Isadore Brodsky and Me

At some point in mid-1980s, I decided that I wanted a copy of Isadore Brodsky's Sydney's Phantom Bookshops (Sydney, 1973), but was unable to find one in any of the new and second-hand bookshops that I visited.

Whether I encountered a reference to the book in my reading, or a bookseller had suggested that I read it, or even whether I had found the book myself, while browsing library shelves for Australian books on book-collecting—which I probably did, about the time I was reading A. Edward Newton’s This Book-Collecting Game (Boston, 1928)—I can’t now recall.

What I do recall is that, since I was (fortunately, as it turned out), young and gloriously naïve, I decided to go directly to the Sydney University Co-op bookshop on Broadway in Ultimo—the publisher—and ask for a copy, figuring they should still have one. After a long walk to my local station, a long train journey to Central Station, and a long walk from Central to Broadway, I was told that the book was out of print, that they didn’t have a copy in stock, and may never had carried it.

When I pointed out that Sydney University Co-op bookshop was, in fact, the publisher of the book, and that they must have a copy somewhere, a manager was called over. Fortunately, he recalled the book, disappeared into a storage room to search for stray copies, and emerged, struggling with a heavy-looking box.

"How many do you want?" he asked jokingly. It was an unopened box of copies! I asked the price, and he suggested fifty cents a copy. I made a snap decision—based much more on how much money I had on me, than on how many copies I thought I could easily carry home—and bought twenty copies for ten dollars! It was a very long journey home, longer it seemed than it had been to get from home to Ultimo, with many, many rest stops along the way, but I secured twenty copies of the book.

And here, a sane person might ask, as my family did once I eventually got home: "But why though?" A reasonable question, since you can only read one at a time, and even a brute who rips out each page of a book, once it's been read, would be unlikely to read-and-destroy twenty copies of Sydney's Phantom Bookshops in a row.

The answer to this very reasonable question is probably to be found in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or a combination of genome sequencing and years-long therapy. Alternatively, you could consult Dibdin's Bibliomania (1809) or Halbrook Jackson’s The Anatomy of Bibliomania (1930), or—as mentioned—Newton's This Book-Collecting Game, which I read in December 1986.

My justification, at the time, was that I was going to profit from my bold and exhausting actions by selling nine-tenths of them, which is what I did. I gave one copy to a close friend, and I recall selling a large handful to Peter Tinsley, from ABC (The Antique Bookshop and Curios), then in Spofforth Street, Cremorne, but now on the Pacific Highway in Crows Nest (above Tyrrell's old shop). Other copies were sold in ones or twos to other booksellers in Sydney and Hobart, over many years, until I was left with just the single copy I now have and treasure.

Although, I am sure, almost everything written by Brodsky could now be significantly improved on, my interest in Sydney’s long history of second-hand bookselling was fired up by the book, and in particular the rear panel of the dust jacket (above), which has a photograph of a goodly collection of Sydney bookseller’s labels: 113 by my count. As this website explains: "Back in the good old days, some of your 'better' booksellers, of both new and second-hand tomes, often affixed their own custom-printed labels inside the books they sold." After spending a lot of time staring at Brodsky's picture, and searching through my books, I was able to assemble a modest collection of my own.

(I plan a post or a series of posts on these so I will only say here that, in a weak moment, in a period of penury, I was persuaded to sell my collection of fifty labels to an Austrian collector (Reinhard Öhlberger, of Vienna), who—I only recently discovered—went on to publish one of the few books on the subject: Wenn am Buch der Händler klebt (1999). I have since assembled a second collection, of about three hundred labels, but have not been able to replace many of the ones I had in the 80s. A copy of Wenn am Buch der Händler klebt is on its way to me now and, after it arrives, I will post more on this subject.)

On a recent trip to Sydney, I found copies of two other works by Brodsky in secondhand bookshops: The Streets of Sydney (1962) and The Sydney Press Gang (1974). After leafing through each, I decided against buying them, though they were both cheap. According to his Wikipedia page (here), Brodsky wrote a regular column—"Out of the Past"—for The Sun newspaper, about the history of Sydney. His books are certainly journalistic, which both a good and a bad thing. Although they are a little insubstantial and lack the scholarly exactness that I prefer these days, they are light, easy, and fun to read: perfect for the "young and impressionable creature" (††) I once was.

* * * * *

(**) I bought a lot of books from Peter from the mid-80s through the mid-90s, when he moved to Crows Nest, and I moved to Melbourne, and I learned a lot by reading his catalogues. My copy of Newton's This Book-Collecting Game, from the library of Walter Stone, was bought from Peter. It is the first trade edition; a 1930 reprint is here. Peter has a copy of Sydney's Phantom Bookshops for sale at the moment (here), but it isn’t one he got from me: they would have sold donkey’s years ago!

(††) this phrase seems to date back to about 1840s, so I assume it can be used ironically now. One of the earliest citations I can find is this glorious passage from Mrs. Gordon Smythies' The Matchmaker: A Novel (London, 1842), 130: "… with a woman's rapidity of thought, she in a moment conceived and discarded a suspicion that Julian had wished to excite the interest and win the affection of this young and impressionable creature." (For more on Julian and this young and impressionable creature, see here.)

(‡‡) This whole post is a footnote to my previous post, in which I mention Brodsky's Sydney's Phantom Bookshops.

(§§) Some of the images in this post are taken from this copy, for sale online. I strongly recommend buying this copy—before I do something stupid, like making it my 21st copy.

Dymock's Book Arcade opens at 142 King Street, 2 April 1887

The above advertising leaflet survives pasted onto the rear board of Illustrations to Goethe's Faust in Twenty-Seven Outline engravings by Moritz Retzsch, a slim, undated, oblong volume, with no publisher’s imprint or printed text (aside from the title)—as you can see below.

I recently acquired this volume from Wal Kirsop, who purchased it in 1961, at the start of his career as an academic. (Having successfully defended his doctoral thesis at the Sorbonne in Paris, he returned in July 1960 to work for approximately two years as a lecturer in French at the University of Sydney, before transferring to Monash University in Melbourne.)

As you can see, it is not an attractive copy, and Wal almost certainly bought it—despite its condition—for the Dymocks Book Arcade advertising leaflet that it preserves.

The leaflet offers an interior view of Dymock's Book Arcade at 142 King Street, Sydney. Interior views of bookshops from this period in Australia are relatively uncommon (**), so I did some research to more-accurately date the image and—as you can be seen above and below—I am reproducing it here, in full, with some close-up images, plus—at the end of this post—some AI-generated mock-ups, to help readers visualise the shop. (** The only other I have at hand is Angus and Robertson's shop at 89 Castlereagh Street, reproduced in James Tyrrell, Old Books, Old Friends, Old Sydney (1952), opp. 88.)

