I run an antiquarian bookshop in Paris and occasionally share finds here when the object has enough layers to be worth unpacking. This one does.
The book is "En visite chez l'Oncle Sam New-York et Chicago" engravings by Crafty and Martin-Chablis
Mandat-Grancey (1842–1911) was a French naval officer turned travel writer one of those sharp-tongued aristocrats who travelled the world and came back with opinions. He visited New York and Chicago in the early 1880s, wrote a series of articles for Le Correspondant, and compiled them into this book. The first edition appeared in 1885 and sold fast enough to warrant a second edition the same year then this 1891 reissue, which itself went through two printings rapidly.
His take on America is fascinating by today's standards: he's genuinely charmed by ordinary Americans while being deeply suspicious of what he called their government's impérialisme rampant. He describes the Brooklyn Bridge (then barely eight years old), the Elevated Railroad at 23rd Street, Coney Island, and the dining rooms of the great transatlantic steamers...
At the turn of the century, Mandat-Grancey became associated with the royalism of Charles Maurras and the Action Française, making him one of the more politically charged travel writers of the Belle Époque. Reading his American impressions with that knowledge adds an interesting retrospective irony.
This copy is in a handsome period binding executed shortly after publication:
Half dark blue morocco over marbled boards (snail-shell swirl pattern, burgundy/black/gold a classic late 19th-century French style)
Four raised bands on the spine, gilt-lettered title and author label.
The spine carries an additional heraldic identifier: a small red leather piece stamped in gold with a comital crown and the letter T. This is the owner's library mark, applied by the binder to make identification possible on a shelf without opening the book. It's the 19th-century equivalent of a spine label, but considerably more elegant.
The provenance, and where it gets interesting
The previous owner was Gaston Perrot de Thannberg (1840–1906), comte, former cavalry captain, son of the Inspector-General of the French National Stud Farms. He marked this volume in three separate ways:
Engraved armorial ex-libris, pasted to the front pastedown, full heraldic achievement with supporters, comital crown, motto (Semper ad Altum), beautifully printed
Autograph signature in ink on the half-title: Comte Gaston de Thannberg
Autograph signature repeated on the title page
Triple-marking was not unusual for serious collectors who feared dispersal. The irony is that it didn't help: in 1904, his library was sold, apparently under financial pressure, the Archives commerciales de la France of May 28, 1904 lists him and his wife in what reads as a liquidation proceeding, at their address on the avenue de la Bourdonnais, 7th arrondissement. He died two years later, in December 1906, at Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
His books now surface regularly in the antiquarian trade, all identically bound, all triple-signed. The library of a careful man, dispersed by circumstance.
A small bibliographic note worth raising
The first edition (1885) is the one collectors usually seek. But the 1891 "deuxième édition" has an interesting publishing history detail: the BnF copy digitised on Gallica is from 1885, yet the title page of that copy also reads Deuxième Édition, suggesting the second edition appeared almost simultaneously with the first, within the same year, before the 1891 reissue. Plon seems to have been unusually coy about edition statements on this title.
Why I find this object worth sharing:
It's not a spectacular rarity. It's a well-made, well-preserved copy of a popular travel book, in a good period binding, with clean provenance. But that's precisely what makes it interesting to me: the combination of an identifiable collector, a documented dispersal event, a binding made specifically to mark ownership, and a text that captures a very specific cultural moment, a French aristocrat trying to make sense of America six years before the automobile, twelve years before the Wright brothers, feels like more than the sum of its parts.
The motto on the ex-libris says Semper ad Altum. Ever upward. The library was sold at auction. The book survived.