TABLE TALK.

MOR

AMONG OLD BOOKS.

WORE than one of the improvements I counselled in "Book Prices Current has been made in the third volume now issued, and the work is rapidly becoming the most important and the most attractive bibliographical record that is published in England. So far, indeed, as I know, no foreign country can boast a book that fills all its functions. It consists of a list of the valuable books that have been sold by auction in London during the year, with the prices and names of purchasers. During the three years in which it has appeared its size has augmented, and it has advanced steadily in public favour. Most important among the changes that have been made in the volume for 1889, is the addition, in the index, of dates to the early printed English works. If, for instance, to take a subject on which I have more than once of late communed with the reader, I look under the head of Chaucer with a view to a special edition, in the first volume I am compelled to investigate each of the sixteen items mentioned in the index. In the third volume, on the contrary, the twelve copies which were sold during the past year are duly ranged under the dates 1508, 1561, 1598, and so forth. An incredible gain to facility of inquiry results from this, and it is to be hoped that it will be extended to modern writers, such as Shelley, Byron, and Ruskin. Even more important is it that it should be carried out in the case of early French works, which are now added to the list. Under Clément Marot, for instance, two references are given, one to the fourth edition of 1731, which, though a handsome book, is in small estimation; and the other to the two delightful volumes of Moetjens, Leyden, 1700. Neither of these, however, is dated in the index. The latter is somewhat naively described as the best edition of Marot; it would, with a nearer approach to correctness, be called the worst-its value being only typographical. Its price, moreover, is two to three pounds, while in the Supplement to the Manuel du Libraire, Brunet quotes the purchase of the first edition. 1 Elliot Stock.]

of Geoffroy Tory (1532) for the Bibliothèque Impériale for 990 francs; and of the second edition, for the same institution, for 621 francs. In the case of Molière things are even worse, since original editions and translations are mixed together without any order of dates. These things must be amended before "Book Prices Current" can be fully utilised.

C

THE BOOK SALES OF 1889.

URIOUS illustrations of the fluctuations of taste are necessarily afforded in the record of sales. Condition, in the case of second-hand books, is, of course, much; and an historical binding, or a binding even of some great French workman, will lift a common-place book to the price of a rarity. General taste in England, however, goes now in favour of works and illustrations by writers or artists of the present century. For real rarities there is always a demand, and the Mazarin Bible, bought in February 1889 in the Hopetoun House sale by Mr. Quaritch for £2,000, is, so far as I have seen, the champion record. Under Browning, Dickens, Thackeray, Lever, Cruikshank, Rowlandson, and even under the heads of living writers-Tennyson, Ruskin, Swinburne, &c.-the most significant entries are found. Thus, the "Songs and Ballads" of Mr. Swinburne, in the first edition, which is not to be distinguished from that still issued, fetches a fancy price. Of the first edition of "Atalanta," a lovely book, the price of which is fully justified, no sale is chronicled. So curious is the mania for the works of Cruikshank that the Westminster Review with an illustrated essay on his genius sells for several pounds. The productions of Caxton's press still fetch hundreds of pounds, most of them going to Mr. Quaritch; and the only moderately good copy of the First Folio Shakespeare was purchased by the same omnivorous buyer for four hundred and fifteen pounds. Extraordinary prices were obtained for theatrical rarities in the Mansfield-Mackenzie sale, the greatest demand being for the most scurrilous productions. Mr. Stock's book is, in fact, a mass of curious information. It will be welcomed by most second-hand booksellers as well as by collectors. One class alone, the purchasers of imperfect books, which are afterwards sold as complete, are likely to disapprove of a publication which threatens them with exposure and loss of unholy profit.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

JUNE 1890.

H

AN ARTISTIC MYSTERY.

BY ARMIGER BARCZINSKY.

AD Mr. Wrex been a rich man, the world of Art would, assuredly, have known him as one of its premier patrons. His devotion to Art was a religion, his love of the beautiful in Art partook of worship; and though his friends, when speaking of him, shrugged their shoulders and referred to this passion as a fad and a hobby, they nevertheless credited him with a certain critical perception in matters pertaining to it. After all, they would argue, it was a small matter to have to defer to the opinion of such an inoffensive person on so trivial a subject as pictures !-knowing, as they did, that all the special knowledge he assumed was worthless from a commercial point of view.

For Mr. Wrex was an amateur in the true sense of the word, his funds being insufficient to allow him to do much else than admire. Not that he had any inclination to trade on his skill in judgment. He would have scorned to prostitute his connoisseurship to such mean ends. He deemed it too sacred a qualification for that. No; had circumstances permitted, his ambition would have been to make a famous collection of the works of the Old Masters, to have devoted his life to that end, and then left the collection to "the nation." That was his dream. Most men are contented with the prospect of benefiting an individual-often more so with the prospect than the deed; but in "the nation " Mr. Wrex saw a collective unit which he in fancy made his debtor and in fancy heard its "still, small voice of gratitude."

