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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/38746-8.txt b/38746-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b753ebf --- /dev/null +++ b/38746-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3355 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Unpublishable Memoirs, by A. S. W. Rosenbach + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Unpublishable Memoirs + +Author: A. S. W. Rosenbach + +Illustrator: Oliver Herford + +Release Date: February 1, 2012 [EBook #38746] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: THE BIBLIOFIENDS. DRAWN BY OLIVER HERFORD] + + + + + +THE + +UNPUBLISHABLE + +MEMOIRS + + +BY A. S. W. ROSENBACH + + + + +NEW YORK + +MITCHELL KENNERLEY + +MCMXVII + + + + +COPYRIGHT 1917 BY + +MITCHELL KENNERLEY + + + + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES + +BY THE VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY + +BINGHAMTON - - NEW YORK + + + + +TO + +R. R. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + The Unpublishable Memoirs + The Three Trees + The Purple Hawthorn + The Disappearance of Shakespeare + The Colonial Secretary + In Defence of His Name + "The Hundred and First Story" + The Lady of the Breviary + The Evasive Pamphlet + The Great Discovery + The Fifteen Joys of Marriage + + + + +THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS + +It was very cruel. + +He was dickering for one of the things he had desired for a life-time. + +It was in New York at one of the famous book-stores of the metropolis. +The proprietor had offered to him for one hundred and sixty +dollars--exactly the amount he had in bank--the first and only edition +of the "Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel, a little volume issued +in London in 1790, and one of two copies known, the other being in the +famous "hidden library" of the British Museum. + +It was a scandalous chronicle of fashionable life in the eighteenth +century, and many brilliant names were implicated therein; +distinguished and reputable families, that had long been honored in the +history of England, were ruthlessly depicted with a black and venomous +pen. He had coveted this book for years, and here it was within his +grasp! He had just told the proprietor that he would take it. + +Robert Hooker was a book-collector. With not a great deal of money, he +had acquired a few of the world's most sought-after treasures. He had +laboriously saved his pennies, and had, with the magic of the +bibliophile, turned them into rare volumes! He was about to put the +evil little book into his pocket when he was interrupted. + +A large, portly man, known to book-lovers the world over, had entered +the shop and asked Mr. Rodd if he might examine the Beau Brummel +Memoirs. He had looked at it before, he said, but on that occasion had +merely remarked that he would call again. He saw the volume on the +table in front of Hooker, picked it up without ceremony, and told the +owner of the shop that he would purchase it. + +"Excuse me," exclaimed Hooker, "but I have just bought it." + +"What!" said the opulent John Fenn, "I came especially to get it." + +"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenn," returned the proprietor, "Mr. Hooker, here, has +just said that he would take it." + +"Now, look here, Rodd, I've always been a good customer of yours. I've +spent thousands in this very shop during the last few years. I'll give +you two hundred dollars for it." + +"No," said Rodd. + +"Three hundred!" said Fenn. + +"No." + +"Four hundred!" + +"No." + +"I'll give you five hundred dollars for it, and if you do not take it, +I shall never enter this place again!" + +Without another word Rodd nodded, and Fenn quickly grasped the little +book, and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. Hooker became +angry and threatened to take it by bodily force. A scuffle ensued. +Two clerks came to the rescue, and Fenn departed triumphantly with the +secrets of the noble families of Great Britain securely in his +possession. + +Rodd, in an ingratiating manner, declared to Hooker that no money had +passed between them, and consequently there had been no sale. Hooker, +disappointed, angry, and beaten, could do nothing but retire. + +At home, among his books, his anger increased. It was the old, old +case of the rich collector gobbling up the small one. It was +outrageous! He would get even--if it cost him everything. He dwelt +long and bitterly upon his experience. A thought struck him. Why not +prey upon the fancies of the wealthy! He would enter the lists with +them; he would match his skill against their money, his knowledge +against their purse. + +Hooker was brought up in the mystic lore of books, for he was the son +of a collector's son. He had always been a student, and half his time +had been spent in the bookseller's shops, dreaming of the wonderful +editions of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of rare Ben Jonson, that some day +he might call his own. He