The .iiii. is of marchantes and
chaungers.
The .v. is of phisicyens and cirugiens
and apotecaries.
The .vi. is of tauerners and hostelers.
The .vii. is of y’e gardes
of the citees & tollers & customers.
The .viii. is of ribauldes disepleyars
and currours.
The .iiii. traytee is of the meuyng
and yssue of them And hath .viii.
chapitres.
The first is of the eschequer.
The seconde of the yssue and progression
of the kynge.
The thirde of the yssue of the quene.
The fourth is of the yssue of the
alphyns.
The fifth is of the yssue of the
knyghtes.
The sixty chapitre of the yssue
of the rooks.
The seuenth is of the meuynge &
yssue of the comyn peple.
And the eyght and laste chapitre
is of the epilegacion and of the
recapitulacion of all these forsaid
chapitres.
The readers of the “Antiquary” will remember
the anecdote told with so much effusion by Jonathan
Oldbuck. ’"Davy Wilson,” he said, “commonly
called Snuffy Davy, from his inveterate addiction to
black rappee, was the very prince of scouts for searching
blind alleys, cellars, and stalls, for rare volumes.
He had the scent of a slow-hound, sir, and the snap
of a bull-dog. He would detect you an old black-letter
ballad among the leaves of a law-paper, and find an
editio princeps under the mask of a school
Corderius. Snuffy Davy bought the ‘Game
of Chess, 1474,’ the first book ever printed
in England, from a stall in Holland for about two
groschen, or two-pence of our money. He sold it
to Osborne for twenty pounds, and as many books as
came to twenty pounds more. Osborne re-sold this
inimitable windfall to Dr. Askew for sixty guineas.
At Dr. Askew’s sale,” continued the old
gentleman, kindling as he spoke, “this inestimable
treasure blazed forth in its full value and was purchased
by Royalty itself for one hundred and seventy pounds!
Could a copy now occur, Lord only knows,” he
ejaculated with a deep sigh and lifted-up hands, “Lord
only knows what would be its ransom; and yet it was
originally secured, by skill and research, for the
easy equivalent of two-pence sterling."’
Sir Walter Scott in a footnote adds:—“This
bibliomaniacal anecdote is literally true; and David
Wilson, the author need not tell his brethren of the
Roxburghe and Bannatyne Clubs, was a real personage.”
Mr. Blades, whose iconoclastic temper is not moved
to mercy even by this good story, says that although
it “looks like a true bibliographical anecdote,”
its appearance is deceptive, and that “not a
single statement is founded on fact."[1]