VOL. CCLXVIII. NO. 1914.

But Mr. Wrex was not rich, as anyone visiting his little cottage could tell at a glance. Nor would the stranger, judging by the specimens of pictures and cheap statuary that decked Mr. Wrex's parlour, have deemed him the man of taste he really was. Only those intimate with him knew how deeply-and, as they sometimes thought, unpleasantly-he was versed in artistic lore. Knew of the small but select library bearing on Art, which he possessed; of the piles of picture-catalogues that filled the cottage; of the hours he spent in galleries and in pottering about the musty shops of small dealers. Some few of them, who occasionally had perforce to listen when their learned friend grew discoursive on his favourite theme, knew of these things. But the stranger would have set Mr. Wrex down merely as the owner of a number of stained tawdry prints, and grimy, worthless canvases; little knowing that often among these was to be found a rarity; soiled, perhaps, but of some value none the less.

But so it was. The prints were, some of them, the work of famous hands; some of the oils, original trifles by pupils of old artists, evincing to Mr. Wrex traces of the master-hand. The owner had a history of each and a surpassing love for all collectively.

Mr. Wrex was a quiet little man, neither young nor old; but his hair was grey and his habits those of sober years. Ever since he could remember he had lived on a diminutive legacy inherited from a departed aunt. In his youth he had worked and striven to create ; but whether from want of ability or the proper instruction, the noble thoughts that had filled him never appeared on canvas. When the truth dawned on him that he lacked the necessary qualifications to make a great name, he quietly put palette and brushes aside, gave up painting and turned for consolation to the study and admiration of the genius of other men. Sooner than he expected, his want of success as a painter and the grief it had occasioned him were forgotten in this delightful study. The contemplation of the famous works of the masters made him lose all regret for the non-existence of any small talent in himself.

He haunted the Art galleries and the sale rooms, and was a prominent figure wherever painters and connoisseurs gathered. In time he was known and respected by buyers and sellers alike for his clear and just perception of all that is best in Art; in short, he became distinguished as the possessor of that rare quality, a valuable and unprejudiced criticism.

But if Mr. Wrex made a valuation, or passed a judgment, or rendered anybody some similar service, he did so without payment.

Yet,

The pleasure such things afforded him was sufficient return. many an unconsidered trifle, such as a small picture of merit but lacking a name to give it value, was forced on him by those who felt under an obligation to him. These helped to swell his "collection," though none of them, however choice, were permitted to oust from its place of honour on his parlour wall the one gem he had acquired by his own nice discernment, and paid for out of his own pocket. This was a female head, painted on wood with extreme delicacy and finish. The moment Mr. Wrex had caught sight of it in the dark recess of a small dealer's den, he knew he had alighted on a veritable antique, nothing less than one of El Divino Morales' Saints! At great inconvenience he had, there and then, purchased it for twentyfive shillings and carried his treasure home. By dint of perseverance and care in the cleaning, he restored some of its pristine brilliancy of hue and execution to the picture, in one of whose corners the traces of the artist's signature were now visible.

The pride Mr. Wrex took in exhibiting this work to his friends, now that its authenticity was established, can with difficulty be expressed. No collection, to his knowledge, even possessed a copy of it. It was absolutely unique, one of the few specimens of El Divino's work out of Spain. But the praise accorded it by his neighbours Mr. Wrex felt to be strained. They lacked that nice appreciation which only the educated in Art possess, the enthusiasm of the amateur, the homage of the student to the master, which he himself felt, and which he would have exacted from a spectator. Only Miss Malyon among all his friends would, he knew, appreciate the picture as it deserved, comprehend its beauties and linger over them with tender

reverence.

Miss Malyon was an artist without a name. In other words, the letters which composed it had never yet been affixed to her canvases. Indeed, the better her productions the more necessary for them to go nameless into the market. For Miss Malyon's forte lay in making accurate copies of the Old Masters, and she was retained by a firm of dealers to do nothing else. Mr. Wrex had first met her in a public gallery, where she, in common with other students, was at work. He had remarked the accuracy of a reduced copy of Titian's "Flora" on which she was engaged, complimented her on her talent, and so drifted into conversation. Miss Malyon was no

longer young; she had long been a working member of the human hive, and accordingly felt no painful shyness in exchanging artistic amenities with a stranger. The freemasonry of her craft, moreover, permitted such civilities, and, for the rest, Mr. Wrex was a staid and