would now secure the priceless things +dearest to the hearts of men, at no cost to himself! + +He would not limit his choice to books, which were his first love, but +he would help himself to the fair things that have always delighted the +soul,--pictures, like those of Raphael and da Vinci; jewels, like +Cellini's; little bronzes, like Donatello's; etchings of Rembrandt; the +porcelains (True Ming!) of old China; the rugs of Persia the +magnificent! + +The idea struck him at first as ludicrous and impossible. The more he +thought of it, the more feasible it became. He had always been a good +mimic, a fair amateur actor, a linguist, and a man of parts. He +possessed scholarly attainments of a high order. He would use all of +his resources in the game he was about to play. For nothing deceives +like education! + +And it had another side--a brighter, more fantastic side. Think of the +fun he would get out of it! This appealed to him. Not only could he +add to his collections the most beautiful treasures of the world, but +he would now taste the keenest of joys--he would laugh and grow fat at +the other man's expense. It was always intensely humorous to observe +the discomfiture of others. + +With particular pleasure Hooker read that evening in the _Post_ this +insignificant paragraph: + +"John Fenn, President of the Tenth National Bank of Chicago, departs +for home to-night." + +He laid the paper down immediately, telephoned to the railroad office +for a reservation in the sleeping-car leaving at midnight, and prepared +for his first "banquet." Hooker shaved off his moustache, changed his +clothes and his accent, and took the train for Chicago. + +As luck would have it, John Fenn was seated next to him in the +smoking-car, reading the evening papers. Hooker took from his pocket a +book catalogue, issued by one of the great English auction houses. He +knew that was the best bait! No book-lover that ever lived could +resist dipping into a sale catalogue. + +Hooker waited an hour--it seemed like five. Fenn read every word in +the papers, even the advertisements. He dwelt long and lovingly over +the financial pages, running his eyes up and down the columns of +"to-day's transactions." He at last finished the perusal, and glanced +at Hooker. He said nothing for awhile, and appeared restless, like a +man with money weighing on his mind. This, of course, is a very +distracting and unpleasant feeling. Several times he seemed on the +verge of addressing his fellow-traveller, but desisted from the +attempt. Finally he said: + +"I see, friend, that you're reading one of Sotheby's catalogues." + +"Yes," answered Hooker, shortly. + +"You must be interested in books," pursued Fenn. + +"Yes," was the brief response. + +"Do you collect them?" + +"Yes." + +Fenn said nothing for five minutes. The stranger did not appear to be +very communicative. + +"Pardon me, Mr.----, I am also a book-collector. I have quite a fine +library of my own." + +"Really?" + +"Yes, I always visit the shops when I go to New York. Here is a rarity +I picked up to-day." + +The stranger expressed little interest until Fenn took from his pocket +the "Unpublishable Memoirs." It was wrapped neatly in paper, and Fenn +carefully removed the little volume from the wrappings. He handed it +to the man who perused so assiduously the auction catalogue. + +"How extraordinary!" he cried, "the lost book of old Brummel. My +people were acquainted with the Beau. I suppose they are grilled right +merrily in it! Of all places, how did you come to purchase it in the +States?" + +"That's quite a story. A queer thing how I bought it. I saw it the +other day at Rodd's on Fifth Avenue. I did not buy it at first--the +price was too high. Thought I would be able to buy it later for less. +This morning, I went to see Rodd to make an offer on it, when I found +that Rodd had just sold it to some young student. The confounded +simpleton said it belonged to him! What did that trifler know about +rare books? Now _I_ know how to appreciate them." + +"Naturally!" said the stranger. + +"I've the finest collection in the West. I had to pay a stiff advance +before the proprietor would let me have it. It was a narrow +squeak,--by about a minute. The young jackass tried to make a scene, +but I taught him a thing or two. He'll not be so perky next time. How +my friends will enjoy this story of the killing. I can't wait until I +get home." + +The stranger with the freshly-shaven face, the English clothes, and the +austere eyes did not seem particularly pleased. + +"How extraordinary!" he said, coldly, and returned to his reading. + +Fenn placed the book in his pocket, a pleased expression on his face, +as if he were still gloating over his conquest. He was well satisfied +with his day, so intellectually spent among the banks and bookshops of +New York! + +"By the way, I am acquainted with this Rodd," said the Englishman, +after a pause. "He told me a rather interesting story the other day, +but it was in a way a boomerang. I don't like that man's methods. +I'll never buy a book from him." + +"Why not?