Thomas Frognall Dibdin - A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour in France and Germany, Volume Two

T >> Thomas Frognall Dibdin >> A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour in France and Germany, Volume Two

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His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere....

Perhaps the following anecdote relating to the deceased, may be as
acceptable as it is curious. Those of my readers who have visited
Paris, will have constantly observed, on the outsides of houses, the
following letters, painted in large capitals:

MACL:

implying--as the different emblems of our Fire Offices imply--

"M[aison] A[ssuree] C[ontre] L'[incendie]:"

in plain English, that such houses are insured against fire. Walking
one afternoon with M. Barbier, I pointed to these letters, and said,
"You, who have written upon _Anonymes_ and _Pseudonymes_, do you know
what those letters signify?" He replied, "Assuredly--and they can have
but _one_ meaning." "What is that?" He then explained them as I have
just explained them. "But (rejoined I) since I have been at Paris, I
have learnt that they also imply _another_ meaning." "What might that
be?" Stopping him, and gently touching his arm, and looking round to
see that we were not overheard, I answered in a suppressed tone:--

"M[es] A[mis] C[hassez] L[ouis]."

He was thunderstruck. He had never heard it before: and to be told it
by a stranger! "Mais (says he, smiling, and resuming his steps) "voila
une chose infiniment drole!"

Let it be remembered, that this HERETICAL construction upon these
Initial Capitals was put at a time when the _Bonaparte Fever_ was yet
making some of the pulses of the Parisians beat 85 strokes to the
minute. _Now_, his Majesty Charles X. will smile as readily at this
anecdote as did the incomparable Librarian of his Regal Predecessor.

[INTRODUCTION TO LETTER VIII.]

Before entering upon the perusal of this memorable Letter--which, in the
previous edition, was numbered LETTER XXX,--(owing to the Letters having
been numbered consecutively from the beginning to the end) I request the
Reader's attention to a few preliminary remarks, which may possibly guide
him to form a more correct estimate of its real character. MONS. LICQUET
having published a French version of my Ninth Letter, descriptive of the
Public Library at Rouen, (and to which an allusion has been made in vol. i.
p. 99.) MONS. CRAPELET (see p. 1, ante) undertook a version of the
_ensuing_ Letter: of which he printed _one hundred copies_. Both
translations were printed in M. Crapelet's office, to arrange, in type and
form of publication, as much as possible with my own; so that, if the
_intrinsic_ merit of these versions could not secure purchasers, the beauty
of the paper and of the press work (for both are very beautiful) might
contribute to their circulation. To the version of M. Crapelet[120] was
prefixed a _Preface_, combining such a mixture of malignity and
misconception, that I did not hesitate answering it, in a privately printed
tract, entitled "A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER." Of this Tract, "only _thirty-six
copies were printed_." "So much the better for the Author"--says M.
Crapelet. The sequel will shew.

In the publication of the _entire_ version of my Tour, by M.M. Licquet and
Crapelet, the translation of this VIIIth Letter appears as it did in the
previous publication--with the exception of the omission of the _Preface_:
but in lieu of which, there is another and a short preface, by M. Crapelet,
to the third volume, where, after telling his readers that his previous
attempt had excited my "holy wrath," he seems to rejoice in the severity of
those criticisms, which, in certain of our _own_ public Journals, have been
passed upon my subsequent bibliographical labours. With these criticisms I
have here nothing to do. If the authors of them can reconcile them to their
own good sense and subsequent reflections, and the Public to their own
INDEPENDENCE of JUDGMENT, the voice of remonstrance will be ineffectual.
Time will strike the balance between the Critic and the Author: and without
pretending to explore the mysteries of an occasional _getting-up_ of
Reviews of particular articles, I think I can speak in the language of
justice, as well as of confidence, of the Author of ONE of these reviews,
by a quotation from the _Ajax Flagellifer_ of SOPHOCLES.

[Greek: Blepo gar echthron phota, kai tach' an kakois
Gelon, ha de kakourgos exikoit' aner.--]

To return to M. Crapelet; and to have done with him. The _motive_ for his
undertaking the version of this memorable Letter, about "BOOKSELLERS,
PRINTERS, and BOOKBINDERS at Paris," seems to be wholly inconceivable;
since the logic of the undertaking would be as follows. BECAUSE I have
spoken favourably of the whole typographical fraternity--and because, in
particular, of M. Crapelet, his _Menage_, and Madame who is at the head of
it--_because_ I have lauded his Press equally with his Cellar--THEREFORE
the "_un_holy wrath" of M. Crapelet is excited; and he cannot endure the
freedom taken by the English traveller. It would be abusing the confidence
reposed in me by written communications, from characters of the first
respectability, were I to make public a few of the sentiments contained in
them--expressive of surprise and contempt at the performance of the French
typographer. But in mercy to my adversary, he shall be spared the pain of
their perusal.

