Another trip to Attic Books on the weekend yielded some small book treasures and oddities for my collection. Having performed the same book autopsy on the inside covers as I had done to the Barlow text, I am disappointed to say that there were no hidden pages beneath the pastedown. That being said, these three antiquarian texts are still more than worthy of some remark.
Any visit to Attic Books and their astonishing collection of antiquarian volumes requires incredible restraint on my part not to get myself into financial trouble. If you are as enthusiastic about old books as I am, it is certainly worth the visit to the second floor where one will find such texts as early 17th century printings of Sallust, a history of Oliver Cromwell in French, the full 8-volume set of the collected papers from The Spectator dating to 1765, and a small collection of other well-worn treasures from the 1600s. A bit of advice if you will be handling (with care!) some of these old and battered copies: do not wear anything too dressy because you will certainly become covered in the dust of old leather and dye, your fingers stained orange and brown.
Any visit to Attic Books and their astonishing collection of antiquarian volumes requires incredible restraint on my part not to get myself into financial trouble. If you are as enthusiastic about old books as I am, it is certainly worth the visit to the second floor where one will find such texts as early 17th century printings of Sallust, a history of Oliver Cromwell in French, the full 8-volume set of the collected papers from The Spectator dating to 1765, and a small collection of other well-worn treasures from the 1600s. A bit of advice if you will be handling (with care!) some of these old and battered copies: do not wear anything too dressy because you will certainly become covered in the dust of old leather and dye, your fingers stained orange and brown.
Book #1: Johnstone, Charles (1765). Chrysal: Or, The Adventures of a Guinea. Vol. IV. London: Printed for T. Becket and P.A. De Hondt.
Originally published by Irish novelist and traveler, Charles Johnstone, in 1760. This four volume novel antedates postmodern object-based narratives. In my youthful arrogance, I had thought myself a bit of a pioneer in writing a short fiction from the perspective of a coin that traded hands that I called “Coin/cidence,” but it turns out that I was inexcusably wrong! This novel does indeed have a gold coin as its narrator, imbued with a “spirit” by an alchemist. So far, one of my favourite lines, spoken by an antiquarian, books are valued now the more for not being understood. If only that were remotely true today when taste is so heavily weighted in favour of pith and simplicity, with perhaps a lot less patience for obscure literary experiment. Of course, the quotation is roughly ripped out of context, for the antiquarian is speaking of a book's cachet as an artifact of possible incomprehensibility, and in this case a book of Chinese characters. The antiquarian bemoans the mounting interest in all things Chinese (referencing the historical fact of the brief-lived but intense public appetite for Chinoiserie), and that eventually this interest will culminate in English people actually learning the language and thus rendering these exotic objets trouves rather mundane and of lesser financial value.
Originally published by Irish novelist and traveler, Charles Johnstone, in 1760. This four volume novel antedates postmodern object-based narratives. In my youthful arrogance, I had thought myself a bit of a pioneer in writing a short fiction from the perspective of a coin that traded hands that I called “Coin/cidence,” but it turns out that I was inexcusably wrong! This novel does indeed have a gold coin as its narrator, imbued with a “spirit” by an alchemist. So far, one of my favourite lines, spoken by an antiquarian, books are valued now the more for not being understood. If only that were remotely true today when taste is so heavily weighted in favour of pith and simplicity, with perhaps a lot less patience for obscure literary experiment. Of course, the quotation is roughly ripped out of context, for the antiquarian is speaking of a book's cachet as an artifact of possible incomprehensibility, and in this case a book of Chinese characters. The antiquarian bemoans the mounting interest in all things Chinese (referencing the historical fact of the brief-lived but intense public appetite for Chinoiserie), and that eventually this interest will culminate in English people actually learning the language and thus rendering these exotic objets trouves rather mundane and of lesser financial value.
Book #2: Campbell, George (1834). The Philosophy of Rhetoric. New York: Jona Leavitt et al.
This was originally published in 1776. Campbell, a well-decorated and esteemed academic rhetorician, minister, capable linguist and translator, was born in 1719 and died in 1796. This Scottish philosopher and minister had a very illustrious career as one of the most active members of the Aberdeen Philosophical Society, and held several prominent posts.