Copies of this leaflet appear to be extremely rare. I can find evidence of only one other example, which is reproduced in one of my favourite books: Isadore Brodsky, Sydney's Phantom Bookshops (Sydney: University Co-operative Bookshop, 1973), 3. (See update, below.) I do not know the source of Brodsky’s leaflet, but his copy is in worse condition that this one. I wonder whether it survived another five decades, and—if it did—where it might be today? I looked on Libraries Australia but was unable to find any record of a copy in any Australian library.

In addition to being unable to find evidence of other surviving copies, I was unable to find any definite record of when Dymock's moved into 142 King Street, Sydney. Wal's own article on William Dymock for the Australian Dictionary of Biography (here), states:

Dymock set up his own business in Sydney in the early 1880s, being at 208 Pitt Street by 1884. The shop was called Dymock's Book Arcade … as the Book Arcade expanded its activities and moved its premises, first to 142 King Street and then in December 1890 to 428 George Street.

The same elision of moving date appears on the Wikipedia entry for William Dymock, the founder of Dymock's, and other online sources (like this one), so I searched Trove for variations on "Dymock's Book Arcade" and "142 King Street" to establish when the move occurred. I did not find much advertising when I searched Trove for variations on "Dymock's Book Arcade" and "142 King Street" alone, so I used some of the phrases in this advertising copy.

The text fragments that surround the image can be read in various ways. My reading is as follows:

Dymocks Book Arcade. Books Bought [and] Exchanged, Libraries Purchased. 142 King Street, Sydney. Two Doors West of Elizabeth Street. 50,000 Volumes at Half Published Price. Twelve Miles of Books Always on View. A large Assortment of Standard Works on Engineering, Law, Fine Arts, History, Poetry, Theology, and Fiction. Latest Books. New Books and Periodicals Received by Every Mail. Finest Exhibition of Books in Sydney.

I tried variations on a the more distinctive phrases above (i.e., "Twelve Miles of Books," "12 miles of books," "12 miles" plus "Dymocks" etc.), until I was able to identify a block of advertisements which announce Dymock's move to 142 King Street. The announcement / advertisement appeared in The Sydney Morning Herald in slightly different form on Monday 28, Tuesday 29 and Thursday 31 March 1887 (here, here and here), for the closure of the Pitt Street shop (on Thursday 31st) and a grand opening—with a brass band, Chinese-lantern "illuminations" and an exhibition—at 7PM on Saturday night, 2 April 1887. The 28 March advertisement reads:

NOTICE OF REMOVAL.—WILLIAM DYMOCK takes this opportunity of thanking his numerous friends and customers for the liberal patronage bestowed upon him for the last three years, and has much pleasure in informing them that he has secured those large and commodious premises situated at 142, King-street, near tram, lately occupied by W. Crane, as auctioneer, where it is his intention to open the same as a Book Arcade on and after the 2nd of next month.
WILLIAM DYMOCK'S ARCADE REMOVED to 142, King-street, near tram.
DYMOCK'S BOOK ARCADE will re-open on SATURDAY, April 2, with upwards of 80,000 Books.
DYMOCK'S Book Arcade, 142, King-street Books bought, sold, or exchanged. Libraries purchased for cash.
DYMOCK'S Exhibition of Books on April 2 will be the largest ever held in Sydney.
LADIES and Gentlemen can wait for the tram at DYMOCK'S BOOK ARCADE.
BOOKS can be bought at DYMOCK'S BOOK ARCADE, from 3d to £300 each.
DYMOCK'S BOOK ARCADE will be the LARGEST BOOKSHOP in Sydney. OPENS April 2nd.
PICTURES.—Second only to the Arts Gallery […] DYMOCK'S EXHIBITION [will] be on opening night.
DYMOCK'S ARCADE will OPEN at 7 o'clock on April 2nd. Come and hear the band.
DYMOCK'S BOOK ARCADE REMOVED to 142, King-street, near tram.
CHEAP Music, cheap Music; 18s worth for 3s. DYMOCK'S BOOK ARCADE, King-street.

The 29 March advertisement omits the opening paragraph, and adds the following at the end:

COME and judge for yourself whether Dymock sells Books cheap on Saturday night.
ILLUMINATIONS at Dymock’s Book Arcade next Saturday, at 7 o'clock. Come one, come all.
CHEAP BOOKS. 20,000 Volumes will be offered at 75 per cent. less than English price.
DYMOCK'S Book Arcade, Removed to 142, King-st., near tram. Books bought, sold, or exchanged.

The 31 March advertisement is different again, swapping in a handful of new lines:

COME one, come all to the OPENING of Dymock's Book Arcade, Saturday, 7 o’clock.
FIFTY TON of BOOKS will be on view at Dymock's Book Arcade, King-street.
ART, LITERATURE, and MUSIC, all to be seen and heard free at Dymock's Arcade.
[…]
BOOK ARCADE in Pitt-street is now CLOSED. Re-open in King-street, on Saturday.
COME and hear the Band, come and see the illuminations. Dymock, Book Arcade, King-street.
[…]
Book Arcade has Removed to 142, King street, near tram. Re-opens on Saturday.
DOES DYMOCK sell books cheap? Come and judge for yourselves on Saturday. Book Arcade.

Dymock must have speed-run the shop-refit and Grand opening. A 19 March public notice by William Crane, Jun., auctioneer (here), states that he has "sold the lease of my Auction Room, 142, King-street, to Mr. W. Dymock, Bookseller, who takes possession on Friday next" (i.e., 25 March). Dymock was advertising for a "Signwriter and Painter" on 28 March—here—three days later, and only five days before opening—was looking for his already-advertised "band" on 29 March (here), and a Ticket-writer on 30 March (here).

A brief account of the opening appeared on Monday 4 April (here), as follows:

THE opening of Mr. Dymock's new book arcade, in King-street, attracted a great deal of attention on Saturday evening. There was a large attendance of the public—indeed, the establishment was thronged during the whole of the evening. The arcade was brightly lit up, and decorated with Chinese lanterns, in addition to which a brass band played a selection of excellent music.

* * * * *

The interior view of the "large and commodious premises situated at 142, King-street," in which William Dymock opened his Book Arcade, depicts twelve customers. If you look closely, you will notice that three of the twelve are carrying umbrellas. The wettest months in Sydney are February–March and June. For me, this is sufficient evidence to suggest that the leaflet was prepared and distributed in late March 1877, for the grand opening on 2 April, and that the leaflet, block advertising, brass band and grand "illuminations" were all part of the promotional activity that were undertaken for what was seem in retrospect, as but a brief stepping-stone on Dymock's path to 428 George Street, where the business remains to this day.

The only wrinkle in this neat interpretation is that I am unable to find advertising copy with the climed "Twelve Miles of Books" (or "12 miles of books") before 21 December 1887 or after 11 August 1888. As you can see above, when the new shop was opening, Dymock characterised "the largest [Exhibition of Books] ever held in Sydney" by number ("upwards of 80,000 Books") and by weight ("fifty ton of books")—not by length: shelf-feet or shelf miles.