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Fenn. + +"Well, you'd better hear the tale. It appears he has a wealthy client +in Chicago and he occasionally goes out to sell him some of his +plunder. He did not tell me the name of his customer, but, according +to Rodd, he is an ignoramus and knows nothing at all about books. +Thinks it improves his social position. You know the type. Last +winter Rodd picked up for fifty dollars a beautifully illuminated copy +of Magna Charta issued about a hundred years ago. It's a fine volume, +printed on vellum, the kind that Dibdin raved about, but always +considered a 'plug' in England. Worth about forty guineas at the most. +You know the book?" + +Fenn nodded. + +"Well, it worried Mr. Rodd how much he could ask his Western patron for +it. He left for Chicago via Philadelphia and while he was waiting in +the train there he thought he could ask two hundred dollars for it. +The matter was on his mind until he arrived at Harrisburg, where he +determined that three hundred would be about right. At Pittsburgh he +raised the price to five hundred, and at Canton, Ohio, it was seven +hundred and fifty! The more Rodd thought of the exquisite beauty of +the volume, of its glowing colors and its lovely old binding, the more +the price soared. At Fort Wayne, Indiana, it was a thousand dollars. +When he arrived at Chicago the next morning, his imagination having had +full swing, he resolved he would not under any circumstances part with +it for less than two thousand dollars!" + +"The old thief!" exclaimed Fenn, with feeling. + +"It was a lucky thing," continued the stranger, "that his client did +not live in San Francisco!" + +At this Fenn broke forth into profanity. + +"I always said that Rodd was an unprincipled, unholy, unmitigated--" + +"Wait until you hear the end, sir," said the Englishman. + +"That afternoon he called on the Western collector. He had an +appointment with him at two o'clock. He left Rodd waiting in an +outside office for hours. Rodd told me he was simply boiling. Went +all the way to Chicago by special request and the brute made him cool +his heels until four o'clock before he condescended to see him. He +would pay dearly for it. When Rodd showed him the blooming book he +asked three thousand five hundred for it--would not take a penny +less--and he told me, sir, that he actually sold it for that price!" + +"Don't you believe it," said Fenn, hotly. "Old Rodd is an unqualified +liar. He sold it for five thousand dollars. That's what he did, the +damn pirate!" + +"How do you know, sir?" + +"How do I know, _know, know_!" he repeated, excitedly. "I _ought_ to +know! I'm the fool that bought it!" + +Without another word Fenn retired to his stateroom. + +The next morning when Fenn arrived at his office in the Fenn Building, +he called to one of his business associates, who, like his partner, was +interested in the acquisition of rare and unusual books. + +"I say, Ogden, I have something great to show you. Picked it up +yesterday. In this package is the wickedest little book ever written!" + +"Let me see it!" said Mr. Ogden, eagerly. + +Fenn gingerly removed the paper in which it was wrapped, as he did not +wish to injure the precious contents. He turned suddenly pale. Ogden +glanced quickly at the title-page for fear he would be seen with the +naughty little thing in his hands. + +It was a very ordinary volume, entitled, "A Sermon on Covetousness, a +Critical Exposition of the Tenth Commandment by the Rev. Charles +Wesley." + +"The devil!" exclaimed John Fenn. + +"How the old dodge works," said Robert Hooker to himself on his way +back to New York. "The duplicate package, known since the days of +Adam! And how easy it was to substitute it under his very eyes! I +shall call Beau Brummel's 'Unpublishable Memoirs' number _one_ in my +new library." + + + + +THE THREE TREES + +In the famous cabinet of John Bull Stevens was a superb impression of +Rembrandt's celebrated etching, "The Three Trees." It was the only +copy known in what print collectors chose to term "the first state." +This exquisite work of art had only recently been discovered in +Amsterdam by a world-renowned critic, and promptly sold at a fabulous +price to the American enthusiast. It had several lines from right to +left in the middle tree that had never been noticed in any other copy; +the etching, according to the earlier authorities, had existed in but +one state. + +To the uninitiated all this disturbance about a few lines on the trunk +of a tree seemed unintelligible and ridiculous, but to the print +collectors it was considered a magnificent "find," ranking with the +discovery of electricity or the Roentgen rays. Periodicals devoted to +the fine arts published many profound articles about the unique "Three +Trees," and one of them suggested that such an extraordinary treasure +should repose in a museum, where the art-loving public would have an +opportunity to enjoy its marvelous beauty; it was a crime