Herein
lies a story English bibliophile Thomas Dibdin himself would be proud of
telling. That it involves his book Bibliomania (1811) would certainly make
him all the more enthusiastic (a quality he never lacked in abundance). A primary character in my story is a mighty
book collector so famous in Dibdin’s lifetime and beyond that he inhabits the
rarified biblio-Pantheon as a legendary figure.
The story also is footnoted with both English and American auction
sales, an early 19th-century American book collector in Savannah,
Georgia, a Grolier Club member, ex- library markings, and Ohio booksellers.
Thomas Dibdin (1776-1847), book
collector, bibliographer, and enthusiastic chronicler of book collecting, wrote
a number of influential works, the most famous being The Bibliomania; or Book
Madness; Containing Some Account of the History, Symptoms, and Cure of This
Fatal Disease. In an Epistle Addressed to Richard Heber, Esq. The first edition appeared in 1809 in a slim
volume of eighty-seven pages. Dibdin used a mix of humor, facts, and hyperbole to explore
the mysteries of bibliomania. He hurriedly published it in response to John Ferriar’s
light-hearted poem The Bibliomania, An
Epistle, to Richard Heber (1809). Heber, who served as the inspiration and
dedicatee of both works, was a close friend of Dibdin.
E. J. O’Dwyer wrote an insightful
biographical essay titled Thomas Frognall
Dibdin: Bibliographer & Bibliomaniac Extraordinary (1967). Dwyer
explains, “Dibdin was a leading figure in the now fabulous world of early
nineteenth –century book collecting, the heroic age of books, when great
libraries were being assembled and great discoveries were being made, when the
auction rooms and bookshops of Regency London were haunted by the figures of
legendary bookmen like Richard Heber and Francis Douce, when Caxtons might be
found on back street bookstalls and incunabula could be bought for a few pounds
over even shillings. This was his world,
and in those interminable footnotes [to his works], he records anecdote after
anecdote about the many half-mythical bibliophiles who were his friends, of
their personal oddities, their bookish adventures and of the bookselling
fraternity which served them. Bibliomania [1811], The Bibliographical Decameron [1817] or Literary Reminiscences [1836]
can make fine ‘holiday reading’ for
modern bibliophiles desiccated by bloodless Bowersian collations, exhausted by
intractable textual problems or perhaps returning depressed from excursions
amongst the remainder-and paperback-filled bookshops of today.”
Dibdin was encouraged by the response to
his 1809 Bibliomania but unsatisfied
by the briefness of the effort. He
completely rewrote and expanded the book over the next two years and published
it as Bibliomania; Or Book Madness. A
Bibliographical Romance (London: 1811), the text now extended to seven hundred and eighty-three pages,
almost ten times the length of the first effort. It was essentially a new book. This monument to book collecting would launch
him to fame within bibliophilic circles and remains one of the most enduring
classics in the field.
Dibdin’s writing style can both inspire
and challenge the reader. He is
long-winded and circumspect; his asides extend on to a maddening length but are
filled with nuggets of interest; his wanderings down bypaths are
never-ending. However, he can set a
scene. His first-hand recounting of
interaction with famous book collectors and their books shines through his
turgid style. Bibliomania is better taken in short dips than a lengthy swim. Dibdin was an unreliable bibliographer but he
imparts the passion for book collecting as few others have done. Bibliomania
and his other writings inspired generations of British and American collectors.
Speaking of inspiration, let us now
relieve the relative dryness of this didactic approach by the introduction of a
Dramatis Personae—ie. a cast of
biblio-characters to which the story may be more favorably expressed.
The worthy Gentlemen, by whom the
Drama is conducted, may be called by some, merely wooden machines or pegs to
hang notes upon; but I shall not be disposed to quarrel with any criticism
which may be passed upon their acting, so long as the greater part of the
information, to which the dialogue gives rise, may be thought serviceable to
the real interests of Literature and Bibliography.
The characters of the Drama shall
include myself as Bibliomagne, and three bibliophilic friends we shall call Forgeron,
Ranchenitus, and Nerudius.
And now Benevolent Reader, in
promising thee as much amusement and instruction as ever were offered in a
single essay, of a nature like to the present, we shall begin.
Twas on a fine autumnal evening,
when the sun was setting serenely behind a thick copse upon a distant hill, and
his warm tints were lighting up a magnificent and widely-extended landscape,
that, sauntering ‘midst the fields, I was meditating upon the various methods
of honorably filling up the measure of our existence; when I discovered I had a
new text message.
