigelow then told me how in an off moment he had been induced to sell, at what was then considered a high price, but which would be a mere trifle now, the immortal _Autobiography_ of Benjamin Franklin. He disposed of it through a New York firm of booksellers to E. Dwight Church of Brooklyn, and it is now in that bookman’s paradise, the library of Mr. Henry E. Huntington, at San Marino, California.
Speaking of manuscripts recalls a rather pretty story of how I unexpectedly secured an autograph essay by a favorite modern.
I remember one day in London, when I was calling upon my dear friend, H. W. Massingham, the beloved editor of the _Nation_. His editorial offices in Adelphi Terrace were directly beneath George Bernard Shaw’s apartments in the same old Georgian building. Knowing he was a good friend of Shaw, I asked if he had any of his manuscripts. Massingham looked at me oddly for a moment, as though my request had brought to his mind an entirely new train of thought, then replied, “Oh, yes!” He ran his hand to the bottom of an enormous waste-paper basket under his desk; it was filled to overflowing, as though it had not been emptied for days. He drew out a manuscript which he had thrown away, written in a familiar hand--Shaw’s article on the censorship of the press! He offered it to me as a present, and you will well understand that I accepted it eagerly. This little story should delight Bernard Shaw himself.
To-day it is unfortunate that almost all manuscripts are typed. There are, however, rare exceptions. The late Joseph Conrad was one of the very few authors who worked almost entirely in longhand. When I bought the manuscript of his book, _Victory_, at the Quinn sale in New York in 1924, I paid the highest price--$8100--ever given at auction for the manuscript of a living author. It was closely written on sheets that fill two bulky cases.
The average writer nowadays, after he has corrected the final draft of his work, has it copied by a competent stenographer and then makes any further correction on it he wishes. Many writers find it easier to create their stories directly upon the typewriter, while others dictate. The typewriter--what a curse it has become to the collector! A century from now it will be almost impossible to find the original autograph manuscripts of writers of to-day who stand the test of time. Who knows but that the styles will have changed, and the machine upon which a masterpiece was brought to life will be considered even more precious!
No one knows exactly why there is hardly a scrap left of the original manuscripts of most of the writers of the Elizabethan period. Perhaps publishers in those days had one fault that is prevalent to-day. They may have been too close to their writers to be able to appreciate the value of the original draft, or perhaps they had scrap baskets like Massingham’s. Of Shakespeare’s writing only six or seven signatures are known, and these are attached to his will and other legal documents. They are priceless, and have been kept with great care at Somerset House and at the Record Office in London. How unfortunate it is that not a single line of his original work remains. What would collectors not give now for just one page of _Hamlet_, or even a short note in Shakespeare’s own handwriting! Surely, $500,000 would not be too much. Nor is there any manuscript left of either of his noted contemporaries, Christopher Marlowe and Robert Greene. Of these two, who opened the way for the greatest dramatist of all time, not even a signature remains. I was successful this year, however, in obtaining a letter of John Fletcher, who very probably collaborated with Shakespeare in the writing of _Henry VIII._ Fletcher addressed this rhymed epistle to the Countess of Huntingdon. For years it had been in an old English muniment room neglected and unsung; and it is really the nearest approach to Shakespeare I have been fortunate enough to find. When you think that hitherto not a signature of Fletcher’s had been known, it makes this find the more remarkable. There are, however, many relics of his great contemporary, Ben Jonson, early drafts of his celebrated plays, and many books are known in which he inscribed comments and notes.
LONDON Imprinted by _G. Eld_ for _R Bonian_ and _H. Walley_, and are to be sold at the spred Eagle in Paules Church-yeard, ouer against the great North doore. 1609.
ONLY UNCUT SHAKESPEARE QUARTO KNOWN, PUBLISHED IN SHAKESPEARE’S LIFETIME]
I have always been deeply interested in all that remains of the literary lights of the Elizabethan era, and especially in Edmund Spenser, another of the great masters of Shakespeare’s magnificent day.
Last year, when I was crossing to England on the Berengaria, another bookseller, truly a friendly enemy, met me on deck one morning, and by way of greeting, said: “Speaking of association copies, what would you give to own a presentation copy of the first edition of _The Faerie Queene_?”
“Why talk nonsense?” I replied. “It’s impossible. It doesn’t exist.” About two weeks later an eminent scholar who has made many great and outstanding discoveries in early English literature called at my hotel to see me, and invited me to go with him to inspect his fine collection. He spoke of one book in particular, which he was sure would interest me, but purposely neglected to say what it was. I arrived at his home and had hardly got beyond the front door when he placed in my hands a volume in its original binding of old calf. It was Spenser’s own copy of _The Faerie Queene_, dated 1590, with an inscription in his handwriting on the title page in Greek: “From the author to himself.” He had also presented this volume to Elizabeth Boyle, whom he married four years later. On a blank page toward the back of the book he gallantly wrote in French, “A sa mistresse,” and under this elegant heading had inscribed the complete first sonnet from his glorious _Amoretti_, beginning:--
Happy ye leaves when as those lilly Hands That houlds my life in hir dead-doing might, Shall handle you and hold in Love’s swete bandes Like captives trembling at ye victors sight.
The _Amoretti_ was not published until five years later, in 1595.
As I stood looking at _The Faerie Queene_ I became quite speechless with surprise and delight, as no other presentation copy of Spenser was known to me. Almost before I could regain my equilibrium my host handed me another, a smaller volume. This was bound in old vellum, a quaint little English travel book. With a gasp I read upon the title page a presentation address to Gabriel Harvey, the poet’s dearest friend, and incidentally, the bitter literary enemy of Ben Jonson. It read: “The gift of Edmund Spenser, clerk to the Archbishop of Rochester, 1578.” What enhanced its preciousness was that Harvey had made notes throughout, commenting upon his happy friendship with Spenser. After such a startling introduction to his collection, I looked upon my friend, this learned book lover, with even greater admiration than before; and if he had further offered me a presentation copy of _Hamlet_ I should not have been amazed. To-day these marvelous mementos of the Elizabethan era are treasured among the outstanding volumes in my library.
One week later my friend the American bookseller called upon me at the Carlton Hotel in London.
“Hello,” I began. “You’re just the man I want to see. I’ve found a presentation copy of _The Faerie Queene_.”
“You unholy liar,” he said, not knowing whether to believe me or not.
“Yes,” I replied; “it is at your hand.” His hands trembled as he lifted the book from the table, and I could see his face change color as he read the magic lines in Spenser’s autograph.