that it +should be locked away forever in a private residence. + +Robert Hooker was reading this one evening in the "Art Journal" when a +thought came to him. Why not add this immortal work of Rembrandt's to +his museum, which at that time existed only in his mind? Why not +appropriate this etching and place it securely under lock and key, +awaiting the time when it would be freely offered to the gaze of the +public in an institution to be proudly called after his name? + +He had already some tangible things to put therein,--the famous +"Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel from the Fenn collection; the +"Kann" rug; and a few other wonderful curiosities that he had +"borrowed" from celebrated amateurs as the nucleus of a loan collection +in his mythical museum. The "Three Trees" should, by right, bloom in +his own fair garden. + +John Bull Stevens was unapproachable. He did not show his things. He +gloated over them alone, in the most selfish, wicked manner, in his +dark old mansion on lower Fifth Avenue. Admission was denied to +everyone, except a few intimate friends; no one could see the originals +of some of the world's masterpieces. + +Art institutes pestered him with requests to examine this or that; +celebrated students everywhere clamored for a view of Whistler's +portrait of John Bull himself, or Gilbert Stuart's more celebrated +portrait of John Bull's grandfather. When curtly refused admission to +his galleries, extraordinary letters were written him, full of caustic +and delightful epithets, which had not the slightest effect upon him. +It was said he had no conception of the universality of art, which +includes kings and paupers,--wicked, rich collectors and virtuous, poor +students! + +To make himself appear more human, John Bull Stevens at last determined +to publish a catalogue raisonné of his pictures, his drawings, his +etchings and his engravings. He thought a beautiful reproduction or +facsimile would be as satisfying to the critics as a view of the +original. + +Robert Hooker, for one, did not agree with him. + +The catalogue was duly announced, to be published within the year and +presented to the museums and libraries of this country and Europe. +Photographers and printers, art writers and reviewers were employed to +get up the sumptuous work. + +Hooker suddenly became imbued with a passion for photography; he became +intimate with the distinguished artist who was to take the pictures of +the Stevens collection. + +Hooker became so much interested in his new work that he offered his +services as an assistant, without pay of course. It was just for the +experience. Nothing more.... Hooker spent one whole morning in the +Stevens' residence helping the celebrated photographer. They were to +take negatives that day of the portfolio of seventeenth century +etchings. John Bull was there of course, suspicious and watchful. The +photograph of the "Three Trees" was made the exact size of the superb +original. + +When this had been successfully accomplished, Hooker, the careless +assistant, seemingly nervous in the presence of the great collector, +let fall the frame that held the great etching; the glass was shattered +and Stevens swore as many picturesque and artistic curses as there were +fragments upon the floor. The assistant was properly rebuked and as +quickly dismissed; the unfortunate Hooker offered sixty cents to pay +for the shattered glass,--which was promptly accepted! He departed, +covered with ignominy under the glances of the angry Stevens. + +That evening a plate was made from the negative by a new intaglio +process. All that night on the top floor of a dingy building on +Thirty-ninth Street engravers worked on the copper, bringing out the +excellencies of a famous etching; old paper with the watermark of 1631 +had been procured and all that remained to be done was the printing. +By noon the next day a facsimile had been made, beautiful as the +original itself, as poetic and as glorious as the veritable "Three +Trees." + +But what was to be done with it, now that it had been created, a true +brother of the original? The fertile brain of Robert Hooker had long +before conceived the answer. The clumsy photographer's assistant had +deftly dropped the frame with practiced skill, leaving the etching +untouched, the glass alone being injured. There is even an art in +_dropping_ a picture! + +But before the disgraced apprentice departed he had heard Stevens give +directions to a faithful servant: "Take _that_ carefully to Kemble's. +See that a new glass is put on it and returned to me to-morrow, without +fail!" + +The next morning Hooker happened to stroll into the picture galleries, +known everywhere as "Kemble's," and actually purchased something, +paying for it with real money. It came hard with him, for he no longer +liked to buy things in what he termed "the ordinary way." + +He purchased for sixty dollars a little etching by D. Y. Cameron, and, +strange to say, not a frame in that great establishment suited him. +One was