Lo!
It was my old college friend Nerudius!
He was to come visit me in a fortnight, ready to share tales of
biblio-conquests, as he too was of the species called collector. But little did he know of my fresh story that
I planned to spring upon him. Indeed, he
alone would not be enough audience, so as the sun closed the curtains on another
day and my meditation ceased, I reached out to Forgeron and Ranchenitus, simpaticos
of a biblio-nature. Their response was
positive. This intelligence offered me
the liveliest satisfaction.
On the appointed evening all three
men arrived. After a hearty shaking of
hands, I was seated with them in my library; the group of us admiring the overflowing
shelves, and, in consequence, partaking of the common topics of conversation
with a greater flow of spirits.
“You are come, my friends,” said I
(in the course of conversation) “to make stay with me—indeed, I cannot suffer
you to depart without keeping you at least a week . . . . “
A sudden consternation shook my
fellows. Forgeron quickly spoke up, “Ah,
Bibliomagne, you speak metaphorically, a single evening certainly will make
do.” Ranchenitus and Nerudius seconded in agreement. Nerudius then added, “For what would our
wives do without us for an entire week?”
This was followed by laughter and more spirits. Our general discussions about books went on
for a lengthy while.
Before their arrival, I had placed
on the coffee table near us my newly-acquired copy of Thomas Dibdin’s Bibliomania, the 1811 edition. I had purposely said nothing of it. Ranchenitus now curious reached for the tome
but I stayed his hand.
“Gentlemen, “said I, “There is a
story to this book that deserves elucidation and exclamation before the object
itself may be circulated amongst you.”
There was a general discontent.
“Here,” exclaimed Nerudius, “here
you have Ranchenitus in the toils.”
“I will frankly confess,” rejoined
Ranchenitus, “that I am an arrant Bibliomaniac—that I love books dearly—that
the very sight, touch, and more, the perusal . . . .”
“Hold , my friend,” again exclaimed
Nerudius, “you have renounced your profession—you talk of reading books—do
Bibliomaniacs ever read books?”
“Nay,” quoth Ranchenitus, “you shall
not banter thus with impunity. We will,
if it please you,” said he [turning to me] ”listen to your story.”
“Forgive,” rejoined Nerudius, “my
bantering strain. I revoke my speech.
You know that, with yourself, I heartily love books; more from their contents
than their appearance.”
Ranchenitus returned a gracious
smile; and the hectic of irritability on his cheek was dissipated in an
instant. Forgeron meanwhile had wandered
to the shelves and was recalled with difficulty to his seat.
“Fellow Bibliophiles,” I said, “I
will provide the not uninteresting background and set the scene. “
“We are ready,” exclaimed Ranchenitus,
as he selected my rarest spirits to quench his thirst. The gentle lowing of cattle in the near distance
imbued the atmosphere with a bucolic air.
“Thomas Dibdin and Richard Heber, “I
began, “were contemporaries and eventual neighbors. Their shared interest in books fostered a
close friendship. Both experienced a
childhood where books became central, almost natural, to their existence. But Dibdin, in contrast to Heber, suffered
the want of parents—both died when he was very young—and he was raised by
various extended family in modest circumstances. This did not diminish his enthusiasm for life
however, and he grew industrious and driven, attending various schools,
excelling in most subjects including languages and art, and eventually
garnering a college admission to Oxford.
Dibdin himself recalls in his Reminiscences
that around age ten he was allowed to go into his tutor’s private book room
whenever he pleased. ‘It was here,’ he
says, ‘for the first time I caught, or fancied I caught, the electric spark of
Bibliomania. My master was now and then
the purchaser of old books by the sack-full;
these were tumbled upon the floor, the arm chair, or a table, just as it might
happen.’”
Nerudius gently interrupted, “I
cannot myself recall a time without books.”
The rest of us paused to reflect upon our own maturation in its various
forms.
“Richard Heber,” I contrasted, “was raised
in wealthy circumstances. His
particularly virulent bibliomania developed during his school days and never
released itself. Heber’s father shared
not the same enthusiasm. He wrote to
young Heber after more debts were contracted with booksellers, “I cannot say
I rejoice in the importation of the cargo of books you mention from abroad, we
had before enough and too many, ten times more than were ever read or even
looked into. Of multiplying books ... there is neither end nor use. The
cacoethes of collecting books draws men into ruinous extravagancies. It is an
itch which grows by indulgence and should be nipped in the bud.”
