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his business did not thrive.

as it did for thirteen years!

The remarkable thing is that it should have survived

In his Bibliomania, Thomas Dibdin has thus caricatured Gardiner under the name of "Mustapha":

LIS. Now, tell me who is yonder strange looking gentleman ?

'Tis Mustapha, a vendor of books. Conseutudine invalescens, as veluti callum diuturna cogitatione obducens, he comes forth, like an alchemist from his laboratory, with hat and wig' sprinkled with learned dust,' and deals out his censures with as little ceremony as correctness. It is of no consequence to him by whom positions are advanced, or truth is established; and he hesitates very little about calling Baron Heinecken a Tom Fool or .... a shameless imposter. If your library was as choice and elegant as Dr.. he would tell you that his own disordered shelves and badly coated books presented an infinitely more precious collection; nor must you be at all sur prised at this-for, like Braithwait's Upotomis,

Though weak in judgment, in opinion strong';

or, like the same author's Meilixos,

'Who deems all wisdom treasur'd in his pate.'

our book-vendor, in the catalogues which he puts forth, shews himself to be 'a great and bold carpenter of words'; overcharging the description of his own volumes with tropes, metaphors, flourishes and commonplace authorities; the latter of which one would think had but recently come under his notice, as they had been already before the public in various less ostentatious forms." PHIL. Are you then an enemy to booksellers, or to their catalogues when interlaced with bibliographical notices?

"By no means, Philemon. I think as highly of our own as did the author of the Aprosian library of the Dutch booksellers; and I love to hear that the bibliographical labour bestowed upon a catalogue has answered the end proposed, by sharpening the appetites of purchasers. But the present is a different case. Mustapha might have learned good sense and good manners, from his right hand, or left hand, or opposite, neighbour; but he is either too conceited, or too obstinate, to have recourse to such aid. What is very remarkable, although he is constantly declaiming against the enormous sums of money given for books at public auctions, Mustapha does not scruple to push the purchaser to the last farthing of his commission; from a ready knack which he hath acquired, by means of some magical art in his aforesaid laboratory of deciphering the same; thus adopting, in a most extraordinary manner, the very line of conduct himself which he so tartly censures in others.

PHIL.-Was this the gentleman whose catalogue (as you shewed me) contained the fascinating colophon of Juliana Berners' book of hawking, hunting, and heraldry, printed in the year 1486, subjoined to a copy of the common reprint of it by Gervase Markham-thereby provoking a thousand inquiries after the book, as if it had been the first edition?

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"The same," resumed I. But let us leave such ridiculous vanity." Gardiner retaliated with violent sarcasm in his catalogues. Dibdin, however, again referred to the controversy-in his Bibliographical Decameron-after Gardiner's death.

Alas, poor MUSTAPHA !-for, if you remember, he came next in the musterroll before mentioned. Sore vexed was Mustapha at the character therein given of him. He was chafed to the quick; and seized the very first opportunity of bedaubing his critic with as much dirt as he could conveniently hold in both hands-supplied, not from the kennel before his house, but from the filth behind his counter. I have since re-examined that character, and I must say it was done to the life it having been provoked by certain consequential airs, and ex cathedrà positions, with which the said Mustapha chose occasionally to disport himself. Wretched man his failings were almost diseases--or certain mental aberrations which seem to defy the control of reason. was there a sort of breadth and bottom' of character about Mustapha : he was consistent in his aberrations; and his opinions were even courted, and his censures almost dreaded, by more than one supple bibliographer. He had talent; but wanted sobriety, in every sense of the word, to apply it to right ends. If he was consistent in his loathings, he was also fixed in his friendships: and possessing one of the most squalid and woe-begone countenances imagin

Yet

able, he had the delicious vanity to account himself comely, and to be beloved of the fair.' Happy Mustapha !........ but I will no longer indulge a sportive strain: for his death was most miserable, and the grave received him, when, by his own confession, he was unfit for the living.

Dibdin's notes to the foregoing passage are well worth perusal; they include three suggested titles, etc., for pamphlets in reply to Gardiner's catalogues— excellent specimens of the satirical style of the XVIIIth century; but it is to be regretted that Dibdin had not better taste than to pursue his quarry beyond the grave.

