NO one who has the itch for book-collecting will deny that suppressed book illus­tra­tions are, what the forbidden fruit was to our mother Eve, irresistible. Whether such appetite represents the very proper ambition to have at his elbow the earliest states of beautiful or interesting books, of which the subsequently suppressed plate or wood engraving is in general a sort of guarantee, or the less defensible desire to possess what our neighbour does not, must be settled by the conscience of each. The fact remains that such rarities are peculiarly alluring to those whom Wotton calls “the lickerish chapmen of all such ware.” {2}

There are, of course, ridiculous1 people who value such books as the first issue of the first edition of Dickens’s American Notes just because there is a mistake in the pagination; or a first edition of Disraeli’s Lothair because the prototype of “Monsignor Catesby” is divulged by misprinting the name “Capel”; or Poems by Robert Burns, first Edinburgh Edition, because in the list of subscribers “The Duke of Roxborough” appears as “The Duke of Boxborough”; or Barker’s “Breeches” Bible of 1594, because on the title-page of the New Testament the figures are transposed to 1495; or the first edition in French of Washington Irving’s Sketch Book, because the translator, maltreating the author’s name, has declared the book to be “traduit de l’Anglais de M. Irwin Washington,” and in the dedication has labelled Sir Walter Scott, Barronnet; or indeed a book of my own, in which I described as “since dead” a gifted and genial gentleman who I am glad to think still gives the lie to my inexcusable carelessness. {3}

But it is not because of such errors that a true book-lover desires to own editiones principes of famous works. That ambition is legitimate enough, but its legitimate reason is otherwhere to seek.

In the case of such a book as Rogers’s Italy, with the Turner engravings, the matter is very dif­fer­ent. Here the fact that the plates on pp. 88 and 91 are trans­posed is a guaran­tee that the im­pres­sions of the extra­or­di­narily del­i­cate en­grav­ings are of the utmost bril­liancy, for the error was dis­cov­ered before many im­pres­sions had been taken. The same applies, though in lesser degree, to such a book as Mr. Austin Dobson’s Ballad of Beau Brocade, il­lus­trat­ed by Mr. Hugh Thomson, in the earliest edition of which certain of the illus­tra­tions are also misplaced.2 There is reason in wishing to possess these. See what Ruskin himself has said of the omission of the two engravings which had appeared in the first edition of The Two Paths. He writes in the preface to the 1878 reissue:

“I own to a very enjoyable pride in making the first editions of my books valuable to their possessors, who found out, before other people, that these writings and drawings were good for something ... and the two lovely engravings by Messrs. Cuff and Armytage will, I hope, render the old volume more or less classical among collectors.” From this we gather that “the Professor” was of the right kidney.

It is hardly necessary to say that it is not my intention to make this book a devil’s directory to illus­tra­tions which have been suppressed because of indecency, and are referred to in the catalogues of second-hand booksellers, whose cupidity is stronger than their self-respect, as “facetiÆ” or “very curious.” Indeed, this book would itself in that case also very properly be put on the index expurgatorius of every decent person. My purpose is to gather together, correct and amplify the floating details concerning a legitimate class of rarities, and to put the collector on his guard, where necessary, against imposition.

By its very nature this treatise cannot be complete, but I have included most of the {5} examples of any importance which, during many years of bibliomania, have come under my observation. To these I have added certain re-engraved or palimpsest plates, which are germane to the subject.

As to these last I find amongst my papers a curious note from the pen of R. H. Cromek, the engraver, who flourished at the end of the eighteenth century.

“One of these vendors,” he writes (publishers of Family Bibles), “lately called to consult me professionally about an engraving he brought with him. It represented Mons. Buffon seated, contemplating various groups of animals surrounding him. He merely wished, he said, to be informed whether, by engaging my services to unclothe the naturalist, and giving him a rather more resolute look, the plate could not, at a trifling expense, be made to do duty for ‘Daniel in the lions’ den’”!

That would be a palimpsest well worth possessing, if ever it were carried into effect. It would be as fascinating an object of contemplation as the Stothard designs for Clarissa Harlowe, {6} which the same authority informs us were later used to il­lus­trate the Scriptures! But the history of the clichÉ, pure and simple, has yet to be written. Our concern is with higher game than that.