“An Evil Man!” exclaimed Forgeron,
“To stifle his son’s passions!” Nerudius
and Ranchenitus nodded vigorously.
“Without success,” I responded,
“Heber was not to be deterred. He would
go onto Oxford, perhaps first meeting Dibdin there, and earn a reputation as a
scholar and literateur. All the while, refining his tastes and
collecting books. Heber became
well-known for his exceptional library despite his father’s irksome
tirades. His father died in 1804 and
the estate left to the young man was more than adequate to indulge even his
wildest bibliomaniacal fantasies.”
“A cheer to a freed Heber!”
proclaimed Forgeron. We raised our
glasses.
“Would we all have unlimited means,”
ruminated Ranchenitus, “and fall under the same heavy spell?”
No one spoke their true feelings on
the matter; in fact there was awkward silence.
So,
I continued steadily, “Dibdin had no such inheritance. But his literary learning and bookish ways
laid root during his time at Oxford. He
met his future wife there and tried his hand at law to make a living. This did not flourish and he tried again as a
clergyman, eventually securing a modest position that provided more free time
than money. He supplemented his income
by preaching at neighboring chapels and delivering lectures on English
literature. The book passion never
ceased and only grew. ‘My fancy,’ he
said, ‘took to run strangely on books . . . of all qualities and
conditions. An Editio Princeps, a vellum
Aldus, a large paper copy (terms until then unknown and unappreciated) seemed
to strike my mind’s eye as something magical and mysterious. I was all upon the look-out. A book stall had irresistible charms—but the
catalogues of Payne, Faulder, White and Egerton exhibited so many stars upon
which I loved to gaze with indescribable satisfaction.’”
Nerudius laughed, “He had the
disease badly,” and we all understood. The
sudden clap of thunder and flash of angry bolts of lightning illuminated the
library curtains, and the weather turned surly and pelts of rain beat upon the
windows.
“As a result,” I continued, “Dibdin
collected as he could afford and produced a bibliographical work in 1802 that
brought him recognition, An Introduction
to the Knowledge of Rare and Valuable Editions of the Greek and Latin Classics.
Dibdin himself noted with pride, ‘The
booksellers used to quote me in their catalogues, and this, at all events, gave
publicity to my name.’ But Dibdin’s love
of acquiring the more expensive books went unrequited.”
“We have all been there,” sighed
Forgeron, and a lengthy toast to unrequited book love was taken. By now, the quickly-formed storm was
thrashing my abode quite fiercely and even we bookmen took notice as the lights
flickered.
“Heber on the other hand,” I said,
“ran into few boundaries in his passionate pursuit of books. His scholarly learning combined with a
maniacal desire for rare tomes and money to buy them created a collector that
became a legend even in his own day. He
was also generous with his books—another uncommon trait – a well-known lender
of them to his wide circle of friends.”
Nerudius spoke, “Was not Heber the
famous collector who said that no gentleman could be without three copies of a
book; one for show, one for use, and one for borrowers?”
“Yes, it was he,” I replied, “and Dibdin
wrote about his friend at length in the very book before you. Recall, that the first edition of Dibdin’s Bibliomania in 1809 was quickly
published as a rejoinder to Ferriar’s original poem about Heber. Dibdin explains in his Reminiscences, “Ferriar’s epistle was doubtless a smart and clever
performance, but was rather to be considered as a sort of dessert after dinner. I
thought the subject might be more substantially
treated; and so I told my friend, Mr. Heber, in the sale-room of Messrs. Leigh
and Sotheby, on the very day which the work
came into my hands. As he had
accepted a dedication in verse, I
presumed he could not object to one in prose. It was accordingly settled that my
performance should be addressed to the same individual. . . It was written ‘calamo currentissimo,’ within a lunar
month, and had the effect of producing much innocent mirth, and exciting a
general curiosity after rare and precious volumes.’”
I had their full attention and continued
thus, “Dibdin soon decided to greatly expand and rewrite the book at the urging
of an unnamed ‘Book-Auction-loving Bibliomaniac.’ Dibdin toiled through 1810 working on the
essentially new book. His task however
was a mix of pleasure and sorrow. For
his younger son had died and he records ‘the present work was undertaken to
relieve, in a great measure, the anguish of mind which arose from severe
domestic affliction.’”
