together treasures from every quarter, and diffusing every where
a veneration and love for books.
Richard de Bury was the king, if not the father, of
bibliomaniacs; his
immortal work reveals to us that long before
the
invention of printing men were tormented and enraptured by
those very same desires, envies, jealousies, greeds,
enthusiasms,
and passions which possess and control bibliomaniacs at the
present time. That
vanity was sometimes the controlling passion
with the early collectors is evidenced in a passage in Barclay's
satire, ``The Ship of Fools''; there are the stanzas which apply
so neatly to certain people I know that sometimes I actually
suspect that Barclay's
prophetic eye must have had these
nineteenth-century charlatans in view.
But yet I have them in great reverence
And honor, saving them from filth and ordure
By often brushing and much diligence.
Full
goodly bound in pleasant coverture
Of
damask, satin, or else of
velvet pure,
I keep them sure, fearing lest they should be lost,
For in them is the
cunningwherein I me boast.
But if it fortune that any
learned man
Within my house fall to disputation,
I draw the curtains to show my books them,
That they of my
cunning should make probation;
I love not to fall into altercation,
And while they come, my books I turn and wind,
For all is in them, and nothing in my mind.
Richard de Bury had
exceptional opportunities for gratifying his
bibliomaniac passions. He was
chancellor and treasurer of Edward
III., and his official position gained him
access to public and
private libraries and to the society of
literary men. Moreover,
when it became known that he was fond of such things, people from
every quarter sent him and brought him old books; it may be that
they hoped in this wise to court his official favor, or perhaps
they were prompted by the less
selfishmotive of gladdening the
bibliomaniac soul.
``The flying fame of our love,'' says de Bury, ``had already
spread in all directions, and it was reported not only that we
had a
longing desire for books, and especially for old ones, but
that any one could more easily
obtain our favors by quartos than
by money. Wherefore, when supported by the
bounty of the
aforesaid
prince of
worthy memory, we were enabled to oppose or
advance, to
appoint or to
discharge; crazy quartos and tottering
folios, precious however in our sight as in our affections,
flowed in most rapidly from the great and the small, instead of
new year's gifts and remunerations, and instead of presents and
jewels. Then the cabinets of the most noble monasteries were
opened, cases were unlocked, caskets were unclasped, and sleeping
volumes which had slumbered for long ages in their sepulchres
were roused up, and those that lay hid in dark places were
overwhelmed with the rays of a new light. Among these, as time
served, we sat down more voluptuously than the
delicate physician
could do
amidst his stores of aromatics, and where we found an
object of love we found also an assuagement.''
``If,'' says de Bury, ``we would have amassed cups of gold and
silver, excellent horses, or no mean sums of money, we could in
those days have laid up
abundance of
wealth for ourselves. But
we regarded books, not pounds; and valued codices more than
florins, and preferred paltry pamphlets to pampered palfreys. On
tedious embassies and in
perilous times, we carried about with
us that
fondness for books which many waters could not
extinguish.''
And what books they were in those old days! What tall folios!
What stout quartos! How
magnificent were the bindings,
wrought