ht, said D'Israeli, that the first edition was
only an imperfect essay, 'which the author proposes to finish after
trying the sentiments of the literary world.' Bayle was on the side of
Ancillon. There are cases, as he remarked, in which the second edition
has never appeared; and at any rate the man who waits for the reprint
shows 'that he loves a pistole better than knowledge.' Ancillon,
however, always indulged himself with 'the most elegant edition,'
whatever the first might have been; he considered that 'the less the eyes
are fatigued in reading or work the more liberty the mind feels in
judging of it.' It is easier to detect the merits in print than in
manuscript: 'and so we see them more plainly in good paper and clear type
than when the impression and paper are bad?' Some have thought it better
to have many editions of a good book: 'among other things,' says our
critic, 'we feel great satisfaction in tracing the variations.' Ancillon
was naturally accused of an indiscriminate mania for collecting; and he
confessed that he was to some extent infected with the 'book-disease.' It
was said that he never left his books day or night, except when he went
to preach to his humble congregation. He was convinced that some golden
thought might be found in the dullest work. Ancillon remained in France
as long as his religion was tolerated. He found a home across the Rhine
after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes; but from that time he had to
be content with German editions, all his fine tall volumes having been
destroyed by the 'Catholic' rioters at Metz.

If Evelyn can be believed, the art of book-collecting had come to a very
poor pass in France about the seventeenth century. It had been discovered
that certain classes of books were the necessary furniture of every
gentleman's library. If a man of quality built a mansion he would expect
to find a book-room and a quantity of shelves; it was a simple matter
further on to order so many yards of folios or octavos, all in red
morocco, with the coat of arms stamped in gold. Such collections, said La
Bruyere, are like a picture-gallery with a strong smell of leather: the
owner is most polite in showing off 'the gold leaves, Etruscan bindings,
and fine editions'; 'we thank him for his kindness, but care as little as
himself to visit the tan-yard which he calls his library.' We must not
forget the financier Bretonvilliers, who about the year 1657 determined
to become a bibliophile