Ranchenitus paused me and raised his
glass, “A toast to Dibdin for his fortitude and strength under such difficult
circumstances. For life is bigger than
books even, lest we forget.” Our
thoughts on this and the unabating storm cast a temporary pallor over us.
I began anew, “But friendship is a soothing
balm and friend Heber was there to comfort and advise him. Dibdin writes, ‘My application was as
incessant as severe. The cool summer
evenings of 1810 were in part devoted to a reconsideration and correction of
the labours of the day. My little study,
or boudoir, was rather crammed than well stored with implements of work. There was scarce a reference but what I could
verify. Mr. Heber, at that time in the
high and palmy state of his celebrity, would be my frequent guest and his
breakfasts were given in exchange for my dinners. And more than once, twice, thrice, would I
return with him, of moonlit nights, to London; and he go half back again with
me to Kensington, discussing many curious points or characters which a fresh
proof sheet might involve. At one of
these breakfasts I read to him the character of Atticus, intended for
himself. I told him, if he would have
the courage to hear, I should not
lack the courage to read. ‘Go on,’ was his reply, ‘and fear nothing.’ I
did so, unhesitatingly; and as I read with as much emphasis as might be, his
cheeks were occasionally mantled with a blush –his frame a little agitated—and
a ‘bravo!’ at its conclusion, told me that I had hit off my man successfully.’”
Forgeron spoke, “What did Dibdin
write about his caring and mighty collecting friend, Heber? My curiosity knows no bounds.”
“This seems to be a particular
characteristic of book collectors,” mused Nerudius.
“Ah,” I replied, “I will place the
information before you. Dibdin goes on
for many pages about Heber. Here is a
sampling,” and I took the Bibliomania in
my hand and turning to the appropriate passage:
“Such a champion as Atticus has perhaps never before appeared within the
arena of book-gladiators-- ‘Blest with talents, wealth, and taste’ . . . he
darts into the hottest of the fight, and beats down all opposition. . . in vain his competitor shifts his mode of
attack—now with dagger, now with broadsword, now in plated, and now in quilted,
armor; nought avails him. . . Atticus is
gifted with no common powers of general scholarship, he can easily master a
knotty passage in Eschylus or Aristotle; and quote Juvenal and Horace. . .
moreover, he can enter with equal ardor, into a minute discussion of about the
romance literature of the middle ages, and the dry though useful philology of
the German school during the 16th and 17th
centuries. In the pursuit after rare,
curious, and valuable books, nothing daunts or depresses him.”
Forgeron interjected, “A rare knight
of books!” and he refilled his glass from my dwindling spirits.
“Yes,” I replied, “Dibdin has more to
say about Heber to you fellow warriors whom have tasted the arena. I continued my reading, “With a mental and
bodily constitution such as few possess, and with a perpetual succession of new
objects rising up before him, he seems hardly ever conscious of the
vicissitudes of the seasons, and equally indifferent to petty changes in
politics. The cutting blasts of Siberia,
or the fainting heat of a Maltese sirocco, would not make him halt, or divert
his course, in the pursuit of a favorite volume, whether in the Greek, Latin,
Spanish, or Italian language. But as all
human efforts, however powerful; if carried on without intermission, must have
a period of cessation; and as the most active body cannot be at ‘Thebes and at
Athens’ at the same moment; so it follows that Atticus cannot be at every
auction and carry away every prize. His
rivals narrowly watch, and his enemies closely way-lay him; and his victories
are rarely bloodless in consequence. If
like Darwin’s whale, which swallows ‘millions at a gulp,’ Atticus should, at
one auction, purchase from two to seven hundred volumes, he must retire, like
the ‘Boa Constrictor,’ for digestion; and accordingly he does, for a short
season, withdraw himself from the ‘busy hum’ of sales rooms, to collate,
methodize, and class his newly acquired treasures—to repair what is defective,
and to beautify what is deformed.”
Nerudius spoke, “Let it be glad he
is not alive today to collect in our areas, although as a biblio-fellow it
would be an honor to friend him.” We all
agreed.
“Can we not now hold your book
ourselves?“ asked the eager Ranchenitus, reaching out.
Said I in response, “It is time for
the unveiling.”
At that moment, Zeus, the fickle god
of thunder and lightning, unleashed a mighty bolt, and the death bang of a nearby
transformer plunged us into sudden and utter darkness.
