THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

IN

JANUARY 1900.

A BOOKMAN'S DILEMMA.

BY CHARLES LUSTED.

N the High Street of the picturesque old town of Castleborough stands a large red brick house, peculiar to the period of Queen Anne. It is removed some thirty feet from the pavement, and in summer-time is covered with the lavender tassels of the wistaria. It is a noticeable house, a house to covet and adorn. At the time of the following episode it was the home of Richard Spender, and he was very proud of his possession. The rooms were large, handsome, and comfortable, not one could be called dull. From the front windows could be seen the shifting scenes incidental to the principal street of a country town; and the back opened on a pleasant view of rich pasture meadows dotted with clumps of trees and watered by a winding river.

One summer afternoon Richard Spender sat in his study, which overlooked this meadow land, with his eyes fixed upon the hollyhocks and roses growing in profusion in his old-fashioned flower garden. But he did not see them. His eyes were full of inward thought. One hand held a pass-book, the other was lifeless. Richard Spender had discovered that his expenditure would exceed his income. This hard fact paralysed him. It was new to his existence, altogether strange. He estimated that he would require between £200 and £300 more to meet current expenses until his next half-yearly remittance was due.

cause.

He felt his position keenly. He endeavoured to account for its An important investment had failed, one of his horses had died, his son had been ordered to India, and his outfit was an extra VOL. CCLXXXVIII. NO. 2029.

B

item of expenditure, and perhaps some late additions to his library represented a good lump of hard cash, for before all things Richard Spender was an ardent and discriminating bookman. His books were the best books, in the best editions, and in the best possible state. He would not look at a book which was either foxed or cropped, and half-roan made him shudder. He was a lover of margins, and a devotee of perfection. His library was ideal, and not without honour and slight renown. Indeed, it was often a theme of conversation in Castleborough.

At any other time this last item would have passed unnoticed, for he had been accustomed to indulge his taste, within the limits of his purse, in the purchase of rare or choicely bound books. His banker, or his solicitor, would doubtless arrange the matter; but Richard Spender was reticent and proud. He had never asked a monetary favour in his life. He had always paid his bills promptly and without difficulty. If he had lived up to his income he had never exceeded it.

He thought of his friend Robert Waller, a bookman also, but wealthy and a bachelor. He could ask a favour of him without a sense of embarrassment, for there was a feeling of brotherhood between them, which had never been shaken either by distance or marriage. But he speedily dismissed the idea, for Robert Waller was a man of impulse and a prince of generosity, and might thrust the money upon him as a gift and take no denial.

"There is only one course," he mused as he looked round his library, "luxury should be the first friend to necessity. Some of the treasures must be sold."

His eyes rested on the shelf containing the first editions of the modern poets. "They would fetch good prices," he said to himself as he got up and touched the backs of some of them. "Poems by

Two Brothers.' Ah, I bought it when the book was cheaper than it is now. I should make a considerable profit out of it. Bah! Make a profit out of my idols!" And he shuddered at his calculating spirit.

"Then there are Shelley, and Coleridge, and Keats, and William Blake," he continued to himself. "But no, the gap would be too great, too disastrous. I must select the most valuable, and look elsewhere."

He reached his hand to a shelf above, and took down the first edition of the "Vicar of Wakefield," in two volumes. "Salisbury, 1766,"" he said looking at the title-page. "It would fetch £50 or more. But can I part with such a bargain? The one great 'find'

of my life. Picked up for three shillings from a barrow in Castleborough Market. It was a grand moment," he added with a burst of pride. And with loving hands he returned the book to its place.

He sat down in his easy chair again and looked fondly towards the corner where he kept the old editions of the poets. Every copy bore a date anterior to 1700. "They must remain," he said with some emphasis.

"Then there are the dramatists," he continued musingly, as his eyes wandered to some forty volumes bound in sprinkled calf with yellow edges. They were all original editions. "They cannot be sacrificed," he murmured. "It would take a lifetime to collect and make up a similar set."

He then turned his eyes with a look of reverence to a small recess fitted with a nest of shelves, and filled with a goodly number of drab-coloured volumes. They were the “ Waverley Novels"; first editions all of them, in the original boards, uncut. He shook his head sadly, and transferred his attention to where he kept his collection of books in choice bindings. He took some of them down, handling them as carefully as a lover of porcelain handles old china. They were beautiful specimens of the bookbinder's art, superb in decoration, richly tooled, works of genius in fact, many of them silk-lined, some powdered with butterflies, or bees, others sprinkled with golden lilies, some impossible to procure, others perfect in colour and design, and all of them delicate in harmony and finish. They represented the workmanship and skill of Derome, Padeloup, Tessier, Roger Payne, Riviere, Zaehnsdorf, and other masters of the craft.

"The feast of the eye should give place to the feast of the mind,” he reasoned as he dusted the top of an exquisite specimen with a soft brush. "But the plenty creates the perplexity. Selection requires wisdom, and even wisdom cannot prevent indecision and disappointment." Yet his collection of choicely-bound books was a collection of good books, books worth reading, and therefore worth keeping.

