Let me begin by calling the reader's attention to the fact, which I commented upon in my first chapter, that in nearly all inscriptions on book-plates it is the volume in which the book-plate is placed, and not the book-plate itself, that is spokesman. Take the inscription on one of the earliest examples: 'Liber Bilibaldi Pirckheimer, Sibi et amicis.' Bilibald Pirckheimer's book for himself and his friends! Here is an amiable intention; but the plan did not work, and we do not find the sentiment often repeated. In the good jurist's day printed books were not numerous, and they were costly. Then might a man be reasonably regarded as a dog in the manger, who shut the door of his bookcase against those anxious to benefit by the work of the printing-press; then mankind at large had not demonstrated the fact that general morality does not extend to returning borrowed books. Hence, I say, it was that on this early book-plate we have the expression 'Sibi et amicis.'

School-boys—and I dare say, if one could only learn the truth in such matters, school-girls too—have a habit of inscribing their school-books with verses, denouncing in decidedly forcible language the school-fellow who steals—i.e. borrows and forgets to return—any particular volume, and at the end of these verses is depicted a gallows from which hangs the lifeless body of the thief. When did school-boys first thus protect their possessions? Few school-books survive for use by many successive generations, so we have no means of answering the question satisfactorily; but in a book—not a school-book—published in 1540, there are written (so a correspondent of Notes and Queries informs us), in writing more than three centuries old, these lines below the owner's signature:—

Of exactly the same date is a very pompous declaration, on a German book-plate, of a donor's intention that certain volumes given by him should remain for ever in the library to which they are presented. The owner of the book-plate was John Faber, Bishop of Vienna, who died in 1541, and who, in the previous year, presented his books to the College of St. Nicholas in that city. Here is a translation given by Lord De Tabley, in which mark how in kingly fashion the bishop refers to himself as 'we':—

'This book was bought by us, Dr. John Faber, Bishop of Vienna, and assistant in the Government of the New State, both as councillor and confessor to the most glorious, clement, and pious Ferdinand, King of the Romans, Hungary, and Bohemia, and Archduke of Austria. And since, indeed, that money (which purchased this volume) did not arise from the revenues and properties of our diocese, but from our own most honest labours in other directions. And therefore it is free to us to give or bequeath the book to whomsoever we please. We accordingly present it to our College of St. Nicholas. And we ordain that this volume shall remain there for ever for the use of the students, according to our order and decree. Done in our Episcopal Court at Vienna, on the first day of September in the year of Grace 1540.'

Dr. Faber was famous for his orthodoxy and his fervour in enforcing it; so much so, that he earned for himself the title Malleus hereticorum. He does not trust himself to express his opinion of the too eager student who should take to himself a volume from amongst these books; which is perhaps well.

More polite than the English verses of 1540, and therefore not half so serviceable, are those printed on an actual book-plate, by which Andrew Hedio, a KÖnigsberg professor of philosophy, who lived about the middle of the seventeenth century, sought to insure the safe return to his library of any volume which was out on loan. The arms of Hedio—the head and shoulders of an old bearded man in a fish-tailed nightcap—appear on the book-plate, and below, supposed to be spoken by the volume, are Latin verses, which in free translation may be rendered:—

If you turn back to p. 123 and look at the book-plate of Speratus, you will see that he had expressed very much this sentiment more than a century before.

It is not till the beginning of the eighteenth century that we find any decided expression of possession on an English book-plate. Then it occurs on that of John Reilly (described on p. 53). At the very bottom of the design is printed: 'Clamabunt omnes te, liber, esse meum.' Here you see it is John Reilly himself and not his book that speaks. It is a mild and decidedly gentlemanly way of expressing ownership, free from threats for not returning the volume; indeed, hardly contemplating the possibility of so dishonest an act.

About the same date as Reilly's book-plate is a very graceful German one, executed for Michael Lilienthal (figured on p. 165). It shows us a group of growing lilies, around which bees are hovering or tasting their sweetness, and below—

From this graceful book-plate and the pleasantry of its inscription, we turn to a heavy declamatory sentence, devised, circa 1730, by the librarian of the Benedictine monastery of Wessenbrun, in Bavaria, for the books in his charge to speak when a theft had been actually committed or was in contemplation: 'I am the rightful possession of the Cloister of Wessenbrun. Ho there! Restore me to my master, so right demands!'