He was an instance, of which there are many instances in this very stranger world, of uniting, in a person of the most dirty and dismal physiognomy, with the filthiest attire, the greatest possible share of conceit, vanity, and selfcomplacency. He would sit at a book-sale (as he did that of the Roxburghe) with his hat cocked on one side—stroke his chin, flourish his pencil, and deal out his gibes against the fraternity, whilst his garments were of a hue and scent that absolutely forbade approach! Yet he could, in his self-memoir, talk of persons · greatly his inferiors in every respect, towering above him; whilst the most contemptible amongst them, without education, without a knowledge of their profession, and without an idea, had been received into palaces, and into the bosom of the great,' etc.

Dibdin goes on to say that in the dealing out of death-blows' such as these Gardiner must have been little short of insane, when it is recollected that he was surrounded by men of such long established reputation as Nicol, Payne, Evans, and Triphook.

However, Gardiner had those who chose to consult him, and who exhibited prodigious powers in the mastication of slanderous intelligence. For himself, I will do him the justice to say that he was consistent: a liberal abuser of Toryism—and although he had taken a degree at Cambridge, and studied for the church, he was not eclipsed by Ritson himself in the acrimony of his ecclesiastical antipathies.

It is a wise axiom that Politics should not be allowed to enter into business : Gardiner made this fatal mistake, but then his whole life was but one succession of mistakes. Politically a Whig, he declared his sympathies and opinions with considerably more freedom than was good for him. He described his former schoolmaster, Darling, as being the only true Whig schoolmaster he had ever heard of.

The business of Gardiner's bookshop-what little it ever had—declined and he with it. He became dirty-he was an inveterate snuff-taker-careless, depressed. It is more than probable that he was encouraged and consoled these thirteen years by the woman he had married. Described as a respectable and interesting young woman, Miss Seckerson had become his wife much against the wish of her friends. Certain it is that without her help, moral and financial, he could not have kept going. With the death of his wife, and his child, poor Gardiner's knell was sounded. He became more careless than ever, his person and premises were equally filthy, and yet gentlemen “ of the first respectability continued to frequent his shop and listen to his brilliant but eccentric talk.

At last, plagued with ailments both bodily and mental, and saddened by his domestic losses, Gardiner at the comparatively early age of 48 years died by his own hand. The night before his death he penned a letter to the Editor of the Morning Chronicle, who had shewn him many kindnesses, in which he gave some brief account of his life. “If you shall find it of no other use, it will at least serve to light your fire," he concluded. He declared that his sun had set, that his business had declined, his catalogue failed, his body was covered with disease, so that he was determined to seek that asylum where the weary are at

rest.

Gardiner made a sad mess of life, and it is to be feared that it was greatly of his own doing. His story shows that there is such a thing as romance, and further, that romance, contrary to the popular conception, is not roses all the Whatever he was, whatever his faults, he was no inconsiderable person, way. and he was no slave to convention. His career is an instance of much, and frequently great ability, sadly misapplied and misdirected. His was a restless spirit: had it allowed him to concentrate upon but one of the many callings he essayed, his end might have been different. As already stated, he was a

veritable Jack of all trades, passably good at very many things and excellent at nothing. He lived his life in his own weak way it was his life, and he was master even to the taking of it. That was his philosophy. It was wrong, of course, for if society owes nothing to an individual, that individual certainly owes something to society.

Gardiner was a prime eccentric. To appear to be cast in a different mould to the generality of one's fellows is to be labelled odd. It requires courage and a strong personality to be out of the ordinary-to detract one iota from the regulation path. Herein lays Gardiner's claim to notice: he occupies a distinct niche in that delightful age of eccentricity and the curious, the XVIIIth century. In these modern times, so replete with rule of thumb, when even dress has been reduced to a rote of dull drab uniformity, the day of the eccentric would seem to be over. Where are they to-day? Where can one be pointed out? If they exist they must surely have inherited much of the mantle of Sampson Brass, for they are invisible wanderers among the byeways of our present time.

COLLOQUIALISMS
(bibliographical and otherwise)

"

I must confess to considerable surprise and some disappointment, that no one has accepted my invitation to reply to the somewhat scathing remarks made by" A Book Collector "in the article" Some Points for Secondhand Booksellers printed in the last issue of " B.A.R." (vol. 18, part 4). The editor of The Clique. commenting on this article in his issue of March 11th, admits that some of the points raised are worthy of consideration, and confirms what I said that it is useful sometimes "to see oursels as ithers see us.'