[120] [A young stranger, a Frenchman--living near the mountainous solitudes
between Lyons and the entrance into Italy--and ardently attached to
the study of bibliography--applied himself, under the guidance of a
common friend--dear to us both from the excellence of his head and
heart--to a steady perusal of the _Bibliographical Decameron_, and the
_Tour_. He mastered both works within a comparatively short time. He
then read _A Roland for an Oliver_--and voluntarily tendered to me his
French translation of it. How successfully the whole has been
accomplished, may be judged from the following part--being the version
of my preface only.

OBSERVATION PRELIMINAIRE.

"La production de M. Crapelet rappelee, dans le titre precedent, sera
consideree comme un phenomene dans son genre. Elle est, certes, sans
antecedent et, pour l'honneur de la France, je desire qu'elle n'ait
pas d'imitateurs. Quiconque prendra la peine de lire la trentieme
lettre de mon voyage, soit dans l'original, soit dans la version de M.
Crapelet, en laissant de cote les notes qui appartiennent an
traducteur, conviendra facilement que cette lettre manifeste les
sentimens les plus impartiaux et les plus honorables a l'etat actuel
de la librairie et de l'imprimerie a Paris. Dans plusieurs passages,
ou l'on compare l'execution typographique, dans les deux pays, la
superiorite est decidee en faveur de la France. Quant a _l'esprit_ qui
a dicte cette lettre, je declare, comme homme d'honneur, ne l'avoir
pas composee, dans un systeme d'opposition, envers ceux qu'elle
concerne plus particulierement.

"Cependant, il n'en a pas moins plu a M. Crapelet, imprimeur de Paris,
l'un de ceux dont il y est fait plus specialement l'eloge,
d'accompagner sa traduction de cette lettre, de notes deplacees et
injurieuses pour le caractere de l'auteur et de son ouvrage. Par suite
probablement du peu d'etendue de ses idees et de l'organisation
vicieuse de ses autres sens, ce typographe s'est livre a une series
d'observations qui outragent autant la raison que la politesse, et qui
decelent hautement sa malignite et sa noirceur. Les formes de son
procede ne sont pas moins meprisables que le fond. Avec la pretention
avouee de ne repandre que partiellement sa version,

(Voulant blesser et cependant timide pour frapper)

il s'est servi de ses propres presses et il a imprime le texte et les
notes avec des caracteres et sur un papier aussi semblables que
possible a ceux de l'ouvrage qu'il venait de traduire. Il en a
surveille, a ce qu'on assure, l'impression, avec l'attention
personelle la plus scrupuleuse, en sorte qu'il n'est aucune _epreuve
egaree_, qui ait ete soumise a d'autres yeux que les siens. Il a prit
soin, en outre, d'en faire tirer, au moins, cent exemplaires, et de
les repandre.[C] Comme ces cent exemplaires seront probablement lus
par dix fois le meme nombre de personnes, il y aurait eu plus de
franchise et peut-etre plus de bon sens de la part de M. Crapelet a
diriger publiquement ses coups contre moi que de le faire sous la
couverture d'un _pamphlet prive_. Il a fait choix de ce genre
d'attaque; il ne me reste plus qu'a adopter une semblable methode de
defense: si ce n'est, qu'au lieu de cent exemplaires, ces remarques ne
seront veritablement imprimee qu'a _trente six_. Ce procede est certes
plus delicat que celui de mon adversaire; mais soit que M. Crapelet
ait prefere l'obscurite a la lumiere, il n'en est pas moins evident
que son intention a ete d'employer tous ses petits moyens, a renverser
la reputation d'un ouvrage, dont il avoue lui-meme avoir a peine lu la
cinquantieme partie!

"Par le contenu de ses notes, on voit qu'il a cherche, avec une
assiduite condamnable, a recueillir le mal qu'il me suppose avoir eu
l'intention de dire des personnes que j'ai citees, et cependant, apres
tout ce travail, a peine a-t-il pu decouvrir l'ombre d'une seule
allusion maligne. Jamais on ne fit un usage plus deplorable de son
tems et de ses peines, car toutes les phrases de cette production sont
aussi obscures que tirees de loin.

"Il est difficile, ainsi que je l'ai deja observe, de se rendre compte
des motifs d'une telle conduite. Mais M. Crapelet n'a fait part de son
secret a personne, et d'apres l'echantillon dont il s'agit ici, je
n'ai nulle envie de le lui demander.