As it happens, twelve miles of Books is probably wild hyperbole. Twelve miles of books is 63,360 shelf-feet. Charles C. Soule, How to Plan a Library Building for Library Work (1912), 277, states that "it has been usual to [calculate shelf capacity at] ten volumes to a running foot, a figure which has been verified in some libraries" but that "it is prudent to calculate about eight volumes to a foot for octavos and under"; noting "The English authorities still set the average number of volumes to a linear shelf foot rather higher, eight and a half to nine and a half for lending libraries or fiction shelves" (see here).

At eight to ten volumes per foot, twelve miles of books suggests five to six hundred thousand books (i.e., 506,880 to 633,600 books), massively more than the "upwards of 80,000 Books" Dymock advertised. This significantly-lower figure is also more consistent with Dymock's 31 March advertised claim of holding "fifty ton" of books (i.e., fifty British long ton). When I asked ChatGPT to estimate the weight of eighty thousand books in 1887, it concluded: "I would use approximately 59 British long tons as the central estimate for an ordinary mixed bookshop inventory of 80,000 volumes in 1887, with a provisional range of 39–79 long tons."

Returning to the hyperbole: 63,360 shelf-feet would require 2,347 nine-shelf, three-foot wide bookcases: looking at the 1887 image, my estimate is that approximately forty such bookcases are visible along the walls, and the equivalent of ten more may cover the sides of display tables. Even if this view is only one half of one floor, two or three floors of 142 King Street would need to hold much more densely-packed bookcases to make up twelve miles of shelving.

In 1964, Foyles advertised four acres of floor space, over five floors of 119 Charing Cross Road, containing thirty miles of shelves and four million volumes (Ved Mehta, "Quiet, Beneficent Things," The New Yorker (31 October 1964, 69 here—a great article BTW). But the Foyles building—which I visited in 1995—was infamously an innavigable warren. Dymock might have had twelve miles of shelving over two floors if you were to include warehousing / duplicate-inventory shelving, not open to the public, but I am doubtful he had anything approaching that number.

* * * * *

After I had photographed the leaflet, I wondered whether an AI might be up to the task of generating an image based on the woodcut. Gemini suggested that I formulate a prompt that accurately described the space and the people. This was a fascinating exercise, and one which obliged me to examine it very closely and discover specialist terminology (like "retained wall piers" and "retained wall header"). As a result, I noticed the umbrellas, and realised that two of the people in the image are actually statues! After some experimentation, I found that Gemini was wrong about the detailed prompt and that the less I included in my prompt, the better the results were—although I needed to provide the text of the signboards if I wanted to avoid gobbledygook.

Above and below are the best of the single-prompt images. Note a few details that are wrong in the first image above (the woman at left front holds an open umbrella, the man at left front wears a top-hat, two men on the right face away from the viewer), are generated correctly in second, but the second image makes mistakes, which were not in the first (the man at front left sprouts a beard, the two men on the right now face the camera, the couple browsing mid-field have become two women), while some errors persist (the two men on the right both have bowler hats in image 1, both top hats in image 2, whereas the original has one of each). The more I tried to refine the image, the more new hallucinations and errors would proliferate, forcing me to stop. I am sure that a paid-for, frontier model would have been able to either do a better job at the outset, or allowed me to combine all the best bits of all the images generated.

All considered, Google’s NanoBannana 2.1 did a solid job converting the image to a black and white photograph; albeit there were mistakes or infelicities in every image it generated. Over-all, I was struck by just how much better I can visualise Dymock’s Book Arcade (or "Dymocks Book Arcade") via these images, so I gave into temptation and colourised one of them too. (Notice that, in this third image, both men at right are still in top-hats (!), but at least one is holding the umbrella, which missing from images 1 and 2—though the woman at left is still without her umbrella, and the man in centre-field still lacks something even more significant than his umbrella.)

I could probably go one step further than colourising, and use AI to generate a short video of the customers browsing, but if I were to try this I might also find that the statues come to life and start throwing books at the customers, or everyone abruptly starts dancing to "Stayin' Alive" (as here), so I will leave the video-generation for someone else.

[UPDATE 11 November 2026: For my post on Brodsky, see here.]

Blogging Niche Grievances

About a month ago, it occurred to me to check whether I had yet succeeded in convincing Google's Gemini that I had published a book entitled The Pain of a Bibliophile (regarding which, see here).

The short answer is no, I hadn't succeeded, and I didn't really expect that I had (yet! I will keep trying). But what I hadn't anticipated was that Genini's generally-accurate biographical elaboration (about who I am, and what I do) would include such an unflattering characterisation of this blog.

When I read "… a personal research blog where he documents specific, niche grievances and historical findings…"—I had one of those "wait, what?!" moments. Something like this:

I screen-capped the reply to my The Pain of a Bibliophile query, but I didn't notice this barb, so I didn't ask "what niche grievances?"—or why "niche grievances" takes precedence over "historical findings." (Perhaps, it is only the elaboration of historical findings that necessitates that it follows the unelaborated niche grievances?) I have, however, just asked the first question now and, according to Gemini, my top five niche grievances include:

1. Incomplete Book Series ("Completist Frustration") (linked to this post)
2. "Cavalier" and Inadequate Student Editions (linked to this post)
3. Inaccessible Big Data in Literary Studies (linked to this post)
4. Poor Typography and Font Software Transitions (linked to this post)
5. Inaccurate or "Useless" Open-Source Knowledge (linked to this post)

Unsurprisingly, I guess, this all seems rather random to me, but perhaps it is true in general that my specific and niche grievances are prominently on display on this blog, and that my "specific, niche grievances" are rather more prominent than posts concerning "historical findings," which I consider to be the mainstay of this blog.

Since this is a(nother) grievance-post, I will endeavour to correct course with an historical finding in future. Perhaps, I will convince Gemini to characterise this blog as one in which I document more historical findings than grievances at about the same time that I convince it that the following is the cover-art for my forthcoming book:

Order your copy today!

Wal Kirsop, Academic Responsibilities, and the Liberality of Communication

In July 2010, Wal Kirsop gave a talk at the annual seminar of the Johnson Society of Australia on "Boulard the Bibliomaniac and Johnson's Rambler." I didn't hear the talk, but Wal gave me a copy of the printed version of his paper. When I was re-reading it today, I was struck by this peroration:

If a summary conclusion is needed, it is that, far from being a sad victim of an overwhelming mania, Boulard was a misunderstood prophet of intellectual entrepreneurship and even liberation. His is not perhaps a voice for our own dreary and boring managerial time, but I like to think that some day it will [be] heard again. In the meantime his affinity with Johnson—whose definition of academic duties and responsibilities is still posted on my office door—should reassure us that we are somewhere on the right path.

