The Book-Hunter at Home | Page 9

Was not a priceless manuscript, a
Household Book of the Black Prince, discovered only a few years ago
in the office of a city lawyer? Once, in the course of his rambles by the
bookstalls of the Farringdon Road,[8] our book-hunter caught a
glimpse of an old box almost covered by books and prints on one of the
stalls. Being unearthed, it proved to be a veritable gem of a trunk, about
two feet by one, and nine inches deep. It had a convex lid, and was
covered with shaggy horsehide, bound with heavily studded leather.
The proprietor stated that he had found it in a cellar, full of old books,
most of which had already been sold (his listener promptly pictured
Caxtons among them); and he was amused to think that any one could
be so foolish as to offer him two shillings for such a dirty old box.
However, it was carried home in triumph, regardless of the great
interest shown by fellow-travellers in the train. A year or two ago the
same vender produced a similar trunk, rather larger, which was full of
ancient deeds relating to property in Clerkenwell. These he sold for a
shilling or two shillings apiece, according to size and seals. The box
was larger than our bookman wanted, but apparently it soon found a
purchaser.
Surely such instances must be common in this great city, and many a
trunk must yet linger in cellars and attics in the old parts of the town.
Not many years ago our book-hunter chanced to visit an ancient house
at the end of a small court off Fleet Street. Inside, it seemed to be
entirely lined with oak planking, and it was occupied, or at least that
part into which he penetrated was, by a printer in a small way of
business. The staircase was magnificent, of massive coal-black oak;
and when our book-hunter remarked upon it, the printer informed him
he had discovered that the house had once been the town residence of a
famous bishop of Tudor times.[9] How the occupant discovered this

fact our bookman does not remember; possibly the house is well known
to antiquaries, and the occupier may have read about it or have been
told by the previous tenant. But it is also within the bounds of
possibility that he unearthed some deed or papers relating to the
premises. It is strange, too, that one of the few letters of this bishop
which have been preserved refers to books. 'Ye promised unto me, long
agone,' he writes to Secretary Cromwell, 'the Triumphes of Petrarche in
the Ytalion tonge. I hartely pray you at this tyme by this beyrer, . . . to
sende me the said Boke with some other at your deuotion; and
especially, if it please you, the boke called Cortigiano in Ytalion.'[10]
There must be many such houses still extant in London, and who
knows what there may be in their long-disused attics? Hidden away in
the darkness beneath their tiles, between joists and under the eaves, it is
possible that books till now unknown to us, by sight at least, may still
exist. Or who has explored the lumber accumulated in many a disused
cellar within a quarter of a mile of the Mansion House? The very
existence of the trunks which we have mentioned proves that such
things do still linger in the nooks and crannies of this great city.
And I would not confine my surmise in this direction to London alone.
Two ancient libraries there are, one in the North Countrie, the other in
the West, that to my certain knowledge have never been explored by
modern bibliographer. The latter is spurned and neglected, the books
are deep in dust and even mildew; the former is also neglected, but at
least the house is inhabited. The owner, an old, old woman, will never
permit of any volume being disturbed. It is said that her father collected
the books many years ago, and that she still guards them jealously for
him.
Perhaps one day a copy of the 'Nigramansir' will emerge from its long
sleep in some such house as these. Indeed, it is not so much a matter of
surprise that such books should have disappeared, as that they should
have remained hidden for so long. In 1909 an ancient volume was
accidentally discovered in an old manor-house in the North of England,
where it had lain undisturbed for generations. It proved to consist of no
less than five of Caxton's publications bound up together. Moreover, it

was in the original binding, and was bound, probably, by one of
Caxton's workmen, whose initials it bore. On being put up for sale at
Sotheby's, it changed hands at £2,600.
The account which Gairdner gives in the