But however much the appointments of some booksellers' shops and the methods and habits of some booksellers themselves, may be objected to by collectors, there is certainly something to be said on the other side. I fully expected some Bookseller, sans reproche, would have retaliated by giving us "Some Points for Collectors." For there is no doubt that at times most booksellers have been sorely tried by the foibles of a certain class of book-buyer, who comes into our shops, disarranges our shelves, wastes our time, and buys nothing in the end. This class of collector is by no means so uncommon as might be supposed. Which reminds me of the story of the fed-up bookseller who waited patiently on one of these gentry for an hour or more without doing any business. So when the prospective buyer at last enquired the price of a rare pamphlet entitled "A sure guide to Hell," the bookseller, seeing his chance, blandly replied Oh, take it and welcome if you'll only use it."

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The editor of our esteemed contemporary, the self-styled Booksellers' Best Friend," The Clique, pays a graceful compliment of " B.A.R. in his issue of March 11th. He describes our annual volume 18 (just out) as an excellent thirty bob's worth and emphasises the fact that in size it beats all previous records, extending as it does to nearly 900 pages, containing 16,764 records. But, as I explained on page lii. in that volume, subscribers must not expect such a size every year, for as B.A.R." only professes to give from 14,000 to 15,000 records annually, it is an obvious truth that the more there is in B.A.R." for the subscriber. the less there is in it for the proprietress. One cannot live on Rudos alone, and that is about all there is left in the last volume. But it is different with The Clique for when any weekly number "swells wisibly the Editor rubs his hands and chuckles, for every line filled up counts, as the washerwoman said.

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Another " Bookseller's Friend" is the London Mercury, for, quite apart from the very high standing that enterprising journal has so rapidly taken in the iterary world, its advertising section for booksellers is fast becoming the very

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able, he had the delicious vanity to account himself comely, and to be beloved of the fair.' Happy Mustapha !... but I will no longer indulge a sportive strain for his death was most miserable, and the grave received him, when, by his own confession, he was unfit for the living. Dibdin's notes to the foregoing passage are well worth perusal; they include three suggested titles, etc., for pamphlets in reply to Gardiner's catalogues— excellent specimens of the satirical style of the XVIIIth century; but it is to be regretted that Dibdin had not better taste than to pursue his quarry beyond the grave.

He was an instance, of which there are many instances in this very stranger world, of uniting, in a person of the most dirty and dismal physiognomy, with the filthiest attire, the greatest possible share of conceit, vanity, and selfcomplacency. He would sit at a book-sale (as he did that of the Roxburghe) with his hat cocked on one side—stroke his chin, flourish his pencil, and deal out his gibes against the fraternity, whilst his garments were of a hue and scent that absolutely forbade approach! Yet he could, in his self-memoir, talk of persons' greatly his inferiors in every respect, towering above him; whilst the most contemptible amongst them, without education, without a knowledge of their profession, and without an idea, had been received into palaces, and into the bosom of the great,' etc.

Dibdin goes on to say that in the 'dealing out of death-blows' such as these Gardiner must have been little short of insane, when it is recollected that he was surrounded by men of such long established reputation as Nicol, Payne, Evans, and Triphook.

However, Gardiner had those who chose to consult him, and who exhibited prodigious powers in the mastication of slanderous intelligence. For himself, I will do him the justice to say that he was consistent: a liberal abuser of Toryism—and although he had taken a degree at Cambridge, and studied for the church, he was not eclipsed by Ritson himself in the acrimony of his ecclesiastical antipathies.

It is a wise axiom that Politics should not be allowed to enter into business : Gardiner made this fatal mistake, but then his whole life was but one succession of mistakes. Politically a Whig, he declared his sympathies and opinions with considerably more freedom than was good for him. He described his former schoolmaster, Darling, as being the only true Whig schoolmaster he had ever heard of.

The business of Gardiner's bookshop-what little it ever had-declined and he with it. He became dirty—he was an inveterate snuff-taker-careless, depressed. It is more than probable that he was encouraged and consoled these thirteen years by the woman he had married. Described as a respectable and interesting young woman, Miss Seckerson had become his wife much against the wish of her friends. Certain it is that without her help, moral and financial, he could not have kept going. With the death of his wife, and his child, poor Gardiner's knell was sounded. He became more careless than ever, his person and premises were equally filthy, and yet gentlemen" of the first respectability continued to frequent his shop and listen to his brilliant but eccentric talk.