As for the book itself, contained therein are some incisive comments that would be absolutely withering to those who would make a profession of writing nonsense, or cleave to scholasticism. To wit: “Sometimes pompous metaphors, and sonorous phrases, are injudiciously employed to add a dignity to the most trivial conceptions; sometimes they are made to serve as a vehicle of nonsense” (242) and “I know not a more fruitful source of this species [of learned nonsense] than scholastical theology. The more incomprehensible the subject is, the greater scope has the declaimer to talk plausibly without any meaning.” (243). Also, since it is a fairly comprehensive volume on rhetoric, the section on pleonasm takes aim at superfluous words. He provides us with some examples drawn from those with a love of choosing polysyllabic words over simpler ones such as “unto, until, selfsame, foursquare, devoid, despoil, disannul, muchwhat, oftentimes, nowadays, downfall, furthermore, wherewithal” that could just as easily be expressed without loss of meaning as “to, till, same square, void, spoil, annul, much, often, now, fall, further, wherewith.” (328) Let’s apply this to an example I'll conjure up:
Unto that house travel until dawn, and it is the selfsame house. The house was foursquare, devoid of any luxury, and the fields left to despoil from neglect. It was as though the owner of that house had chosen to disannul his bond with the land. Although he might have muchwhat to eat, and oftentimes, nowadays he would succumb to the great downfall that comes of indolence. Furthermore would he starve wherewithal the inaction he took.
And let's follow Campbell's advice:
To that house we travel till dawn, and it is the same house. The house was square, void of any luxury, and the fields left to spoil from neglect. It was as though the owner of that house had chosen to annul his bond with the land. Although he might have had much to eat, and often, now he would succumb to the great fall that comes of indolence. Further would he starve wherewith the inaction he took.
(Or, we could take it one step beyond Campbell to rewrite it thus:)
To that same house we travel till dawn. It was square, simple, and the fields neglected and spoiled. The owner had given up on the land even though it could have provided him with a lot to eat, but was ruined by his own indolence, and would most likely starve because of it.
(Or, we could take it to the simplistic extreme!)
To the same house we traveled. It was dawn. The house was square, simple, and the fields were dead. The owner would likely starve because he was lazy.
On the inside front cover pastedown is a small sticker reading PIDDINGTON, BOOKSELLER. TORONTO. This names Alfred Piddington (b. 1829 in Warwickshire, UK) who immigrated to Toronto in 1858, and created a large and thriving book-binding and book-selling business. He left in 1883 for Southern California (Ontario) and joined the Masonic fraternity. He died in 1902. He was involved in supplying Canadiana to the fledgling Toronto Public LIbrary (established on February 15, 1883, but without an actual building until July of that same year), and was the first to issue a second-hand book catalogue. The Toronto Public Library at this time depended heavily on purchasing second-hand books to build its holdings.
This was originally published in 1776. Campbell, a well-decorated and esteemed academic rhetorician, minister, capable linguist and translator, was born in 1719 and died in 1796. This Scottish philosopher and minister had a very illustrious career as one of the most active members of the Aberdeen Philosophical Society, and held several prominent posts.
As for the book itself, contained therein are some incisive comments that would be absolutely withering to those who would make a profession of writing nonsense, or cleave to scholasticism. To wit: “Sometimes pompous metaphors, and sonorous phrases, are injudiciously employed to add a dignity to the most trivial conceptions; sometimes they are made to serve as a vehicle of nonsense” (242) and “I know not a more fruitful source of this species [of learned nonsense] than scholastical theology. The more incomprehensible the subject is, the greater scope has the declaimer to talk plausibly without any meaning.” (243). Also, since it is a fairly comprehensive volume on rhetoric, the section on pleonasm takes aim at superfluous words. He provides us with some examples drawn from those with a love of choosing polysyllabic words over simpler ones such as “unto, until, selfsame, foursquare, devoid, despoil, disannul, muchwhat, oftentimes, nowadays, downfall, furthermore, wherewithal” that could just as easily be expressed without loss of meaning as “to, till, same square, void, spoil, annul, much, often, now, fall, further, wherewith.” (328) Let’s apply this to an example I'll conjure up:
Unto that house travel until dawn, and it is the selfsame house. The house was foursquare, devoid of any luxury, and the fields left to despoil from neglect. It was as though the owner of that house had chosen to disannul his bond with the land. Although he might have muchwhat to eat, and oftentimes, nowadays he would succumb to the great downfall that comes of indolence. Furthermore would he starve wherewithal the inaction he took.
And let's follow Campbell's advice:
To that house we travel till dawn, and it is the same house. The house was square, void of any luxury, and the fields left to spoil from neglect. It was as though the owner of that house had chosen to annul his bond with the land. Although he might have had much to eat, and often, now he would succumb to the great fall that comes of indolence. Further would he starve wherewith the inaction he took.
(Or, we could take it one step beyond Campbell to rewrite it thus:)
To that same house we travel till dawn. It was square, simple, and the fields neglected and spoiled. The owner had given up on the land even though it could have provided him with a lot to eat, but was ruined by his own indolence, and would most likely starve because of it.
(Or, we could take it to the simplistic extreme!)
To the same house we traveled. It was dawn. The house was square, simple, and the fields were dead. The owner would likely starve because he was lazy.