Note that Wal doesn't quote Johnson's definition of academic duties and responsibilities. Perhaps, if he used slides during his lecture, he may have shown it at this point, but I doubt he did that. Instead, in a footnote to his paper, the reader is directed to David Fairer's "J. D. Fleeman: A Memoir" (Studies in Bibliography, Vol. 48 (1995): 23–24). Fairer, in turn, provides the reference for the original publication of Johnson's definition, which was as an appendix to John Moir, Hospitality. A Discourse Occasioned by Reading His Majesty’s Letter in Behalf of the Emigrant French Clergy, in St. Dionis Back Church, May 26, 1793 (London: Rivington and Owen, 1793): 42–43 (ESTC T219725).

Presumably, Wal thought everyone should read the Fairer's memoir as well as Johnson's definition. Those who wish to read Fairer's memoir and Johnson's entire "Fragment" will find it reprinted here. Johnson's definition is quoted in a few places online (as here), but Moir's Hospitality is not available, so I have illustrated this post with images of the title-page and the final page of text from the Bodleian Library copy on ECCO.)

Having chased Wal's allusion back to Fairer's Memoir, I could offer the complete text of Johnson's definition to my readers, but I will, instead, just quote the parts of it that I think Wal had in mind (the rest is available via the link above):

An academick is a man supported at the public cost, and dignified with public honours, that he may attain and impart wisdom. He is maintained by the public, that he may study at leisure; he is dignified with honours, that he may teach with weight. The great duty therefore of an academick is diligence of inquiry, and liberality of communication. Of him that is appointed to teach, the first business is to learn, an unintermitted attendance to reading must qualify him to be heard with profit. … For such service he can be fitted only by laborious study, and study therefore is the business of his life; the business which he cannot neglect without breaking a virtual contract with the community. Ignorance in other men may be censured as idleness, in an academick it must be abhorred as treachery.

"Diligence of inquiry, and liberality of communication" captures nicely Wal's own "unintermitted" activities. In addition to what might be considered his formal scholarly publications—book-length studies, essays published in scholarly journals etc.—Wal's "liberality of communication" extended to scores of pamphlet publications, under the imprints of the Ancora and Chaskett Press, for Louis Green and Foxcroft lectures, among others. One indicator of the present managerial malaise that Wal identifies is that—regardless of the eminence of many of the authors of these Ancora and Chaskett Press publications, and the quality of their writing—none of them would be considered "Quality publications" by Monash, based on their flawed model of bibliometrics.

Although I hadn't read Johnson's definition of academic duties and responsibilities when I started this blog in June of 2009, it has long been a part of my own attempt to fulfil Johnson's ideal. Being a generation younger that Wal, my "liberality of communication" has taken the form of a blog, rather than printed pamphlets. It is likely that Wal's Ancora and Chaskett Press publications will long outlive any of my blog posts, but they are treated with equal contempt indifference by Monash. Nevertheless, like Wal, I will continue to be liberal in my communications.

(Given the long gap in my blog posts between mid-2023 and the start of 2026, close readers of this blog may wonder at this declaration. Close personal acquaintances, will not. All I will say here is that I was obliged to take a lot of leave to care for someone close to me who barely survived a series of traumatic brain injuries. I have struggled to regain both my scholarly and blog-posting momentum since then, and have not wanted to say even this much about my hiatus until I managed to make some progress. My immediate goal was to submit for publication at least two fresh articles (which I have now done) and to publish more than 27 posts in a year, which I succeeded in doing with my last post (28 being now my highest number of posts in a year, since 2011). Hopefully, I have not jinxed myself by offering this explanation, and that scholarly publishing and my blog-posting will continue to be regular in future!)

The Spedding Collection of Baconiana, 1916

Sadly, and as I explain below, "The Spedding Collection of Baconiana" is not the Patrick Spedding collection of books by and about Francis Bacon, but, rather, the rather more famous James Spedding collection of books by and about Francis Bacon, catalogued and offered for sale by Quaritch (inauspiciously) in the middle of WW1.

I feel a quite a bit of affinity with my childless kinsman, James. This is partly a matter of convoluted family connections, but I have a modest collection of books by Francis Bacon, including a handful of seventeenth-century editions, which in no way compares to the collection James assembled, but which did lead me to wonder to what extent our collections may have overlapped (answer: not much).

I started buying books by Bacon four decades ago. Bacon’s Essays are still among my favourite works. Indeed, Bacon’s Essays are partly responsible for my love of both the essay (as a genre) and, by association, seventeenth and eighteenth-century character writing too—the focus of another sub-collection of mine—but I think that the first book I read by Bacon was actually his unfinished utopia New Atlantis.

For what it is worth, I don’t think that New Atlantis is a particularly good utopia (sorry), but I really enjoyed the experience of reading it, in January of 1989, in (what was then) a lovely, newly-acquired 1639 folio edition, in its original binding. I spent a lot of money buying this folio from a Kenneth Hince; at a time when I was a poor student, living off Austudy, so I suppose must have sold a lot of my books in order to make the purchase. (Sometimes, I remember very nice books that I once had, and which I must have sold, and I wonder what possessed me to do sell them. This is an instance of the “what possessed me”!)

Anyway, since it is my ambition to have a collection of my books catalogued and offered for sale as a collection by Quaritch—or a dealer of a similar stature—I thought I’d buy this copy of James’s catalogue. If my ambition is ever realised it won’t, however, be for an armload of editions of Bacon’s essays, or his other works, it is will be my own working library of books by and about Eliza Haywood.

When I bought my copy of James’s catalogue, I wanted to see how our collections compared—not in terms of titles, rarity or value, but in terms of a working library, or scholar-collector-utility. This desire became even stronger once it occurred to me that, while James was focussed on the works of Bacon (mostly published two and a half centuries earlier), I was similarly focussed on the works of Haywood (mostly published two and a half centuries earlier).

Looking at James’s collection, I am struck by how many volumes are NQR—like my own! (Not my Bacon volumes, which are all unusually beautiful, but my Haywood volumes.) Just focussing on two titles in James's collection: the margins are "defective" on his 1625 Essayes and the title-page "mounted" on his 1632 edition; the portrait is “missing” from his 1627 and 1628 editions of Sylva Sylvarum (which contains his New Atlantis), ten pages are missing from a second copy of the 1628 edition, and the Dedication is missing from a copy of the 1670 edition. Indeed, a search of the catalogue for "missing" locates 25 instances in 24 pages!

I am not sure what benefit James’s kin got from the sale of his collection (see below), but it is a shame that none of his books came my way—even the many nineteeth-century editions—and that I have been only able to find the catalogue of his collection since I started looking for his books.