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At last, plagued with ailments both bodily and mental, and saddened by his domestic losses, Gardiner at the comparatively early age of 48 years died by his own hand. The night before his death he penned a letter to the Editor of the Morning Chronicle, who had shewn him many kindnesses, in which he gave some brief account of his life. If you shall find it of no other use, it will at least serve to light your fire," he concluded. He declared that his sun had set, that his business had declined, his catalogue failed, his body was covered with disease, so that he was determined to seek that asylum where the weary are at rest.

Gardiner made a sad mess of life, and it is to be feared that it was greatly of his own doing. His story shows that there is such a thing as romance, and further, that romance, contrary to the popular conception, is not roses all the way. Whatever he was, whatever his faults, he was no inconsiderable person, and he was no slave to convention. His career is an instance of much, and frequently great ability, sadly misapplied and misdirected. His was restless

spirit had it allowed him to concentrate upon but one of the many callings he essayed, his end might have been different. As already stated, he was a

veritable Jack of all trades, passably good at very many things and excellent at nothing. He lived his life in his own weak way it was his life, and he was master even to the taking of it. That was his philosophy. It was wrong, of course, for if society owes nothing to an individual, that individual certainly owes something to society.

Gardiner was a prime eccentric. To appear to be cast in a different mould to the generality of one's fellows is to be labelled odd. It requires courage and a strong personality to be out of the ordinary-to detract one iota from the regulation path. Herein lays Gardiner's claim to notice: he occupies a distinct niche in that delightful age of eccentricity and the curious, the XVIIIth century. In these modern times, so replete with rule of thumb, when even dress has been reduced to a rote of dull drab uniformity, the day of the eccentric would seem to be over. Where are they to-day? Where can one be pointed out? If they exist they must surely have inherited much of the mantle of Sampson Brass, for they are invisible wanderers among the byeways of our present time.

COLLOQUIALISMS
(bibliographical and otherwise)

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"

I must confess to considerable surprise and some disappointment, that no one has accepted my invitation to reply to the somewhat scathing remarks made by" A Book Collector in the article Some Points for Secondhand Booksellers printed in the last issue of "B.A.R." (vol. 18, part 4). The editor of The Clique. commenting on this article in his issue of March 11th, admits that some of the points raised are worthy of consideration, and confirms what I said that it is useful sometimes " to see oursels as ithers see us."

But however much the appointments of some booksellers' shops and the methods and habits of some booksellers themselves, may be objected to by collectors, there is certainly something to be said on the other side. I fully expected some Bookseller, sans reproche, would have retaliated by giving us Some Points for Collectors." For there is no doubt that at times most book. sellers have been sorely tried by the foibles of a certain class of book-buyer, who comes into our shops, disarranges our shelves, wastes our time, and buys nothing in the end. This class of collector is by no means so uncommon as might be supposed. Which reminds me of the story of the fed-up bookseller who waited patiently on one of these gentry for an hour or more without doing any business. So when the prospective buyer at last enquired the price of a rare pamphlet entitled "A sure guide to Hell," the bookseller, seeing his chance, blandly replied "Oh, take it and welcome if you'll only use it.'

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The editor of our esteemed contemporary, the self-styled Booksellers' Best Friend," The Clique, pays a graceful compliment of " B.A.R. in his issue of March 11th. He describes our annual volume 18 (just out) as an excellent thirty bob's worth" and emphasises the fact that in size it beats all previous records, extending as it does to nearly 900 pages, containing 16,764 records. But, as I explained on page lii. in that volume, subscribers must not expect such a size every year, for as "B.A.R." only professes to give from 14,000 to 15,000 records annually, it is an obvious truth that the more there is in " B.A.R." for the subscriber. the less there is in it for the proprietress. One cannot live on kudos alone, and that is about all there is left in the last volume. But it is different with The Clique for when any weekly number swells wisibly "the Editor rubs his hands and chuckles, for every line filled up counts, as the washerwoman said.

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'N MERCURY."

ndon Mercury, for, quite apart from rnal has so rapidly taken in the sellers is fast becoming the very

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