T.F.D.

"J'avais eu d'abord l'intention de relever chacunes des notes de M.
Crapelet, mais de plus mures reflexions m'ont fait connaitre
l'absurdite d'une telle enterprise. Je m'en suis donc tenu a la
preface, sans toutefois, ainsi que le lecteur pourra s'en appercevoir,
laisser tomber dans l'oubli le merite des notes. Encore un mot; M.
Crapelet m'a attaque et je me suis defendu. Il peut recommencer, si
cela lui fait plaisir; mais desormais je ne lui repondrai que par le
silence et le mepris."

[C] "M. Crapelet, en sa qualite de critique, a mis ici du
raffinement; car je soupconne qu'il y a eu au moins vingt cinq
exemplaires tires sur papier velin. C'est ainsi qu'il sait dorer
sa pillule, pour la rendre plus presentable aux dignes amis de
l'auteur, les bibliophiles de Paris. Mais ces Messieurs ont trop
bon gout pour l'accepter.

_LETTER VIII._

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE ABBE RIVE. BOOKSELLERS. PRINTERS. BOOK-BINDERS.

I make no doubt that the conclusion of my last letter has led you to expect
a renewal of the BOOK THEME: but rather, I should hope, as connected with
those Bibliographers, Booksellers, and Printers, who have for so many years
shed a sort of lustre upon _Parisian Literature_. It will therefore be no
unappropriate continuation of this subject, if I commence by furnishing you
with some particulars respecting a Bibliographer who was considered, in his
life time, as the terror of his acquaintance, and the pride of his patron:
and who seems to have never walked abroad, or sat at home, without a
scourge in one hand, and a looking-glass in the other. Droll combination!--
you will exclaim. But it is of the ABBE RIVE of whom I now speak; the very
_Ajax flagellifer_ of the bibliographical tribe, and at the same time the
vainest and most self-sufficient. He seems, amidst all the controversy in
which he delighted to be involved, to have always had _one_ never-failing
source of consolation left:--that of seeing himself favourably reflected--
from the recollection of his past performances--in the mirror of his own
conceit! I have before[121] descanted somewhat upon probably the most
splendid of his projected performances, and now hasten to a more particular
account of the man himself.

It was early one morning--before I had even commenced my breakfast--that a
stranger was announced to me. And who, think you, should that stranger turn
out to be? Nothing less than the _Nephew_ of the late Abbe Rive. His name
was MORENAS. His countenance was somewhat like that which Sir Thomas More
describes the hero of his Utopia to have had. It was hard, swarthy, and
severe. He seemed in every respect to be "a travelled man." But his manners
and voice were mild and conciliating. "Some one had told him that I had
written about the Abbe Rive, and that I was partial to his work. Would I do
him the favour of a visit? when I might see, at his house, (_Rue du Vieux
Colombier, pres St. Sulpice_) the whole of the Abbe's MSS. and all his
projected works for the press. They were for sale. Possibly I might wish to
possess them?" I thanked the stranger for his intelligence, and promised I
would call that same morning.

M. Morenas has been indeed a great traveller. When I called, I found him
living up two pair of stairs, preparing for another voyage to Senegal. He
was surrounded by _trunks_ ... in which were deposited the literary remains
of his uncle. In other words, these remains consisted of innumerable
_cards_, closely packed, upon which the Abbe had written all his memoranda
relating to ... I scarcely know what. But the whole, from the nephew's
statement, seemed to be an encyclopaedia of knowledge. In one trunk, were
about _six thousand_ notices of MSS. of all ages; and of editions in the
fifteenth century. In another trunk, were wedged about _twelve thousand_
descriptions of books in all languages, except those of French and Italian,
from the sixteenth century to his own period: these were professed to be
accompanied with critical notes. In a third trunk was a bundle of papers
relating to the _History of the Troubadours_; in a fourth, was a collection
of memoranda and literary sketches, connected with the invention of Arts
and Sciences, with Antiquities, Dictionaries, and pieces exclusively
bibliographical. A fifth trunk contained between _two and three thousand_
cards, written upon on each side, respecting a collection of prints;
describing the ranks, degrees, and dignities of all nations--of which
eleven folio _cahiers_ were published, in 1779--without the letter-press--
but in a manner to make the Abbe extremely dissatisfied with the engraver.
In a sixth trunk were contained his papers respecting earthquakes,
volcanoes, and geographical subjects: so that, you see, the Abbe Rive at
least fancied himself a man of tolerably universal attainments. It was of
course impossible to calculate the number, or to appreciate the merits, of
such a multifarious collection; but on asking M. Morenas if he had made up
his mind respecting the _price_ to be put upon it, he answered, that he
thought he might safely demand 6000 francs for such a body of miscellaneous
information. I told him that this was a sum much beyond my means to
adventure; but that it was at least an object worthy of the consideration
of the "higher powers" of his own government. He replied, that he had
little hopes of success in those quarters: that he was anxious to resume
his travels; talked of another trip to Senegal; for that, after so
locomotive a life, a sedentary one was wearisome to him....

