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margin is often worth a hundred pounds, and a misprint is quoted at

no less a sum.  The fantastic caprice of bibliophiles has revelled

in the bibliography of these Dutch editions.  They are at present

very scarce in England, where a change in fashion some years ago had

made them common enough.  No Elzevir is valuable unless it be clean

and large in the margins.  When these conditions are satisfied the

question of rarity comes in, and Remy Belleau's Macaronic poem, or

"Le Pastissier Francais," may rise to the price of four or five

hundred pounds.  A Rabelais, Moliere, or Corneille, of a "good"

edition, is now more in request than the once adored "Imitatio

Christi" (dateless), or the "Virgil"' of 1646, which is full of

gross errors of the press, but is esteemed for red characters in the

letter to Augustus, and another passage at page 92.  The ordinary

marks of the Elzevirs were the sphere, the old hermit, the Athena,

the eagle, and the burning faggot.  But all little old books marked

with spheres are not Elzevirs, as many booksellers suppose.  Other

printers also stole the designs for the tops of chapters, the

Aegipan, the Siren, the head of Medusa, the crossed sceptres, and

the rest.  In some cases the Elzevirs published their books,

especially when they were piracies, anonymously.  When they

published for the Jansenists, they allowed their clients to put

fantastic pseudonyms on the title pages.  But, except in four cases,

they had only two pseudonyms used on the titles of books published

by and for themselves.  These disguises are "Jean Sambix" for Jean

and Daniel Elzevir, at Leyden, and for the Elzevirs of Amsterdam,

"Jacques le Jeune."  The last of the great representatives of the

house, Daniel, died at Amsterdam, 1680.  Abraham, an unworthy scion,

struggled on at Leyden till 1712.  The family still prospers, but no

longer prints, in Holland.  It is common to add duodecimos of

Foppens, Wolfgang, and other printers, to the collections of the

Elzevirs.  The books of Wolfgang have the sign of the fox robbing a

wild bee's nest, with the motto Quaerendo.

Curious and singular books are the next in our classification.  The

category is too large.  The books that be "curious" (not in the

booksellers' sense of "prurient" and "disgusting,") are innumerable.

All suppressed and condemned books, from "Les Fleurs du Mal" to

Vanini's "Amphitheatrum," or the English translation of Bruno's

"Spaccia della Bestia Trionfante," are more or less rare, and more

or less curious.  Wild books, like William Postel's "Three

Marvellous Triumphs of Women," are "curious."  Freakish books, like

macaronic poetry, written in a medley of languages, are curious.

Books from private presses are singular.  The old English poets and

satirists turned out many a book curious to the last degree, and

priced at a fantastic value.  Such are "Jordan's Jewels of

Ingenuity," "Micro-cynicon, six Snarling Satyres" (1599), and the

"Treatize made of a Galaunt," printed by Wynkyn de Worde, and found

pasted into the fly-leaf, on the oak-board binding of an imperfect

volume of Pynson's "Statutes."  All our early English poems and

miscellanies are curious; and, as relics of delightful singers, are

most charming possessions.  Such are the "Songes and Sonnettes of

Surrey" (1557), the "Paradyce of daynty Deuices" (1576), the "Small

Handful of Fragrant Flowers," and "The Handful of Dainty Delights,

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