too brown or too "antique," or not the right width; the +salesman, who was a good fellow, became irritated. A whole hour wasted +over a three dollar frame. He gave vent to his pent-up feelings by +being excruciatingly polite, which is rude. He suggested that as Mr. +Hooker did not see anything to suit his fastidious taste among the +thousands of mouldings already shown, perhaps he would like to look +through the samples in the workshop? Hooker reluctantly consented, and +there among the old and new frames, in the company of gilders, fitters +and mat-makers he carefully made a suitable selection. + +Of course the "Three Trees" was there. Its light could not be +concealed--its beauty spoke to Hooker from a far corner. This +masterpiece of the etcher's art was lying on a table awaiting the glass +that was to guard and watch over it. The substitution was quickly and +quietly made. The little Rembrandt was carefully, nay tenderly, placed +in a commodious side-pocket of Hooker's coat; the treacherous younger +brother was left upon the work-table, where it would shine by a false +light--the light of the faithless, the reflected brilliancy of the +wicked. + +When the great museum was founded some years later, when it was +acclaimed as one of the art institutes of the world, when great +scholars extolled it, and poets sang of it, a list of its treasures was +published which amazed the critics of two continents. Collectors in +England, in France, in New York, were astounded! + +Mr. Stevens read with envy that it contained the only copy known of the +first state of Rembrandt's "Three Trees." "Another newspaper canard! +An infernal lie! A senseless fabrication!" he exclaimed. _His_ was +the only one; he did not believe another would ever come to light. + +He would examine his own again. He took the etching carefully from the +wall. What was the faint blur--was it a line at the bottom? It seemed +strange, for he had not noticed it before. He would get his magnifying +glass. He read, in microscopic letters: "Facsimile from the unique +original in the Hooker Museum." + + + + +THE PURPLE HAWTHORN + +When the Appleton collection of Chinese porcelains was purchased _en +bloc_ by a well-known house doing business on Fifth Avenue, the +celebrated purple hawthorn vase was considered the most precious of all. + +It was a large vase dating from the seventeenth century, and according +to eminent authorities, it was of the great Ch'ing Dynasty with the +curious marks of the period known as K'ang-hsi. + +The vase itself was very lovely; it was oviform with a graceful, +flaring neck. The exquisite design showed a dwarfed mei tree with the +most beautiful purple blossoms, with rare foliage and gorgeous birds +painted by a great, although unknown, artist. The glazing was superb, +being transparent and of unusual brilliancy. + +This noble work of art was valued at two hundred thousand dollars. + +Three men of vast wealth competed for the prize, and the lucky +purchaser was the eminent banker, John T. Sterling. Two financiers, +known the world over, grew purple with jealousy when they first +discovered that it was to go into the Sterling collection. Their faces +resembled the color of the wonderful blossoms on the hawthorn vase. + +Robert Hooker wanted to add to his museum this precious gift of the old +Chinese gods. At the various places where the vase had been exhibited, +he had often been seen gazing covetously at it. When it was offered +for sale, he knew it was useless to ask the price--which was utterly +beyond him. + +One day, Hooker read in the society columns of the _Herald_ that Jasper +Foster was going to take up his residence in Italy on account of the +illness of his only daughter. He intended to sell his fine old house +on 17th Street, and all the furniture that it contained. + +Now Jasper Foster was celebrated for one thing only. His name was +known to fame but for a single object. He was the owner of the mate of +the celebrated purple hawthorn vase in the Appleton collection. + +Foster was an extremely modest, unworldly, retiring gentleman. In the +last fifteen years there had been many inquiries about the vase, and +numerous offers to purchase it, but he had always declined to part with +it. It had been the property of his father and his grandfather, who +had bought it from a sea-captain about the year 1820. + +But now Foster was in dire straits. His house was mortgaged, and his +daughter was ill with a malady that required a milder climate than New +York. It was on this account that he was going to take up his +residence in sunny Italy. + +As soon as Hooker read the brief paragraph in the newspaper, he hurried +to the rather imposing house on lower 17th Street. With fear and +trembling, he rang the old-fashioned bell-pull. + +Yes, Mr. Foster was at home. + +The maid showed Mr. Hooker into the first parlor. He heard voices in +an adjoining room. Mr. Foster then had other visitors. + +To pass away the time, he picked up a magazine but put it down +instantly. He had heard the magic words "purple hawthorn." Some one +else was before him. He would find out. + +Going behind an old Spanish leather screen, he listened. He looked +through the aperture, and beheld two men, well-known in the world of +finance. One was John T. Sterling; the other was James Thatcher, the +celebrated collector. + +Mr. Foster was not there. It was early in the morning, and perhaps he +had not completed his toilet. + +"Hello!