One of Everything
By Elaine Hatfield
Sir Thos Phillipps is consumed by a desperate need to possess “one copy of every Book in the World.”
Chapter 1
Sir Thos is almost happy.
T’was the Spring of 1819. Sir Thos Phillipps sat at his desk, gazing languidly out the window. Since the death of his father last November, he had acquired all he’d ever yearned for. A mere twenty-six, he now possessed a prestigious title, a new bride, and independent means. His father had thought him profligate and kept him on a tight rein. At his father’s death, however, he inherited Middle Hill, a sprawl of adjoining manors and farms in Broadway, Buckland, Childswickham, and Laverton, and an annual income of £6,000 — more money than any reasonable man could squander in a lifetime.
So, Sir Thos was almost content.
He studied the sweep of manicured lawn just outside his library windows for a minute or two, then gazed out to the pastures beyond. Far in the distance, he could just make out the groundsmen garnering the wild spring grasses. Their scythes moved in wide, graceful arcs. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. Before the advancing men lay fields of wildflowers—Pompeian red poppies (Papaver orientale), snowdrops (Galanthus nivalis), lemon jonquils (Narcissus jonquilla), and plum-colored bluebells (Campanula rotundifolia)— swaying and shifting in the wayward spring gusts.
Sir Thos could think of only one thing that might add to his felicity. Gazing at the tattered copy of The Midnight Assassin that lay on his lap, its pages uncut, he thought: “Were I to possess a fine collection of manuscripts, I would be completely happy.”
Sir Thos worshipped the written word. He loved holy antiquities, with
sooty Latin calligraphy inscribed on creamy vellum. On the Old High Road,
he whiled away the hours happily sorting through the cheap novels that
spilled out of bookseller’s carts: The Cavern of Horrors, The
Sorcerer’s Palace, The Mystery of the Black Convent. What
he cherished most were old manuscripts. Parish registries as old as Doomsday,
crammed with tidy rows of faded, faltering signatures. Bygone court records.
Birth certificates, marriage licenses, and death notices. Deeds. Moth-eaten
etchings. Sir Thos cared about all things written, but manuscripts stirred
his most protective instincts. A manuscript was singular. There was only
one. Lose that, and all be lost. Forever.
Sir Thos becomes consumed by the desire to own more books.
Over the decades, Sir Thos was consumed with a single idea. Acquire more books! It is easy to understand why the Baronet was tempted to want more. The French revolution had o’er turned the ancient felicities. All over Europe, ancient families facing financial ruin were sacrificing priceless treasures in a desperate attempt to save themselves. In France, the Jesuits offered up monastic libraries. In Germany, private collectors hawked rarities—medieval illuminated manuscripts with jeweled bindings, ancient Icelandic tales inked on sealskin, Coptic fragments from the 6th century, and more. Sir Thos wanted them all.
He willing did whatever e’r it took to build his library. Beg, cringe, and fawn. Insult his intimates. Pen poisonous letters. Cheat, lie, and rob. Threaten and bully. Sometimes, he was even willing to pay for what he wanted. During his lifetime, on a yearly income of only £6,000, he flung away more than £250,000 on books. Generally, he tried to weasel out of paying. He engaged fleets of lawyers to issue subpoenas, file writs, sue, and counter-sue. Naturally, he didn’t pay his lawyers either. At times, he resorted to even stronger measures. When George Cooper, Her Majesty’s tax collector, had the audacity to try to collect back taxes, Sir Thos thrashed him. These strategies worked. During his lifetime, Sir Thos managed, by hook and crook, to acquire more than 50,000 books and 60,000 manuscripts.
The first requirement was money. Sir Thos spent all that he had on new acquisitions, then began to buy on credit. He refused to squander money on himself or his family. He paid for food, clothing, and shelter with promises. When tradesmen finally got wise and refused to extend him more credit, his family did without. So what if they starved? Wore rags? If Middle Hill was overrun by rats?
Sir Thos would not provide dowers for his three daughters—Henrietta, Mary, and Kate. He was interested in acquiring priceless papers, not suitable son-in-laws. Henrietta, he insisted, must marry someone who possessed a great library and a great fortune. In 1841, Sir Thos concluded that his young collector friend, James Orchard Halliwell, filled the bill. Halliwell, just twenty-one, handsome and well educated, had attended Trinity and Jesus Colleges at Cambridge. An avid collector of antiquities, he’d already been named a Fellow of the Royal Society and the Society of Antiquaries. True, Halliwell was not without flaws. Gossips whispered that a few of the documents he’d sold to Sir Thos were stolen from Trinity College. That didn’t concern Sir Thos. What did upset him was the belated discovery that Halliwell possessed a yearly income of only £200. The Baronet commanded Henrietta to break off the engagement so he could search for a more prosperous husband. But by then, it was too late. The young couple was in love, and decided to elope.