“Stay your movement, gentlemen,” I
ordered, “Do not knock over any stacks of my tomes that rise near you.”
There was a general fumbling in pockets
for cellphones. We all attempted to find our flashlight application. Without youth to guide, this endeavor
stretched on and darkness prevailed.
Then, illuminating the inky black, my
German queen, Hroswitha appeared carrying a lit candle and a real
flashlight. No more spouse than this
could I have wished for. A bibliophile
herself, tall, fair, smart and commanding, she ruled me and I liked it.
“Greetings, Hroswitha!” said my chorus
of friends who knew well the glories of her presence.
“Are you boys having a good time?” she
replied, placing the candle holder on the table, a safe distance from any
book. Her flashlight strobed about from face
to face, like a law enforcement inquiry.
“Looks like you’ve been drinking,” she
said.
General hemming and hawing that
continued under her gaze. Then ---
“Sounds fun, may I join you?”
“Ha!” shouted Ranchenitus, “You are a
good and benevolent Queen! Seat yourself
next to your unworthy spouse, Bibliomagne, and we will include a glass for you.”
Betwixt candle and flashlight and the
clink of glasses even Zeus could not thwart our merriment. General news for the Queen of their families
and spouses consumed a trifle of time.
Then amidst this jolly crew, thoughts turned once again to Dibdin, Heber
and the book I held in my hand.
“Do show us,” said Nerudius, “even by
dim light we can tell you have something cunningly good to expose.”
In truth, I was about to burst. I placed the book gently onto the table and
opened it, and all leaned forward as Hroswitha shown the light upon the
half-title page in a scene most inadvertently theatrical.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” exclaimed Forgeron.
“And I must second that,” said Nerudius.
Ranchenitus was struck momentarily dumb,
and could only make incoherent noises.
Hroswitha raised an eyebrow and gazed at me.
Upon the page was inscribed, “R. Heber, With the Author’s kind Regards.”
“Yes,” I said triumphantly, “this is the
very copy presented from Dibdin to Heber, long-lost and now found!”
For once, all were silent and each
touched gently the page and I passed the book amongst them, reverential the
atmosphere.
“That is an extraordinary and
sentimental find,” said Ranchenitus.
“A true holy relic that connects us
across the centuries of bibliophilic fraternity,” added Forgeron.
“Certainly so. And also the later provenance must be of
interest,” said Nerudius.
“It is much,” I replied, “but you shall
have to read the footnote below for the full exposure*.”
Forgeron spoke, “I am still stunned by
the book before us. But what of Heber
and Dibdin after? How do they end? A story must have an ending no matter how
strong the unveiling.”
The gloom of the dark within and sound
of steady, pounding rain without was transformed by our close company into an
atmosphere of cozy, clubbable ambience.
The candle’s cast and the strongly charged flashlight left no one
adrift; the warmth of the spirits provided an easy exchange.
“Dibdin,” I resumed, “had an avowed
purpose for his writings, as he states in another work, The Typographical Antiquities (1810), ‘to awaken a love of the
literature of past days; to set wealthy and well educated men a-stirring to
collect materials, which, but for such occasional excitement, might, in the
end, moulder in oblivion.’ And, he had
much success doing so with the publication of the 1811 Bibliomania, becoming closely acquainted with a class of men, such
as Heber and Earl Spencer, that in his time he could not have mingled save
their mutual love of books. Dibdin would
serve as de facto librarian for Earl
Spencer, who had a magnificent collection, and whom was an important patron of
Dibdin.
Forgeron asked, “What about the famed
Roxburghe Club of bibliophiles. Was not
Dibdin a primary mover in that?”
“Yes,” I said, “The famous auction in
1812 of the library of John Ker, Third Duke of Roxburghe ignited a
conflagration of bibliomania that resulted in the formation of the Club. This came at the urging and suggestion of
Dibdin, headily seconded by friend Heber and Francis Dounce. Eighteen bibliophiles met on the second day
of the Roxburghe sale, June 17th, 1812, at St. Alban’s Tavern. The rare first edition of Boccaccio, printed
by Christopher Valdarfer in Venice in 1471, had just been purchased at the
auction by the Marquis of Blandford for the then incredible sum of 2,200
pounds, Earl Spencer being the underbidder.
Enthusiasm filled the tavern and the Roxburghe Club was inaugurated with
Dibdin as vice-president. The Club later
expanded to thirty-one members and still meets today. The original members enjoyed a series of
toasts. The last being to . . . Raise
your glass, my friends —this I said and received no resistance-- “The Cause of
Bibliomania all over the World!”