* * * * *

James Spedding (born 26 June 1808), M.A. (Camb. 1834), younger brother of Thomas Story Spedding (see my post here), died on 9 March 1881, after he was hit by a cab crossing a street in London. Thirty-five years later, Bernard Quaritch offered "The Spedding Collection of Baconiana"—lightly "salted"— for GBP400 (the Cornell University copy is here; The Columbia University copy is here).

(The catalogue is undated but was issued by November 1916; library catalogue assertions asside, it appears in a list of "Recent Bibliographies" in The Library Journal, Vol. 41, no. 11 (November 1916): 860; here.)

As well as being undated, the catalogue is unnumbered. The opening description of the collection (transcribed below) states that it contains “363 vols, in 318”—which seems to mean 318 items in 363 volumes rather than 363 items in 318 volumes. (I am too lazy to go through the catalogue, number the items for myself, and count or estimate the total volumes; and ChatGPT seems to be not up to the task yet.)

The publisher of "The Spedding Collection of Baconiana" notes that "A few volumes have been added by me to strengthen the collection, but the great bulk is as Spedding owned it." The language here doesn’t quite gel: "a few volumes … added" implies rather less "salt" (books added by a bookseller to fill out a catalogue) than "the great bulk" leaves room for.

Here is the opening spiel:

BACON COLLECTION. The Collection of Books used by JAMES SPEDDING (1808–1881), the accomplished Editor of the Works of Sir Francis Bacon, as his working library in bringing out that "unsurpassable model of thorough and scholarlike editing." 363 vols. in 318, folio, 4to., and 8vo. v. d.

Price of the Collection, £400 net.

This collection should be an invaluable acquisition to a public library or to a collector of Baconiana, as it includes a number of the first and early editions of Bacon's Works and those of his contemporaries, some of them of great rarity, and also a valuable collection of books in Baconian literature. Additional value is given to many of the books from the fact that they are enriched with Spedding's MS. notes (all the cases in which they occur are not mentioned below). A few volumes have been added by me to strengthen the collection, but the great bulk is as Spedding owned it.

* * * * *

If an institution had taken Quaritch's bait (as they should have done)—and bought the collection as a whole—it might now be an easy matter to identify how many works and volumes were in Spedding's working library. Unfortunately, it seems that, after a period, Quaritch broke up the collection and sold the items separately. Searching ESTC and Copac, it is possible to identify a few Spedding items, each at a different library:

The essaies of Sr Francis Bacon Knight (1612) [Baconiana, p.4, item 2] is at King's College, Cambridge [Keynes.A.08.20].

Francisci de Verulamio, Summi Angliæ Cancellarii, Instauratio magna (1620) [Baconiana, p.6, item 7] is at the Huntington Library [601344].

The remaines of the Right Honorable Francis Lord Verulam Viscount of St. Albanes (1648) [Baconiana, p.8, item 1] is at the University of Toronto, Library [bac B33 R45 1648] (online here).

A declaration of the demeanor and cariage of Sir Walter Raleigh (1618) [not in Baconiana] is at the Folger Shakespeare Library [STC 20653 Copy 1].

If, I future, I find any more Spedding items, I will add them here.

The Life and Times of the Kings and Queens of England series

The series, The Life and Times of the Kings and Queens of England, edited by Antonia Fraser, was established in 1972. It was first published by Weidenfeld [and] Nicolson, and reprinted by Book Club Associates, London.

It took a suprising amount on time (hours—plural) wrestling with Google, Library Thing, and ChatGPT, to get a satisfactory answer to the simple question of "how many volumes are there in this series?" (For details of why this was so hard, see my postscript below.) Consistent with other posts on this blog, having finally got my answer, I thought I'd post the resulting research to save others from the hassle of duplicating my efforts.

The answer is: there were a total of 31 volumes in the series The Life and Times of the Kings and Queens of England: 25 volumes in what I will call the First Series, from 1972–74, and another six volumes in what I will call the Second Series, from 1980–81. These are listed below in monarch order.

In 1976, Fraser prepared a single volume, under the ttle The Lives of the Kings and Queens of England, which covers all the monarchs, including those omitted in the series (this is the fat volume, second from the right, in the first image above). If this was a first attempt at a sop to the completists, it clearly was not enough, since in 1980 the series was restarted (or, rather, Weidenfeld and Nicolson expanded the series with their Kings and Queens of England, in matching bindings, so completists could fill some gaps), but the demand for the missing monarchs must have been slight since the series faltered after only six volumes.

Since the quarto volumes have matching spines, are well illustrated, and were once quite common, they were a tempting collecting target. Even if you were only really interested in one era of history, you would easilly, inadvertently accumulate two or three volumes—which you might be tempted to shelve together, at which point you were doomed. Before you know it you might find yourself accumulating more volumes, and then start actively looking for all of the monarchs in your era, or all eras. If you look on eBay (*), you will see the resulting more-or-less complete collections which illustrate this post.

(*) I.e., here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.

If you have landed here on this page because you are on the edge of this collecting precipice: stop while you can! The First Series is not complete—it does not cover all monarchs—and the Second Series does not complete it. The First includes, for instance, George I and George III (both of which I have had), but not George II (which I wanted)—and there is no George II in the Second Series. There are plenty of other monarchs ommitted too, frustrating the would-be completist. (When I discovered that there was no George II, I was so annoyed that I disposed of my George I and George II volumes.)

* * * * *

Series 1, twenty-five volumes (1972–74)

1. Alfred the Great, Douglas Woodruff (1974)
2. William I, Maurice Ashley (1973)
3. Richard I, John Gillingham (1973)
4. King John, Maurice Ashley (1972)
5. Edward II, Caroline Bingham (1973)
6. Edward III, Paul Johnson (1973)
7. Henry V, Peter Earle (1972)
8. Richard III, Anthony Cheetham (1972)
9. Henry VII, Neville Williams (1973)
10. Henry VIII, Robert Lacey (1972)
11. Mary Tudor, Jasper Ridley (1973)
12. Elizabeth I, Neville Williams (1972)
13. King James, Antonia Fraser (1974)
14. Charles I, D. R. Watson (1972)
15. Charles II, Christopher Falkus (1972)
16. James II, Peter Earle (1972)
17. William and Mary, John Miller (1974)
18. Queen Anne, Gila Curtis (1972)
19. George I, Joyce Marlow (1973)
20. George III, John Clarke (1972)
21. George IV, Alan Palmer (1972)
22. Victoria, Dorothy Marshall (1972)
23. Edward VII, Keith Middlemas (1973)
24. George V, Denis Judd (1973)
25. George VI, Keith Middlemas (1974)

Series 2, six volumes (1980–81)

26. The Saxon Kings, Richard Humble (1980)
27. The Norman Kings, James Chambers (1981)
28. Edward I, John Chancellor (1981)
29. Richard II, Michael Senior (1981)
30. Edward IV, Gila Falkus (1981)
31. William IV, Anne Somerset (1980)