... "trahit sua quemque voluptas!"

Over the chimney-piece was a portrait, in pencil, of his late uncle: done
from the life. It was the only one extant. It struck me indeed as
singularly indicative of the keen, lively, penetrating talents of the
original. On the back of the portrait were the lines which are here
subjoined:

_Des sa plus tendre enfance aux etudes livre,
La soif de la science l'a toujours devore.
Une immense lecture enrichit ses ecrits,
Et la critique sure en augmente le prix._

These lines are copied from the _Journal des Savans_ for October 1779. Iean
Joseph Rive was born at Apt, in 1730, and died at Marseilles in 1791. He
had doubtless great parts, natural and acquired: a retentive memory, a
quick perception, and a vast and varied reading. He probably commenced
amassing his literary treasures as early as his fourteenth year; and to his
latest breath he pursued his researches with unabated ardour. But his
career was embittered by broils and controversies; while the frequent acts
of kindness, and the general warmth of heart, evinced in his conduct,
hardly sufficed to soften the asperity, or to mitigate the wrath, of a host
of enemies--which assailed him to the very last. But Cadmus-like, he sowed
the seeds from which these combatants sprung. Whatever were his defects, as
a public character, he is said to have been, in private, a kind parent, a
warm friend, and an excellent master. The only servant which he ever had,
and who remained with him twenty-four years, mourned his loss as that of a
father. Peace to his ashes!

From bibliography let me gently, and naturally, as it were, conduct you
towards BIBLIOPOLISM. In other words, allow me to give you a sketch of a
few of the principal Booksellers in this gay metropolis; who strive, by the
sale of instructive and curious tomes, sometimes printed in the black
letter of _Gourmont_ and _Marnef_, to stem the torrent of those trivial or
mischievous productions which swarm about the avenues of the Palais Royal.
In ancient times, the neighbourhood of the SORBONNE was the great mart for
books. When I dined in this neighbourhood, with my friend M. Gail, the
Greek Professor at the College Royale, I took an opportunity of leisurely
examining this once renowned quarter. I felt even proud and happy to walk
the streets, or rather tread the earth, which had been once trodden by
_Gering_, _Crantz_, and _Fiburger_.[122] Their spirits seemed yet to haunt
the spot:--but no volume, nor even traces of one--executed at their press--
could be discovered. To have found a perfect copy of _Terence_, printed in
their first Roman character, would have been a _trouvaille_ sufficiently
lucky to have compensated for all previous toil, and to have franked me as
far as Strasbourg.

The principal mart for booksellers, of old and second hand books, is now
nearer the Seine; and especially in the _Quai des Augustins_. _Messrs.
Treuttel and Wuertz, Panckoucke, Renouard_, and _Brunet_, live within a
quarter of a mile of each other: about a couple of hundred yards from the
_Quai des Augustins_. Further to the south, and not far from the Hotel de
Clugny, in the _Rue Serpente_, live the celebrated DEBURE. They are
booksellers to the King, and to the Royal Library; and a more respectable
house, or a more ancient firm, is probably not to be found in Europe.
Messrs. Debure are as straight-forward, obliging, and correct, in their
transactions, as they are knowing in the value, and upright in the sale, of
their stock in trade. No bookseller in Paris possesses a more judicious
stock, or can point to so many rare and curious books. A young collector
may rely with perfect safety upon them; and accumulate, for a few hundred
pounds, a very respectable stock of _Editiones principes_ or _rarissimae_. I
do not say that such young collector would find them _cheaper there_, or
_so cheap_ as in _Pall-Mall_; but I do say that he may rest assured that
Messieurs Debure would never, knowingly, sell him an imperfect book. Of the
Debure, there are two brothers: of whom the elder hath a most gallant
propensity to _portrait-collecting_--and is even rich in portraits relating
to _our_ history. Of course the chief strength lies in French history; and
I should think that Monsieur Debure l'aine shewed me almost as many
portraits of Louis XIV. as there are editions of the various works of
Cicero in the fifteenth century.[123] But my attention was more
particularly directed to a certain boudoir, up one pair of stairs, in which
Madame Debure, their venerable and excellent mother, chooses to deposit
some few very choice copies of works in almost every department of
knowledge. There was about _one_ of the _best_ editions in each department:
and whether it were the Bible, or the History of the Bucaineers--whether a
lyrical poet of the reign of Louis XIV. or the ballad metres of that of
Francois Premier ... there you found it!--bound by Padaloup, or Deseuille,
or De Rome. What think you, among these "choice copies," of the _Cancionero
Generale_ printed at Toledo in 1527, in the black letter, double columned,
in folio? Enough to madden even our poet-laureat--for life! I should add,
that these books are not thus carefully kept together for the sake of
_shew_: for their owner is a fair good linguist, and can read the Spanish
with tolerable fluency. Long may she yet read it.[124]