“Here, here!” trumpeted all of us in our
tight bond.
I
concluded, “Dibdin wrote other famous bibliophilic works over the next two
decades, sumptuously printed and bound, utilizing money from wealthy
subscribers who funded his typographic extravagances. By the early 1830s an economic recession had
set in and book collecting lost its luster.
Dibdin would remain enthusiastic but the glory days were over for now
and he slowly succumbed to financial troubles and health issues, dying in 1845.”
“And of Heber?” asked Nerudius.
“Ah, Heber. That carries sadness, I’m afraid. Both his collecting and reputation continued
to grow for many years until the second became tainted, although the first
never slowed. He spent much of his
career in politics, and although well-known he did not distinguish himself in
that arena. A political enemy accused
him of ‘travelling in stage coaches, of living at a brewery, of associating
with the opposition, and of being favorably disposed toward Catholics.’”
“What a litany of vices!” Nerudius said gaily.
To this well-meant humor I ignored for
once and added, “But that paled in comparison with another scandal that in its
time had no name. In 1825, he was
accused of making advances to two young men at the London Athenaeum. His perceived ‘moral laxity’ and resulting
scandal forced Heber to withdraw from Parliament and flee to Europe. He did not return to England until 1831 and after
lived in seclusion at his home at Pimlico.
Heber, a reputed heavy drinker, was a shell of his former self. Old friend Dibdin was shocked by ‘the
emaciated frame, flurried discourse, and uncertain movements of his later
years.’ Richard Heber would die in 1833,
among his books, according to fellow collector Alexander Dyce, ‘without a
friend to close his eyes, and . . . broken-hearted.’”
Only the heavy rain could be heard, so
quiet we became.
I continued after our solemn pause, “Dibdin
soon received word of his death and was devastated, ‘It is anything but
affection to affirm, that for a brief moment I lost my consciousness of everything
around me. My friend perceived my
distress; and after the opening of a window had let in air, and restored
recollection, I retired abruptly.’
My Queen Hroswitha and others in the
dimly lit circle were moved at Heber’s tragedy fully realized. Hroswitha took the Bibliomania from my hands to hold it.
I spoke quietly, “Dibdin was the first bookman
to reach Pimlico. Heber had allowed no
one—not even Dibdin—into his inner sanctum.
Dibdin recalls, ‘And then—the room in which he had breathed his
last! It had been that of his birth.
The mystic veil, which for twenty-five years had separated me from this
chamber, and which the deceased would never allow me, nor anyone else, to
enter, was now effectually drawn aside by the iron hand of Death. I looked around me in amazement. I had never seen rooms, cupboards, passages,
and corridors, so choked, so suffocated with books. Treble rows were here, double rows up
there. Hundreds of slim quartos—several
upon each other—were longitudinally placed over thin and stunted duodecimos,
reaching from one extremity of a shelf to another. Up to the very ceiling the piles of volumes
extended; while the floor was strewn with them, in loose and numerous
heaps. When I look on all this, and thought what might be at his Hodnet house, and upon the Continent,
it were difficult to describe my emotions.’”
I took a moment to calm my senses and
sip the spirit. Everyone was intently
focused, “Heber left behind an estimated 150,000 rare books housed in numerous
residences in England and Europe. His
family could find no will. After weeks
of searching various homes by many parties, Dibdin was convinced the lost will
was at Pimlico. He writes, ‘I yet
persevered; and one morning, when all hope, with those likely to be eventually
benefited by its discovery, was about to takes its departure, I found the
will! And to reward me, as it were, for
my perseverance – as well yet to connect me with my departed friend—I found it
lying behind some books within a few inches of my Decameron and Tour.’"
I concluded my story, “The will surprised
all by stating nothing specific about the library. Thus the great collection went to auction in
1834 in a sale extending over 216 days.
The market was completely saturated with good books and returned only
about a third or less of their cost. But
Heber’s books went on to nourish many a future bibliophile.”
Ranchenitus stood up in the flicker
of candlelight, “A last toast this evening to Dibdin, Heber, and Bibliomania!” We then passed around my tome once more as
both relic and inspiration before I set it neatly on a nearby shelf.
Hroswitha spoke, “It is growing late
gentlemen and the storm continues.