Since numbers 26 and 27 duplicate (in part) numbers 1 and 2, these can't really be intersorted above, so the ideal shelf arrangement of the series woud probably be as follows:

26* The Saxon Kings, Richard Humble (1980)
1. Alfred the Great, Douglas Woodruff (1974)
2. William I, Maurice Ashley (1973)
27* The Norman Kings, James Chambers (1981)
3. Richard I, John Gillingham (1973)
4. King John, Maurice Ashley (1972)
28* Edward I, John Chancellor (1981)
5. Edward II, Caroline Bingham (1973)
6. Edward III, Paul Johnson (1973)
29* Richard II, Michael Senior (1981)
7. Henry V, Peter Earle (1972)
30* Edward IV, Gila Falkus (1981)
8. Richard III, Anthony Cheetham (1972)
9. Henry VII, Neville Williams (1973)
10. Henry VIII, Robert Lacey (1972)
11. Mary Tudor, Jasper Ridley (1973)
12. Elizabeth I, Neville Williams (1972)
13. King James, Antonia Fraser (1974)
14. Charles I, D. R. Watson (1972)
15. Charles II, Christopher Falkus (1972)
16. James II, Peter Earle (1972)
17. William and Mary, John Miller (1974)
18. Queen Anne, Gila Curtis (1972)
19. George I, Joyce Marlow (1973)
20. George III, John Clarke (1972)
21. George IV, Alan Palmer (1972)
31* William IV, Anne Somerset (1980)
22. Victoria, Dorothy Marshall (1972)
23. Edward VII, Keith Middlemas (1973)
24. George V, Denis Judd (1973)
25. George VI, Keith Middlemas (1974)

Alternatively, you could re-number the series as follows:

1. The Saxon Kings, Richard Humble (1980)
2. Alfred the Great, Douglas Woodruff (1974)
3. William I, Maurice Ashley (1973)
4. The Norman Kings, James Chambers (1981)
5. Richard I, John Gillingham (1973)
6. King John, Maurice Ashley (1972)
7. Edward I, John Chancellor (1981)
8. Edward II, Caroline Bingham (1973)
9. Edward III, Paul Johnson (1973)
10. Richard II, Michael Senior (1981)
11. Henry V, Peter Earle (1972)
12. Edward IV, Gila Falkus (1981)
13. Richard III, Anthony Cheetham (1972)
14. Henry VII, Neville Williams (1973)
15. Henry VIII, Robert Lacey (1972)
16. Mary Tudor, Jasper Ridley (1973)
17. Elizabeth I, Neville Williams (1972)
18. King James, Antonia Fraser (1974)
19. Charles I, D. R. Watson (1972)
20. Charles II, Christopher Falkus (1972)
21. James II, Peter Earle (1972)
22. William and Mary, John Miller (1974)
23. Queen Anne, Gila Curtis (1972)
24. George I, Joyce Marlow (1973)
25. George III, John Clarke (1972)
26. George IV, Alan Palmer (1972)
27. William IV, Anne Somerset (1980)
28. Victoria, Dorothy Marshall (1972)
29. Edward VII, Keith Middlemas (1973)
30. George V, Denis Judd (1973)
31. George VI, Keith Middlemas (1974)

Postscript: the volumes themselves do not seem to contain a series title or a list of other volumes in the series, and I was unable to find any advertisement for the series, or any series listing online. Library Thing lists Fraser's one-volume work, and her Introduction or Editorship for only five volumes in the series; it seperately lists (as a Publisher Series) "Kings and queens of England: Weidenfeld and Nicolson" here, in which it conflates what I have called Series 1 and Series 2, and duplicates Charles II by mistakenly including Fraser's 1979 biography as part of the series to get a total of 32 volumes (in the conflated and mistitled series). The various and incompatible claims for "complete" collections on eBay add to the confusion. If there are better collecting resources online, I didn't find them, but if anyone points them out for me, I will add links below—or corrections above if I have messed up anything here.

Dorothy Furman, collector of books and bookplates

Dorothy Furman (fl. 1895–1926), was a well-connected bibliophile, a staff member at the New York Times Literary Review (writing bookish-reviews and book-auction reports in the late 1890s) and was later a book dealer. She built an extensive collection of rare books, mostly first editions (but including treasures such as a fourth folio of Shakespeare's works) and bookplates—being a customer, if not a patron of sorts, to a number of bookplate artists, and corresponding widely within a community of bibliophiles.

Furman was a member of The Bibliographical Society (UK) from 1895–1917 (see here), appears in the Almanach du bibliophile pour l'année 1898 (here), was a Member of the Ex Libris Society in 1895 and 1900 (see here and here); the Bibliographical Society of America in (at least) 1905 and 1908 (see here), the American Bookplate Society in 1913 and 1918 (see here and here), and the Grolier Club in 1914.

Female members of these bibliographical and book-collecting societies were not common. In the fifty years between 1892 and 1942 The Bibliographical Society had approximately nine hundred UK members and four hundred and fifty US members (see cumulative member list here). Of these, there are 17 (UK) and 13 (US) with a "Mrs" prefix and 25 (UK) and 18 UK with "Miss"; that is, a total of 73 female members, or approximately five percent.

Given the rarity of bibliographicaly-inclined female book collectors in this period, and the significance of her bookplate collecting, it is suprising that there is so little information about Furman available online. Having just bought her copy of J. Roger Rees, The Brotherhood of Letters (New York: Lockwood and Coombes, 1889), I did some digging and am posting what I found here to save other collectors the trouble, and perhaps enable them to carry this research forward—something that can probably only be done in situ in New York.

Why New York? Well, Furman lived at a commuting distance from New York for at least two decades. Her reported addresses being 35 State Street, Flushing, Long Island, NY (1898–1905; see Almanach du bibliophile pour l'année 1898 and Ex Libris Society link above); 58 Clark Street, Glen Ridge, NJ (1905–8; see here); and 6 De Hart Street, Morristown, New Jersey (1913 and 1918; see American Bookplate Society links above), opening a bookshop there in 1919 (see here): The Publishers Weekly reporting: "Morristown, N. J.—Miss Dorothy Furman has opened a bookshop at 6 De Hart street, specializing in old, rare and current books, association copies and autographs."

The Walpole Galleries in New York sold at auction collections of her Modern First Editions in July 1920 (advertised in The New York Times on 29 and June 1920 here and here), bookplates and books on bookplates in September and November 1923 (see here and here), and China, Glass, Brass, Prints, Furniture, Pewter Objects of Art, Etc. in September 1926 (see here).

