Issue No. 8 · October 19, 2026
Old Book Hunter #8
Before the phonograph, a performance couldn’t be kept. A song lasted exactly as long as someone was singing it. After that, it survived only in memory, in manuscript, or in print. This issue is about the print: five books by people trying to hold on to something that wouldn’t stay put.
Charles Burney spent the second half of 1770 bouncing across France and Italy by coach, notebook open, writing down what he heard before it was gone. Henry Roberts went the other way, engraving each song in Clio and Euterpe with its own little scene, as though a tune needed a picture to be remembered. Daines Barrington, a London judge, sat an eight-year-old Mozart down to find out whether the boy was a fraud. He later sent to Salzburg for the child’s baptismal record, just to be sure. Charles Ancillon asked a question that sounds like a joke and wasn’t: whether a castrato, at the time among the most celebrated singers in Europe, should be allowed to marry.
Then there’s Hervieux de Chanteloup, who wanted to teach canaries to sing on command. His method was a small hand-cranked organ and a great deal of patience.
They are a sentimental traveler, an engraver, a skeptical judge, a pamphleteering Huguenot and a bird man. Each of them, in his own way, was trying to write music down. All five books are for sale now, from $58 to $850.
Hunter's lesson
When the Translation Outranks the Original
Collectors are trained to want the original: the first edition, in the first language, from the author’s own hand. Usually that instinct is right. This week’s Weird One is a case where it isn’t.
Charles Ancillon’s Traité des eunuques appeared in 1707, published anonymously and dedicated to Pierre Bayle under an anagram. It’s a learned, slightly dry inquiry into whether a eunuch could lawfully marry. A first edition in contemporary calf is offered today at $318.
Eleven years later, Edmund Curll brought it out in London as Eunuchism Display’d. Curll was the most notorious bookseller of his day. Alexander Pope once slipped him an emetic, and in 1727 he became the first man convicted in England of obscene libel. Curll didn’t just translate the book. He gave it a story, and the title page announced that it was occasioned by a young lady who had fallen in love with Nicolini, the castrato then singing Italian opera at the Haymarket, and had nearly married him. A treatise became gossip, and a French curiosity became a document of London’s opera craze. Copies of that English edition are priced at $750 and $1,500 right now.
In this case, the translation is a new book, made for a new audience at a particular moment. When that moment is the interesting part, the “lesser” edition can carry more history than the original.