Remain here for the night. A
biblio-sleepover is in the cards. We
have space for all though a couch may need to serve as bed for one lucky
visitor.”
No one put up
resistance to the Queen. Each made
positive contact with their spouse of the plan and with Hroswitha’s help and
steady light retired to various recesses.
Somnolence soon engulfed the household and except for intermittent snoring
from a guest we shall not name, all was but dreams of infinite libraries and
extraordinary books.
____________________________________________________________________
*After
Heber’s death, this book first appeared for sale as lot 1431 in part five of
the Heber sale, London, January, 1835.
Soon after, it came into the possession of Alexander A. Smets of
Savannah, Georgia, with his ownership markings and date of May 28, 1836 on the
title-page. Smets has also written on a
flyleaf, “Copies of this curious and interesting book have sold for upwards of
ten pounds.”
Smets
(1795-1862), a Frenchman by birth, arrived in the United States at age 21 and
became a successful merchant in Savannah.
He was a founder of the Georgia Historical Society. Noted collector Charles C. Jones, Jr. of
Georgia wrote in a 1894 biographical sketch, “Mr. Smets was an intelligent
bibliophile, and Mr. Tefft [of Savannah] an ardent lover of autographs. The
collections of both became important, and they are now well remembered. A
careful student of the English language and of its literature, and a lover of books,
Mr. Smets for many years devoted considerable sums to the purchase of rare editions,
and the accumulation of choice volumes. As the natural result of this effort, long
before his death he became the possessor of the most valuable private library
in Savannah. Within the quiet walls of his study he spent much of his time.
Here he delighted to welcome his literary friends, and here many strangers who
came to view his treasures were pleasantly entertained. Of this library he prepared
and printed an interesting catalogue. After the war his books were disposed of
at public auction in the city of New York.”
The auction referred to was The
Catalogue of the Private Library of the Late A. A. Smets. . . NY: Leavitt,
Strebeigh & Co., Auctioneers, May 25, 1868.
The book was lot 619. (The lot
number is penciled on the ffep.) The
book then founds its way into the collection of Robert S. Williams (1828-1899). It bears his bookplate on the front
pastedown.
Williams was a Utica,
New York, businessman and bibliophile. I
have found little about his collecting activities. However, he was an early member of the Grolier
Club (1887-1899) until his death. (Notably,
his son John Camp Williams [1859-1929], was also a Grolier Club member, and a well-known
collector of Americana, book illustration, and English literature. The son’s collection was auctioned in 1929. See Dickinson’s Dictionary of
American Book Collectors.) Of
particular importance in this instance, Robert Williams was president of the
Utica Public Library. The book bears a
Utica Public Library bookplate noting the donation of the book from the estate
of Williams.
The book then remained in the Utica Public
Library for an undetermined amount of time before being deaccessioned. Internal evidence suggests it was there until
at least the 1950s-1960s. There is a
small stamp on the rear free end paper “Librarian’s Office” and a label, “For
Reference: Do Not Take From This Room.” Both
Williams bookplate and the donation bookplate have the Williams named
purposefully effaced but remain otherwise intact. This suggests that the book was deemed
expendable at some point, but the fact it was originally donated by a prominent
area family / early library president was not to be trumpeted.
The book then entered into the collection /
stock of Columbus, Ohio bookseller, Paul H. North, Jr., who was active from at
least the early 1950s. About twenty
years ago, Ed & Tina Hoffman of Hoffman’s Books in Columbus purchased approximately
80,000 books and pamphlets from the estate of North. The Hoffman’s are still digging out nuggets
from this massive horde. Among them was
this copy of Bibliomania.
I have purchased a number of
biblio-books from the Hoffman’s over the last decade. They know my interests. So, it was a fortunate day in late October of
this year when Ed Hoffman contacted me about the Dibdin. Thank you, Ed!
The book retains its original
binding of full calf with blind-tooled and gilt-framed covers and a
gilt-stamped spine with raised bands, all edges marbled. Internally, the book is very clean with only
a couple of mild Utica library markings.
The time at the library was not kind to the binding, both boards are
loose and at some point a hapless librarian used library tape (now removed) to
secure the spine but overall it remains a proud
specimen. Hoffman suggested it might
be a candidate for a rebinding but I think not.
I’ve made a neat mylar jacket that holds all in place and next will be a
custom box.
Your book will be well taken care of
during my custody, Mr. Dibdin & Mr. Heber. Rest easy in book Valhalla.
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