* * * * *

Regarding Furman's writing for the New York Times Literary Review: I have found four articles by her (too long to quote in full). Undoubtedly, she wrote many more since each appears to be only a sample of a series: "Books Worth Reading Again. VII. Dorothy Osbourne's Letters" The New York Times, Vol. 47, Iss. 15029 (12 March 1898): 170c–171b (see here); "Books Worth Reading Again. IX. Louisa May Alcott's Life and Letters" The New York Times, Vol. 47, Iss. 15053 (9 April 1898): 238c–239c (see here); "Books at Auction. Features of the Final Part of the Ashburnham Library Sold This Week in London" The New York Times, Vol. 47, Iss. 15083 (14 May 1898): 324a–b (see here). "Books at Auction. Prices at the Fine Mackellar Sale—Bibles and Manuscripts" The New York Times, Vol. 48, Iss. 15251 (26 November 1898): 794a–b (see here); "Two Noble Lives. Maurice de Guierin and His Sister Eugene—The Journals They Wrote" The New York Times (4 March 1899): 137a–c (see here).

Regarding Furman's collection of books: I can't find an auction catalogue for this 1920 sale, but The New York Times advertisement explains that it contained "First Editions of Modern Authors including Stevenson and Kipling; Riverside. Doves, Kelmscott, Ashendene and other Presses; best library editions of the works of famous authors; bindings; rare early English literature and autographs; being mainly the library of Miss Dorothy Furman." There was a review of the sale published in The Publishers Weekly, which reads:

The library of Miss Dorothy Furman consisting of modern first editions, books printed by private and special presses, fine sets of standard authors, rare early English literature and choice miscellaneous books, was sold at the Walpole Galleries July 1 and 2. The sale was well attended, and prices were very satisfactory. Mr. Turnbull is a careful cataloger and in sales of this character he handles them with a high degree of efficiency. A few of the items, indicating the trend of prices, were as follows: Andrew’s "Gossip about Book Collecting," New York, 1900, $50; same author, "Paul Revere and His Engraving," New York, 1901, $55; Sir Thomas More’s "Utopia," Chelsea, 1906, Ashendene Press edition, $42.50; Beaumont and Fletcher's "Fifty Comedies and Tragedies," London, 1679, second edition, $35; Lord Byron’s "Works," 13 vols., London, 1898–1901, large paper edition, $44; Blanchard's "Life of George Cruikshank," 2 vols. extended to 4 with 140 extra plates, many in colors, $75; De Morgan’s "Collected Works," 8 vols., London, 1906-14, first editions, $26; Drayton's "Poems," London, 1619, $25; Genest's "Some Account of the English Stage from the Restoration in 1660 to 1830," 10 vols., 8vo, prepared for extra illustrating with cases, $120; Hallam's "Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the Fifteenth, Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries," 4 vols., 8vo, London, 1837–39, $60; Ireland's "Records of the New York Stage from 1750 to 1860," New York, 1866-67, large paper copy with extra illustrations, $40; Keats's "Poetical Works," 4 vols., London, 1883, original library edition edited by H. Buxton Forman, $65; Livingston's "Bibliography of Kipling," New York, 1901, Japan paper, $35; Masefield's "Tragedy of Nan and other Plays," London, 1909, first edition and presentation copy, $52.50; Montaigne's "Essays," 3 vols., folio, Boston, 1902, Riverside Press special edition, $65; Shakespeare's "Comedies, Histories and Tragedies," 1685, fourth folio with imperfections, $375; Stevenson’s manuscript of the first draft of "St. Ives," 500 pages, written by Isobel Strong, at Stevenson's dictation with revisions and additions by the author, $340; and Stevenson's "Verses," original wrappers, privately printed, 1912, very scarce, $65.

Regarding Furman's collection of bookplates: Walpole Galleries described it (well in advance of the sale, in 1921) as "The Important Collection of Bookplates of Miss Dorothy Furman of Morristown, N. J., being over 8,000 plates—one of the largest collections in this country" (see here); elsewhere the number is inflated to "about" ten thousand (see "Prospects For The Coming Season," The Publishers Weekly, Vol. 102, No. 18 (28 October 1922): 1553–54: "It includes the sale … the bookplates, about 10,000 in number, of Miss Dorothy Furman, for many years on the staff of the New York Times Literary Review; a superb …" (here).

Furman participated in an exhibition of bookplates in New York in 1895 (see here); she commissioned bookplates from Edwin Davis French in 1902 (see here), Arthur Nelson MacDonald by 1895 and in 1907 (see here and here [and at the head of this post]); J. Winfred Spenceley in 1907 (see here).

The bookplate contained in her, now my, copy of The Brotherhood of Letters is above. This plate is described (and so, a terminus ad quem established) in Ladies' Book-plates: An Illustrated Handbook for Collectors and Book-lovers (London: George Bell and Sons, 1895), 200 (see here):

"The following lines are familiar to many:

O for a Booke and a shadie nooke,
  eyther in-a-doore or out;
With the grene leaves whispering overhede,
  or the Streete cryes all about.
Where I maie Reade all at my ease,
  both of the Newe and Olde;
For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke,
  is better to me than Golde.

This is taken from Dorothy Furman's plate, consisting of the name written on a garter."

(For an excellent investigation into the 1860s origins of this ye-olde verse, see here.)

One of the books she owned have been scanned and are online with her bookplate: Arthur Conan Doyle, Through The Magic Door (London: Smith, Elder [and] Co., 1907) here.

A few odd bits of evidence for Furman's patronage of book plate artists: she made donations of bookplates to the Museum of Fine Arts Boston in 1901 and 1902 (see here); she made a similar donation to the British Museum by 1912 (see here); and to the Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences in 1917 (see here).

Finally, I am indebted—once again—to the blog "My Sentimental Library," on which Jerry Morris (sadly, now dead) collected some information about Furman in 2018 (see here), which I have tried not to duplicate here.

Thieving Canadians versus Elon Musk

A recent analysis puts the cost of launching 1kg into low Earth orbit (LEO), on Elon Musk's Falcon 9 rocket, to approximately USD1500 per kg.

Musk is developing his Starship launch vehicle in the hope of significantly reducing this cost of launching mass to orbit. He has stated that his target is about USD10.00 per kilogram to LEO, which assumes full and rapid reusability and a very high launch cadence for Starship. But this is an aspirational long-term operating cost; it seems that more conservative estimates put Starship launch costs at about USD100–200 per kilo.

* * * * *

The above Coronet edition of John Wyndham's Stowaway to Mars of 1972 weighs 110 grams. If we add 90 grams for minimal packaging (to reach a total of 200g), it seems that Elon Musk would presently charge approximately USD300 to launch a copy of this book into LEO, but he expects to be able to eventually be able launch a copy into LEO for USD2.00 (while more conservative estimates put it at USD20). This is good news for LEO book collectors.

As you can see below, one thieving bastard bookseller (JMCbooksonline, of Cheverie, NS, Canada) is presently asking USD140 [A$196] to launch, I mean post, this book to Australia (see listing here). For the record, I can post 250g to Canada for A$23.05—less than one eighth of this.

