Amid this medley, it was no easy matter to find one's way to a chair, without stumbling over a prostrate folio, or the still more awkward mischance of overturning some piece of Roman or ancient British pottery.And, when the chair was attained, it had to be disencumbered, with a careful hand, of engravings which might have received damage, and of antique spurs and buckles, which would certainly have occasioned it to any sudden occupant.Of this the Antiquary made Lovel particularly aware, adding, that his friend, the Rev.Doctor Heavysterne from the Low Countries, had sustained much injury by sitting down suddenly and incautiously on three ancient calthrops, or _craw-taes,_ which had been lately dug up in the bog near Bannockburn, and which, dispersed by Robert Bruce to lacerate the feet of the English chargers, came thus in process of time to endamage the sitting part of a learned professor of Utrecht.
Having at length fairly settled himself, and being nothing loath to make inquiry concerning the strange objects around him, which his host was equally ready, as far as possible, to explain, Lovel was introduced to a large club, or bludgeon, with an iron spike at the end of it, which, it seems, had been lately found in a field on the Monkbarns property, adjacent to an old burying-ground.It had mightily the air of such a stick as the Highland reapers use to walk with on their annual peregrinations from their mountains; but Mr.Oldbuck was strongly tempted to believe, that, as its shape was singular, it might have been one of the clubs with which the monks armed their peasants in lieu of more martial weapons,--whence, he observed, the villains were called _Colve-carles,_ or _Kolb-kerls,_that is, _Clavigeri,_ or club-bearers.For the truth of this custom, he quoted the chronicle of Antwerp and that of St.Martin;against which authorities Lovel had nothing to oppose, having never heard of them till that moment.
Mr.Oldbuck next exhibited thumb-screws, which had given the Covenanters of former days the cramp in their joints, and a collar with the name of a fellow convicted of theft, whose services, as the inscription bore, had been adjudged to a neighbouring baron, in lieu of the modern Scottish punishment, which, as Oldbuck said, sends such culprits to enrich England by their labour, and themselves by their dexterity.Many and various were the other curiosities which he showed;--but it was chiefly upon his books that he prided himself, repeating, with a complacent air, as he led the way to the crowded and dusty shelves, the verses of old Chaucer--For he would rather have, at his bed-head, A twenty books, clothed in black or red, Of Aristotle, or his philosophy, Than robes rich, rebeck, or saltery.
This pithy motto he delivered, shaking his head, and giving each guttural the true Anglo-Saxon enunciation, which is now forgotten in the southern parts of this realm.
The collection was indeed a curious one, and might well be envied by an *******.Yet it was not collected at the enormous prices of modern times, which are sufficient to have appalled the most determined as well as earliest bibliomaniac upon record, whom we take to have been none else than the renowned Don Quixote de la Mancha, as, among other slight indications of an infirm understanding, he is stated, by his veracious historian, Cid Hamet Benengeli, to have exchanged fields and farms for folios and quartos of chivalry.In this species of exploit, the good knight-errant has been imitated by lords, knights, and squires of our own day, though we have not yet heard of any that has mistaken an inn for a castle, or laid his lance in rest against a windmill.Mr.Oldbuck did not follow these collectors in such excess of expenditure; but, taking a pleasure in the personal labour of forming his library, saved his purse at the expense of his time and toil, He was no encourager of that ingenious race of peripatetic middle-men, who, trafficking between the obscure keeper of a stall and the eager *******, make their profit at once of the ignorance of the former, and the dear-bought skill and taste of the latter.
When such were mentioned in his hearing, he seldom failed to point out how necessary it was to arrest the object of your curiosity in its first transit, and to tell his favourite story of Snuffy Davie and Caxton's Game at Chess.--``Davy Wilson,''
he said, ``commonly called Snuffy Davy, from his inveterate addiction to black rappee, was the very prince of scouts for searching blind alleys, cellars, and stalls for rare volumes.He had the scent of a slow-hound, sir, and the snap of a bull-dog.
He would detect you an old black-letter ballad among the leaves of a law-paper, and find an _editio princeps_ under the mask of a school Corderius.Snuffy Davy bought the `Game of Chess, 1474,' the first book ever printed in England, from a stall in Holland, for about two groschen, or twopence of our money.He sold it to Osborne for twenty pounds, and as many books as came to twenty pounds more.Osborne resold this inimitable windfall to Dr.Askew for sixty guineas.At Dr.
Askew's sale,'' continued the old gentleman, kindling as he spoke, ``this inestimable treasure blazed forth in its full value, and was purchased by Royalty itself for one hundred and seventy pounds!--Could a copy now occur, Lord only knows,''
he ejaculated, with a deep sigh and lifted-up hands--``Lord only knows what would be its ransom; and yet it was originally secured, by skill and research, for the easy equivalent of two-pence sterling.* Happy, thrice happy, Snuffy Davie!--and * This bibliomaniacal anecdote is literally true; and David Wilson, the * author need not tell his brethren of the Roxburghe and Bannatyne Clubs, * was a real personage.
blessed were the times when thy industry could be so rewarded!