He next surveyed the quarto and folio volumes which occupied the lower shelves. "Perhaps, I can spare some of them," he said in a low tone. "There is the large paper copy of Dugdale's 'Monasticon Anglicanum,' in eight volumes. Proof plates, and only fifty copies printed. How I wrestled for it at Sotheby's! £40. A splendid book. But I can do without it," he added with a sigh.

"And yonder is Gould's 'Birds of Great Britain' in five volumes. A beautiful copy. Cost me £35. It will be a wrench.”

He mused awhile, and his eyes fell upon the "Scottish Service Book." "No, I cannot part with that," he said reflectively. "It was a legacy from dear old Ashberry, who prized the book as one of the stumbling-blocks of history. But its rescue will cause another's sacrifice. Here, as elsewhere, is perplexity, and anywhere there will be a breaking of idols and a tugging at the heart-strings. A bookman is very mortal."

His musings were interrupted by the postman's knock. A letter from his friend Robert Waller, and the catalogue of a great sale to take place at Woodham Manor House, which was situated some five miles from Castleborough. The cover of the catalogue stated that the fine library of eight hundred volumes would be included in the sale. Richard Spender smiled at the term "fine." The ordinary auctioneer displays much unconscious humour when he gives his attention to books.

Richard Spender did not lay the catalogue aside. Not a bit of it. Because he was about to sell £200 or £300 worth of his own books that misfortune did not prevent him from searching for others. Once a bookman always a bookman. It is a fatal gift. To him a catalogue of books makes fine reading. It may contain hidden treasures, reminiscences of former bargains, tit-bits of autobiography, for every copy of a book has a history, and its duplicate will conjure pleasant visions of the past. A bookman, be he rich or poor, loves a catalogue as a pretty woman loves admiration. It is a magic wand that summons him to a banquet of the gods. And a bookman in bankruptcy will still haunt bookshops though he strives to guide his steps from their enchantment; and he will still read catalogues though they rend his soul with pain.

Richard Spender was not a bankrupt, but only a little pinched, so he looked down the portion of the catalogue devoted to books with a quiet conscience. The auctioneer's reckless gift of humour caused him to smile again. Theology was mixed with poetry, and science with fiction. Presently his smile gave place to a fixed stare. His hand gripped the catalogue tightly, while his heart began to beat with nervous rapidity. Lot 177 included "Hannah More's Works,” 8 vols., 1801; Tooke's "Pantheon," 1793; "The English Flora," 1853; Prideaux's "Connections," 4 vols., with portrait, 1815; "Burns's Poems," 1786; and twelve others, various.

"Burns, 1786,"" he cried under his breath, "and if perfect is worth £100." He looked up with a new light in his eyes at his first editions of the poets, and promised that they, at least, should be saved; for he thought that it was highly probable that Lot 177 would

be knocked down for three or four shillings. Experience had shown him that the two local second-hand booksellers and the country people were, like the general auctioneer, entirely ignorant of the value of books.

"What a chance," he exclaimed with a burst of confidence, "and no one to oppose me!" He felt as secure of the book as though it already stood on his own shelves.

Presently something whispered within him, "Conscience." But he had a sovereign cure close at hand. He took down the first volume of "The Antiquary," and consulted Jonathan Oldenbuck of Monkbarns. "See this bundle of ballads," said that old friend, "not one of them later than 1700, and some of them a hundred years older. I wheedled an old woman out of these, who loved them better than her Psalm-book. Tobacco, sir, snuff, and the Complete Syren were the equivalent." Richard Spender replaced the volume on the shelf, and then said with some sternness, as though addressing an imaginary censor, "Conscience, a bookman has no conscience."

This detail settled to his entire satisfaction, Richard Spender remembered that he had not read his friend's letter. He hastened to do so, and learned that Robert Waller proposed paying him a short visit on the following Tuesday. "The day of the sale," gasped Richard Spender with consternation. "Burns would bewitch him. I must put him off." And he did so straightway.

The next morning, as Robert Waller sat over his breakfast at his chambers in Devere Street, he noticed an advertisement in his daily paper of the sale to take place at Woodham Manor House. Like Richard Spender he remarked the paragraph relating to the fine library of 800 volumes, and gave a low chuckle. He also remarked the date of the sale. "Ah, Tuesday next," he said to himself with a curious smile. "The very day I had proposed running down to see Spender. You rogue," he continued, with many nods and winks, "you rogue; that is the reason of this reply." And he took up Richard Spender's letter of the previous day and gave it another reading. "Is sorry he will be away on Tuesday next. Not a word of this sale. Oh, you rogue," he reiterated with much enjoy. ment, "prize hunting, by the Venerable Bede."

He glanced at the daily paper again. "Catalogues to be obtained of the auctioneers, Messrs. Wildwood & Co., Menzies Street, W." "Ha, ha!" he chuckled as he reached for his hat and oldfashioned cane. "Ha, ha! Richard Spender. There is a pile of catalogues in the next street."