--You here?" said one voice. + +"Check-mated!" exclaimed the other. + +"Damn it! I never expected to see you." + +"Of course not. I know your mission. We had better see Foster +together." + +"No, I came first. I claim the privilege of the first interview!" + +"No! I shall speak out. There is no use for us to bid against each +other. It would spoil the market! I'm sure we can come to some +agreement." + +"No! I own the Appleton vase, and by right I should possess the other. +It would make the finest pair of vases in the world! It will look +magnificent in my house on Fifth Avenue." + +"Don't be a hog--Foster does not know its value. He was offered five +thousand dollars for it after the Mary J. Morgan sale in 1886. If we +offer him fifteen thousand he will think it a gold mine. You know he +needs the money. If you offer more he will become suspicious." + +"I suppose we both can't have it. We'll toss for it! that is when the +business details are over. You make an offer of ten--and then fifteen, +or more, if necessary. Your hand upon it! Play fair--this is not the +stock-market!" + +The two eminent financiers grasped hands. An instant later Mr. Foster +entered. + +"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen." + +"Not at all, Mr. Foster," replied Sterling. "We read in the papers you +were going to Italy, and thought you would like to dispose of some of +your curiosities. May we look around?" + +"Certainly. I would like to sell some of the things. I hate to do it. +But to be frank with you the illness of my daughter has proved a great +expense. I'm forced to sell out." + +The two gentlemen looked around. One purchased a satsuma vase for a +hundred dollars--seventy-five more than it was worth! The other, after +much consideration, bought an East Indian brass bowl for fifty +dollars--an extravagant price. They seemed to ignore the beautiful +vase in a glass cabinet in the corner. They were unconscious of its +existence! + +"I have something really fine, gentlemen--the hawthorn vase purchased +by my grandfather. You know about it?" + +"I heard something of it once--but I've forgotten all about it. I +would be glad to look at the vase." + +They bent their heads. A thrill ran through them as they beheld the +wonderful purple and the perfect glaze. + +"That's not bad. Of course, its shape might be better. People, +nowadays, want the green or black. I have a beautiful famille rose. +What do you want for it?" + +"I've never looked at it in that way. What's it worth to you? Some +years ago I had a good offer on it. But I didn't need the money then." + +"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I don't want to be small about it. +I'll give you ten thousand cash." + +Mr. Foster was visibly affected. + +"That is a good price. But I need more than that to see me settled in +my little villa in Tuscany. What is your very best offer?" + +"I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars, and not a cent more. And +that's a mighty liberal offer." + +"Well, that's all right. I'll let you know to-morrow." + +"Why not now?" + +"I want to consult my daughter, Caroline." + +"Well, I'll not hold my offer open another day. I'll be here to-morrow +morning at this time. Please don't keep me waiting. You know I'm a +very busy man." + +They paid Mr. Foster for their wares, and passed out; one with an old +vase, and the other with a brass bowl in his hands. + +"I think we've got him!" Hooker overheard one of them say, as the two +passed by him in the dimly-lighted room. + +Yes. Worse luck. Hooker knew it was useless to make other offers. He +had not the bank account to compete with the famous connoisseurs that +had just left. And he knew Mr. Foster was a gentleman of the old +school, and would not use one offer to secure a better one. + +"Good morning, Mr. Foster." + +"Why have I the honor of this visit?" + +"Well, to tell the truth, I read in the _Herald_ that you were going to +move. I would like to know at what price you hold this house and lot?" + +"Well, I'd sell cheap. Properties in this section are not worth what +they once were. It is assessed at seventy thousand dollars. There is +a mortgage on it of sixty. I'd take seventy-five for it. This section +is too antiquated for residences, and business is moving uptown. + +"But I want it for a residence. May I look through it?" + +"Of course!" + +Hooker examined all the rooms, noted the old-fashioned plumbing, and +said that the whole house needed a thorough going-over. + +"Well--I think I'll take it," he said at last. "Do you want the old +furniture? I would sooner buy it furnished, that is, if I could