This postal charge is the equivalent of USD700 per kilo—more than double the present cost of launching Wyndham's Stowaway to Mars into orbit via a Falcon 9, soon to be thirty-five times the cost of launching it into LEO via Starship, and, if Musk's dreams are realised, three hundred and fifty times the cost of launching it into orbit.

* * * * *

Anyone in Australia who buys books from overseas soon learns that postage from Canada is extremely slow and extremely expensive—possibly the slowest and most expensive postal service in the world, but certainly the slowest and most expensive postal service I am familiar with.

When buying from Canada, there are no bargins to be had, and few books are rare enough to justify stuffing the pockets of either Canadian postal services or Candian Booksellers.

I wonder how long it will be before Musk realises that international parcel post represents an arbitrage opportunity, and that he can use Starfall—the uncrewed reusable re-entry/cargo capsule being developed by SpaceX—to massively reduce the cost of postage of 1970s paperbacks from Canada (or the US) to Australia?

The Drunken Druggist and a Shanghai Reading Room

The book below is an odd volume from Harrison and Co.'s The Novelist's Magazine series, which has a particularly interesting provenance, spending time in the UK, China, the US, and Australia.

The Novelist's Magazine (ESTC p6358) reprinted sixty novels, broken up into weekly parts, from 1780 to 1788. Each novel has a separate title page, and each of the 23 volumes has an engraved general title page. While some of the novels stretched over more than one volume (Sir Charles Grandison occupies vols. 14–15; Clarissa occupies vols. 10–11), most volumes contain multiple novels (for example, vols. 9 and 23 both contain six novels each).

I am interested in the series primarily because it contains Eliza Haywood's Betsy Thoughtless, Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy, and The Invisible Spy (in vols. 13, 17, and 23); but I have this volume (vol. 7) because it contains some Haywoodiana: Charles De Fieux Mouhy's The Fortunate Country Maid (1740), an anonymous translation of La Paysanne Parvenue, ou les Mémoires de Madame la Marquise de L. V. (1735–36). Haywood's own translation of this French work, The Virtuous Villager, appeared in 1741, by which time The Fortunate Country Maid had gone through four editions and a Dublin reprint—pretty much running away with the market for the book.

I have had my copy of vol. 7 of The Novelist's Magazine for more than two decades. It is in pretty woeful condition (the spine is broken in three places), but it was cheap (USD10) and I haven't bothered to upgrade it because I liked the bookplate (below) on the front (fixed) endpaper: "James Watson | Manchester." This morning I was able to identify this previous owner as James Watson (1775–1820), an eccentric young druggist known in Manchester as "Doctor Watson."

Watson (below) was apprenticed to a fustian (heavy cotton) manufacturer; when that apprenticeship ended, he worked as a bookkeeper for a cotton merchant, until his father's death obliged him to take over the family's apothecary business. Apparently, "Doctor Watson" was a theatre fanatic: he was a collector of printed theatre ephemera (1799–1800) and, from 1803 onwards, produced a periodical, The Townsman. He became the first librarian of the Manchester’s Portico Library in 1806.

Apparently, Watson soon lost that position because of his "drinking habits and neglect of duty" (i.e., he was an alcoholic), and went on to lose another as a boarding school usher at Altrincham, for the same reason; after which he became homeless and dependent upon charity. After a lengthy period of destitution, he drowned (or drowned himself) in the River Mersey on 28 June 1820 and was buried at Didsbury.

(The portrait and most of the above information about Watson, is taken from a The Spirit of the Doctor: Comprising Many Interesting Poems Selected from the Original Manuscript of the Late Mr. James Watson (Manchester, 1820), online here; and Simon Beattie, Short List 6 (March 2014), online here.)

* * * * *

I took a few photos of my battered odd-volume this morning. When I was filing these, after I had returned the book itself to my "hopital for battered books," I noticed something I had missed in all my previous examinations of the book over the last two decades: there was a very faint blind stamp visible on the title leaf—so faint, that it was really only clear enough to notice on the recto. (Look again at the first photograph in this post, above, showing the whole title-page to this volume. Did you notice the blind stamp?)

I retrieved the book once again, and re-photographed the title page in strong raking light using a macro lense. While it is still the case that—even in these favourable conditions—only part of the blind stamp is visible on the title page (above), the negative on the verso is much clearer. Having reversed (flipped) my photographs of the verso using some image software, I was able to clearly make out a surprising ownership stamp (below): "Astor House Hotel | Shanghai"!

Astor House Hotel, Shanghai, has a lengthy Wikipedia page dedicated to it (here). If you read this page you will see that the Shanghai Astor had a "Reading Room." Peter Felix Richards (1846–1859), a Scottish merchant, opened the first Western hotel in China. In August 1850, Richards advertised that a reading room for shipmasters had been established in his hotel. The advertisement (here) reads: "NOTICE. SHIPMASTERS are respectfully informed that the undersigned have opened a READING ROOM in their Establishment especialy for their accommodation. P. F. RICHARDS [and] Co. Shanghae, 1th August, 1851."

Skipping ahead a half-century, a 1908 real-photo postcard (below; here), captioned "Shanghai——Astor House Hotel Co. Ltd: Lounge," shows (in the photograph) a signboard that reads "Reading and Writing Room." In 1911, when the Astor House Hotel had a grand re-opening, it was described as having "a reading room with several comfortable sofas and easy chairs upholstered in leather"—a description that nicely matches this 1908 postcard image.

Skipping ahead another half-century, the scene is rather different: the Shanghai Astor was bombed and occupied during the 2nd Sino-Japanese War and WW2 (1937–45); thereafter it went into a spiral of decline, and on 19 April 1954 the Hotel was confiscated by the CCP; much of the furniture and interior decoration was destroyed or stolen during the Cultural Revolution. After extensive renovations in the early 2000s, the hotel was bought out, and the hotel closed on 1 January 2018. The building was converted to the China Securities Museum, and the renovated premises are now once again accessible to the public (according to this site).

Pulling together the threads, it seems that my odd volume of The Novelist's Magazine was purchased, early in its existance, by the convivial Mancunian James Watson, who probably pawned it for a bottle of gin soon after. The enterprising Peter Richards picked up this volume on his travels, whether in Manchester or elsewhere, and transported it to Shanghai, included it in his 1850 Reading Room for Shipmasters. If the volume remained in situ, then it was likely looted from the Shanghai Astor by an American GI during WW2, who took it back to the states. When I bought it two decades ago, it was transported back past Asia, to Australia.

I have been unable to find any other remnant of either the James Watson library or the Astor House Shanghai library or Reading Room, and so, no images of either his book label or this blind stamp. I have also been unable to find any real information about whatever library may have at one time existed in the first Western hotels in China, and possibly one of the earliest English-language libraries in China—which is surprising. I hope that, by the time I dig this volume out of my "hospital"—for a team of book-binding robots to properly repair it—more information will be available. But until then, it is time for it to return to rest.