Sherlock Willis, whose book-plate—a decided 'Chippendale'—is dated in 1756, flies to Scripture for his aid against immoral borrowers, and places on his book-plate the familiar quotation from the 37th Psalm: 'The ungodly borroweth, and payeth not again.' Various other English book-plates bear the same quotation, or some other taken from the Bible. On that in use at the Parochial Library of Tadcaster, which shows us St. John in the isle of Patmos receiving from the angel the book which he was to eat, we read: 'Accipe librum et devora illum' (Rev. x. 9); advice which it was not, we may presume, intended that the borrower should follow literally.

There is something very businesslike and to the point about the inscription on the book-plate of Charles Ferdinand Hommeau, which is dated six years after that of Sherlock Willis. The inscription reads in translation: 'If you do not return the loan within fourteen days, or do not keep it carefully, on another occasion [when you ask to borrow it or some other book] I shall say I have not got it.' So M. Hommeau will not mind telling a lie to protect his library; and what is more, does not mind telling the world of his intention to do so. Truly he was an honest liar.

David Garrick (whose book-plate is figured opposite) selected as an appropriate quotation for his book-plate the following, taken from the fourth volume of Menagiana:—'La premiÈre chose qu'on doit faire quand on a empruntÉ un livre, c'est de le lire afin de pouvoir le rendre plutÔt.' Very good advice, no doubt; but I wonder if 'Davy' was careful enough to confine his loans to those who would follow it? This reminds me of a very nicely put passage of Lord De Tabley's, À propos of the subject of book-borrowing in general:—

'Now this batch of mottoes raises the point, whether valuable books should be lent to persons who treat volumes like coal scuttles; who perpetrate such[169]
[170] atrocities as moistening their thumbs to turn a page over; who hold a fine binding before a roaring fire? who, horribile dictu, read at breakfast, and use, as a book-marker, the butter-knife. Ought Garrick to have lent the cream of his Shakespeare quartos to slovenly and mole-eyed Samuel Johnson? We think emphatically not! Many full-grown folks have no more idea of handling a book than has a school-boy.'

So far the 'caveats' on book-plates have been either original compositions or quotations, specially selected by the owner; but, as time went on, people did not trouble to compose their own verses or inscriptions, or to hunt up appropriate quotations. The same lines or words appear fastened beneath, or printed upon, the book-plates of many different persons; in the latter case the book-plate is generally little more than a name ticket. Here is one, composed early in this century, which could be bought of C. Talbot, at 174 Tooley Street, and on it the purchaser could write his name before affixing it in his volumes:—

Of about the same date is another little effusion, which clearly does not contemplate the purchaser being the possessor of a unique volume, or of one for any cause irreplaceable, if lost:—

In these last quoted examples are certainly many stipulations, but they are as nought when compared with what we find on the book-plate of the Cavalier Francesco Vargas Macciucca, who was in the habit of pasting on the fly-leaf of the book, opposite his book-plate, fifteen rules, written in Latin, to be observed by those who borrowed books from his library. If he enforced them, he can have been seldom troubled with a borrower!

On the face of them,—since most of them have a blank space left for the owner's name, etc.,—these poetic or prosaic threats against book-stealers and the ill-usage of books do not pretend to be the compositions of those that used them. Jones or Brown went to the nearest stationer or bookseller, and purchased his admonitions all ready composed. But even after the introduction of ready-made admonitions, we find the man of independent mind rebelling against saving his library from spoliation by anybody's words save his own. Such a person was Mr. Charles Clark, of Great Totham Hall, near Witham, in Essex, who can at least claim originality for his composition, which, if lengthy, has occasional gleams of humour. Here it is:—

A certain Cheshire clergyman, who died not very long since, sought euphony in a string of commands to intending borrowers, which he had printed on his book-plate; 'Borrow bravely; Keep carefully; Peruse patiently; Return righteously.' What a pity he did not spell 'carefully' with a 'k' whilst he was about it!