On the inside front cover pastedown is a small sticker reading PIDDINGTON, BOOKSELLER. TORONTO. This names Alfred Piddington (b. 1829 in Warwickshire, UK) who immigrated to Toronto in 1858, and created a large and thriving book-binding and book-selling business. He left in 1883 for Southern California (Ontario) and joined the Masonic fraternity. He died in 1902. He was involved in supplying Canadiana to the fledgling Toronto Public LIbrary (established on February 15, 1883, but without an actual building until July of that same year), and was the first to issue a second-hand book catalogue. The Toronto Public Library at this time depended heavily on purchasing second-hand books to build its holdings.
Book #3:
Publius Terentius (Terence) (1741). Terence’s Comedies Made English. Trans. Laurence Echard and others. Dublin.
This little gem is, as the title suggests, a translation of the more pragmatic and non-sensationalist comedies of Publius Terentia. Compared to Plautus’ far more “dramatic” style, Terence is a bit of a forerunner of a conversational and more everyday style of writing, in his adaptation from Attic comedy.
The preface, written by Laurence Echard, heaps much praise on Terence as a straight-shooting stylist, but there are some idiosyncratic aspects of the preface that are somewhat opposite to the preferences of our modern day reading audience, one of which being this quote: “Since long prefaces are lately much in fashion upon this and like occasions...” whereupon he asks the reader’s patience with a promise to keep it focused on Terence and not himself. Fair enough, but let’s see if he keeps to his promise.
By pages xvii to xviii of the preface, Echard adopts a defensive posture by anticipating or relating objections to his translation and its usefulness (it is not made clear if these objections were actually made, or if he is trying to anticipate them). He groups these objections under three main statements: that it is not useful for the public in terms of students, that it is not useful for the learned, and that it presents problems for mounting these translations for the stage. The first two may be of more concern to the student or scholar of literature. As two excellent translations exist (so would aver Echard’s critics, real or phantom) in the form of Bernard's and Hool’s, adding another translation may be considered superfluous as school-teachers can easily explain the subtle nuances necessary for directing the students to appreciation and understanding of Terence’s mighty stature in Roman drama. To paraphrase Echard, he finds those translations often false, obsolete, flat, and unpleasant. Worse, they risk putting readers to sleep! Hool’s translation, says Echard, obscures more than it reveals, and there are long and tedious notes for trivial matters while the notes referencing the more substantial bits in Terence are far too superficial. All this will just frustrate students or lead to mistakes in interpretation. As for the learned, the objection is that the well-schooled will not bother with translations at all, and thus read Terence in the original Latin. Echard argues that it will provide pleasure to read Terence’s exquisite Latin translated into “good and tolerable English.” Also, he says some of the particular references might be missed for those who are not intimately familiar with Roman cultural norms and matters, and that this can be resolved by translation. He ends off with a bit of a shrug, stating that despite his answer to such objections that people will say what they please anyway.
This little gem is, as the title suggests, a translation of the more pragmatic and non-sensationalist comedies of Publius Terentia. Compared to Plautus’ far more “dramatic” style, Terence is a bit of a forerunner of a conversational and more everyday style of writing, in his adaptation from Attic comedy.
The preface, written by Laurence Echard, heaps much praise on Terence as a straight-shooting stylist, but there are some idiosyncratic aspects of the preface that are somewhat opposite to the preferences of our modern day reading audience, one of which being this quote: “Since long prefaces are lately much in fashion upon this and like occasions...” whereupon he asks the reader’s patience with a promise to keep it focused on Terence and not himself. Fair enough, but let’s see if he keeps to his promise.
By pages xvii to xviii of the preface, Echard adopts a defensive posture by anticipating or relating objections to his translation and its usefulness (it is not made clear if these objections were actually made, or if he is trying to anticipate them). He groups these objections under three main statements: that it is not useful for the public in terms of students, that it is not useful for the learned, and that it presents problems for mounting these translations for the stage. The first two may be of more concern to the student or scholar of literature. As two excellent translations exist (so would aver Echard’s critics, real or phantom) in the form of Bernard's and Hool’s, adding another translation may be considered superfluous as school-teachers can easily explain the subtle nuances necessary for directing the students to appreciation and understanding of Terence’s mighty stature in Roman drama. To paraphrase Echard, he finds those translations often false, obsolete, flat, and unpleasant. Worse, they risk putting readers to sleep! Hool’s translation, says Echard, obscures more than it reveals, and there are long and tedious notes for trivial matters while the notes referencing the more substantial bits in Terence are far too superficial. All this will just frustrate students or lead to mistakes in interpretation. As for the learned, the objection is that the well-schooled will not bother with translations at all, and thus read Terence in the original Latin. Echard argues that it will provide pleasure to read Terence’s exquisite Latin translated into “good and tolerable English.” Also, he says some of the particular references might be missed for those who are not intimately familiar with Roman cultural norms and matters, and that this can be resolved by translation. He ends off with a bit of a shrug, stating that despite his answer to such objections that people will say what they please anyway.