The Debure had the selling, by auction, of the far-famed M'CARTHY LIBRARY;
and I saw upon their shelves some of the remains of that splendid
membranaceous collection. Indeed I bought several desirable specimens of
it: among them, a fine copy of _Vindelin de Spira's_ edition (1471) of _St.
Cyprians Epistles_, UPON VELLUM.[125] Like their leading brethren in the
neighbourhood, Messieurs Debure keep their country house, and there pass
the Sabbath.

The house of TREUTTEL and WURTZ is one of the richest and one of the most
respectable in Europe. The commerce of that House is chiefly in the
wholesale way; and they are, in particular, the publishers and proprietors
of all the great classical works put forth at _Strasbourg_. Indeed, it was
at this latter place where the family first took root: but the branches of
their prosperity have spread to Paris and to London with nearly equal
luxuriance. They have a noble house in the _Rue de Bourbon_, no. 17: like
unto an hotel; where each day's post brings them despatches from the chief
towns in Europe. Their business is regulated with care, civility, and
dispatch; and their manners are at once courteous and frank. Nothing would
satisfy them but I must spend a Sabbath with them, at their country house
at _Groslai_; hard by the village and vale of Montmorenci. I assented
willingly. On the following Sunday, their capacious family coach, and pair
of sleek, round, fat black horses, arrived at my lodgings by ten o'clock;
and an hour and three quarters brought me to Groslai. The cherries were
ripe, and the trees were well laden with fruit: for Montmorenci cherries,
as you may have heard, are proverbial for their excellence. I spent a very
agreeable day with mine hosts. Their house is large and pleasantly
situated, and the view of Paris from thence is rather picturesque. But I
was most struck with the conversation and conduct of Madame Treuttel. She
is a thoroughly good woman. She has raised, at her own expense, an
alms-house in the village for twelve poor men; and built a national school
for the instruction of the poor and ignorant of both sexes. She is herself
a Lutheran Protestant; as are her husband and her son-in-law M. Wuertz. At
first, she had some difficulties to encounter respecting the _school_; and
sundry conferences with the village Cure, and some of the head clergy of
Paris, were in consequence held. At length all difficulties were surmounted
by the promise given, on the part of Madame Treuttel, to introduce only the
French version of the Bible by _De Sacy_. Hence the school was built, and
the children of the village flocked in numbers to it for instruction. I
visited both the alms-house and the school, and could not withhold my
tribute of hearty commendation at the generosity, and thoroughly Christian
spirit, of the foundress of such establishments. There is more good sense
and more private and public virtue, in the application of superfluous
wealth in this manner, than in the erection of a hundred palaces like that
at _Versailles!_[126]

A different, and a more touching object presented itself to my view in the
garden. Walking with Madame, we came, through various detours, into a
retired and wooded part: where, on opening a sort of wicket gate, I found
myself in a small square space, with hillocks in the shape of _tumuli_
before me. A bench was at the extremity. It was a resting place for the
living, and a depository of the dead. Flowers, now a good deal faded, were
growing upon these little mounds--beneath which the dead seemed to sleep in
peace. "What might this mean?" "Sir," replied Madame Treuttel, "this is
consecrated ground. My son-in-law sleeps here--and his only and beloved
child lies by the side of him. You will meet my daughter, his wife, at
dinner. She, with myself, visit this spot at stated seasons--when we renew
and indulge our sorrows on the recollection of those who sleep beneath.
These are losses which the world can never repair. We all mean to be
interred within the same little fenced space.[127] I have obtained a long
lease of it--for some fifty years: at the expiration of which time, the
work of dissolution will be sufficiently complete with us all." So spake my
amiable and enlightened guide. The remainder of the day--during which we
took a stroll to Montmorenci, and saw the house and gardens where Rousseau
wrote his _Emile_--was spent in a mixed but not irrational manner: much
accordant with my own feelings, and most congenial with a languid state of
body which had endured the heats of Paris for a month, without feeling
scarcely a breath of air the whole time.

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