A moment later it was in mine, and I was examining it with renewed interest.
My secret is out. I collect, as I can, human-interest books--books with a _provenance_, as they are called; but as I object to foreign words, I once asked a Bryn Mawr professor, Dr. Holbrook, to give me an English equivalent. "I should have to make one," he said. "You know the word _whereabouts_, I suppose." I admitted that I did. "How would _whenceabouts_ do?" I thought it good.
In recent years, presentation, or association, books have become the rage, and the reason is plain. Every one is unique, though some are uniquer than others. My advice to any one who may be tempted by some volume with an inscription of the author on its fly-leaf or title-page is, "Yield with coy submission"--and at once. While such books make frightful inroads on one's bank account, I have regretted only my economies, never my extravagances.
I was glancing the other day over Arnold's "Record of Books and Letters." He paid in 1895 seventy-one dollars for a presentation Keats's "Poems," 1817, and sold it at auction in 1901 for five hundred.[2] A few years later I was offered a presentation copy of the work, with an inscription to Keats's intimate friends, Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke, for a thousand dollars, and while I was doing some preliminary financing the book disappeared, and forever; and I have never ceased regretting that the dedication copy of Boswell's "Life of Johnson," to Sir Joshua Reynolds, passed into the collection of my lamented friend, Harry Widener, rather than into my own. "I shall not pass this way again" seems written in these volumes.
But my record is not all of defeats. The "whenceabouts" of my presentation "Vanity Fair" is not without interest--its story is told in Wilson's "Thackeray in the United States."
The great man took particular delight in schoolboys. When, during his lecturing tour, he visited Philadelphia, he presented one of these boys with a five-dollar gold-piece. The boy's mother objected to his pocketing the coin, and Thackeray vainly endeavored to convince her that this species of beneficence was a thing of course in England. After a discussion the coin was returned, but three months later the lad was made happy by the receipt of a copy of "Vanity Fair," across the title-page of which he saw written, in a curiously small and delicate hand, his name, Henry Reed, with W. M. Thackeray's kind regards, April, 1856.