The Plymouth architect and author, George Wightwick, or, as he evidently pronounced it, Witick, used to affix in his books:—

See, too, how a certain Mr. Charles Woodward protected, or thought he protected, the volumes which good nature may have prompted him to lend. His plate shows an opened volume, on one page of which is written: 'Narrative—promising to send me home at the appointed time. Finis.' Evidently Mr. Woodward, like the honest liar before mentioned, was not a man to lend his volumes for an indefinite period.

Having quoted various recent English examples of this kind, we are in duty bound to cite some from other component parts of the United Kingdom.

Under the name 'H. Macdonald' we find:

'A good book is a good friend; he who would injure the one deserves not the respect of the other.'

There is something almost pathetic in the exclamation which Mr. John Marks makes his volumes utter: 'Gentle reader, take me home; I belong to John Marks, 20 Cook Street, Cork'; and then the evil-minded borrower is reminded of the scriptural condemnation of his kind by reference to 'Psalm xxxvii. ver. 21.' Before this comes—

We may presume from this that Mr. John Marks tried to be funny, and from his composition getting into print he may flatter himself that he succeeded.

One more example of these warnings to borrowers and we have done with the subject. Lord De Tabley fixes the date of it as 1820, but surely it must be the composition of some eleventh century reprobate, who on his death-bed richly endowed a neighbouring monastery, and threatened any one who should ever disturb his endowment. The words appear on the book-plate of O. M[oore], and they read in translation: 'If any one steals this book, and with furtive hand carries it off, let him go to the foul waves of Acheron, never to return.'

Now, let us look at some of the eulogies of books or of study which are found on book-plates. These do not appear until a much later date. The text on Pirckheimer's book-plate, 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,' can hardly be called one in praise of study, though it is a wholesome truth that should be borne in mind by every student. Indeed, we have to pass over more than two centuries after the invention of book-plates before one which, in the inscription upon it, yields an example of the kind now under consideration. This appears at last in 1697, in a sentiment expressed by an Austrian lawyer, John Seyringer by name. Here it is:

We have again to pass over many years for our next example. Peter de Maridat, who was, he tells us, a senator in the Great Council of Louis XIV. of France, used for a book-plate, which may therefore be dated before 1715, the figure of a negro, who stands with one hand resting on a shield of arms, and holds in the other a pair of scales. The arms on the shield are azure, a cross argent, and below is written:

Taking them chronologically, our next examples are on English book-plates; one is dated 1730, and the other evidently belongs to the same period. On the first, the Rev. John Lloyd writes: 'Animus si Æquus, quod petis hic est'; and on the other, Thomas Robinson, a Fellow of Merton, quotes from Cicero: 'Delectant domi non impediunt foris.' Perhaps 'Herbert Jacob, Esq. of St. Stephen's, in Kent,' had a generally troublesome wife, who did not penetrate the sacred region of his library; however it may have been, he placed on his book-plate, circa 1740: 'Otium cum libris,' a sentiment expressed in a great variety of ways on later book-plates.

Some ten years later than the last example is the book-plate of a German cleric, Gottfried Balthazar Scharff, Archdeacon of Schweidnitz, a town in Prussian Silesia, on which his books are praised in some not ungraceful verses; in these the owner asks divine help in understanding aright the teaching of his volumes.

On the Flemish book-plate of Lewis Bosch (spoken of elsewhere in this volume, p. 218), we read beneath the representation of the prelate's library, in which he is shown hard at work among his books: 'A hunt in such a forest never wearies.' The allusion to a forest of books recalls the motto on the much later English book-plate of Mary Berry. On this is depicted a wild strawberry plant, its fruit half hidden by leaves, and below is written, 'Inter folia fructus.' Probably Miss Berry, besides alluding to the fruit of knowledge which she found amongst the leaves of her books, intended a mild play upon the strawberry and her own family name.

Besides these, a host of further mottoes in praise of books or about books are to be met with. Some recommend the collection of as large a library as possible; others point out that the mind is distracted by a multitude of books; some advocate the careful handling of a volume, even at the expense of not getting so well acquainted with its contents; whilst others tell us that well-thumbed books are monuments of the owner's industry and constant study. Nor are the consoling powers of books forgotten. On a very pretty rustic vignette, executed by Bonner after Bewick, 'W. B. Chorley of Liverpool' has the words: 'My books, the silent friends of joy and woe.'