One of the oldest books I own is a 1785 Dublin edition of Oliver Goldsmith's Poems and Plays. I bought it during my period of collecting for collecting's sake; that is, the period when I bought books simply to own and drool over, not necessarily to read. (I'm long done with that phase, thank goodness.) This particular tome really isn't much to look at, though -- small, thin, bound in unadorned dark brown calf that over the centuries has been rubbed at the corners down to the paper boards; the front hinge is badly cracked from the top to halfway down; there are an enthusiastic child's black crayon markings on the back cover, and the gilt of the spine's bands and title is completely gone, leaving only the barely discernable indentations of the title's letters. The leaves (that's "pages" to the layman) are almost as soft as cloth, have a good deal of foxing (the reddish-brown discoloration common in old books), and are a bit too fragile for safe reading. One or two pages are torn clean across to the spine, but still attached to it. The book is really a rather pitiful physical speciman.
So what prompted me to buy it? you may ask. When, many years ago, I opened its front cover in a local bookshop, I beheld, at the top right corner of the title page, the name "Samuel Avery" written in beautiful script -- with a quill pen, surely; the metal nib wasn't patented till 1803. (Of course, Samuel Avery could have been a later owner of the book, but I prefer to stick with my quill theory; it's much more romantic.) The letters are as perfectly even and uniform as copper plate, the capital "A" looks exactly like Jane Austen's, and the loop of the "y" is voluptuously plump, its tail curling out a good quarter inch beyond the rest of the signature. What's more, this Samuel Avery obviously didn't bother to take the time to blot after writing, because the mirror image of his name had bled onto the facing page. (Was he in a hurry, shutting the book immediately after putting his name to it? Or was he simply careless? Is that extravagant "y," that appears almost defiant in the face of its carefully formed fellow letters, a telling sign of the writer's inner fire beneath a cool exterior?) Also on the facing page, below the mirror image, is written in pencil "John Humphrey Avery" -- not quite as beautifully precise, but the formation of the letters is identical to that of the Samuel Avery signature. As pencil lead was not invented until the 1790's, I assume this signature was written after the one in ink (also assuming that my quill theory is correct). Was John Humphrey Samuel's son? Did his father write his name for him, and why not in ink? Was it to try out that newfangled thing called the pencil? And why wasn't it written on the title page? Furthermore, were those black crayon marks on the back cover scribbled there by the young John (yes, artist's crayon had already been invented long before then), and was Papa Avery very upset with Johnny over the defacement of his (then) fine book?
I have lately found the answers to some of these questions. I do have a vague idea, thanks to the internet, as to who Samuel and John Humphrey Avery were (the Samuel of the signature was either John's grandfather or great-grandfather, both of whom were named Samuel), and that they probably lived in Connecticut. I also know that they must have been at least pretty well off financially, as books were costly in those days, and having them bound in leather even more so. The dark brown calf of this particular book was probably a favorite material of Mr Avery's, so he would have had many more of his books bound the same way. Perhaps all of his Oliver Goldsmiths were so clad. As to how the book made its way to that dusty little antiquarian bookshop and into my own shelves -- well, I should have asked the bookshop owner. Too late now, sadly; he died many years ago.
The thing is, I don't care so much about knowing as I am about speculating. To me, old books are more than their text, more than their binding. Just seeing a name, an inscription, even random crayon scribbles, sets my imagination on fire; being able to rub the tip of my finger over the imprint of a gilt-less title, to feel the rough texture of the rag paper, is a pleasure only true bibliophiles understand. Though I now only buy books to read, not just to fondle, my interest in their provenance (previous ownership) is avid as ever. Still to be able, in this age of the e-book, to hold in one's hand a piece of literary history, however worn and modest, is a privilege to be cherished.
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