buy it +at a price!" + +This was a golden opportunity for poor Foster. To sell his house with +its worn furniture and the vase, in a single day was an achievement! + +"I would sell the house and contents entire for eighty-five thousand +dollars. I must exempt one vase, however. I've just been offered +fifteen thousand dollars for it." + +"Not for a single vase?" + +"Yes, would you like to see it?" + +"It's not much use. But I'm naturally curious." + +Mr. Foster, with great dignity, showed the beautiful hawthorn vase. It +gleamed silently in the glass case. + +"What! Fifteen thousand for _that_! Perhaps, if it is really worth +anything like that, I can afford to speculate. I might obtain a better +offer on it. I'll give you ninety-five thousand dollars for the house +and its entire furnishings." + +"No. The lowest is one hundred thousand." + +"Done! I'll take a chance. Give me an agreement of sale, and the +matter's ended!" + +Robert Hooker had a white elephant on his hands. The house was really +worth but the value of the mortgage, and the furniture scarcely five +thousand dollars. + +What was he to do? Thirty-five thousand dollars was a great deal for a +poor man to give for a vase.... + +He removed the vase that afternoon to his own modest apartment and +requested Mr. Foster to refer any one interested in its purchase to him. + +At ten o'clock next morning, he had an unusual visitor at his flat in +West Eighty-ninth Street. John T. Sterling had called to see him. +Hooker went into the living-room, visibly embarrassed in the presence +of the great man. + +"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I'll state my business quickly. Mr. Foster +tells me you purchased yesterday his house and furniture. Now I'd like +to buy it, if it's in the market. I think I could turn it into a +garage. I need one in that neighborhood. I'll give you ten percent +more than it cost you." + +"No--not at all. I'll tell you what I'll do. If you give me one +hundred and fifteen thousand for the house and its contents, _as it is +now_, I shall call it a bargain. It'll be a quick turn." + +"All right. We'll go down to my attorney's at once and draw up a bill +of sale. The entire contents of the house as it is this moment, mind +you. Come right along. You know I'm a very busy man!" + +"That's known everywhere!" said Hooker, with a flattering smile. + + +On Fifth Avenue, that afternoon: + +"Done! by God! and by a mere kid!" + + +On Eighty-ninth Street, that evening: + +"_That_ will make the Hooker Museum famous!" + + + + +THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SHAKESPEARE + +Booklovers have considered the little volume presented by Francis Bacon +to William Shakespeare the most glorious book in the world. It +remained for many years in the British Museum, and many a pilgrimage +has been made to worship at its shrine. + +It was deposited in the Museum in 1838 by the Hedley family of Crawford +Manor, and had been in the National Library for so long a time that it +was considered the property of the nation. + +The book itself was of great rarity as it was no other than the first +edition of Bacon's "Essayes" published in London in 1597. It bore the +following inscription written upon one of the fly-leaves: + + +To my perfect Friend Mr. Wylliam Shakespeare I give this booke as an +eternall Witnesse of my love. + +FRA. BACON. + + +In 1908 the Hedley family were in financial straits. It was discovered +that the copy of Bacon's Essays had not been presented to the British +Museum but merely deposited as a loan. The Museum tried its best to +retain the precious volume, but the records were clear upon the point. + +In December, 1909, the Hedleys stated that they would sell it to the +Museum for £40,000 or fifty thousand dollars less than had been offered +for it. + +An unknown collector would give two hundred and fifty thousand dollars +for it! + +The newspapers inaugurated a public subscription to keep the volume in +England, claiming that its loss could never be estimated as it was the +most precious memorial in existence of the golden age of English +literature. + +It was suspected, of course, that it would go to America. + +After six months, it was found impossible to collect the money +required. There was, apparently, but little interest in things of a +literary and artistic nature. If it had been for a new battleship +costing twenty times this amount, the money would have been forthcoming +instantly. + +It was finally announced in the London papers that the celebrated +collector, William S. Fields of New York, was the fortunate purchaser +of the world-famed volume. The news was heralded the world over. + +When it arrived, Robert Hooker, an intelligent, but by no means +wealthy, bibliophile, made a request to see it; to hold within his +mortal hands this magnificent relic of the two great Elizabethans. + +"No!" was Fields' curt response. + +It had been rumored that Robert Hooker was founding a museum in some +unknown spot--but where the money was to come from was a mystery. + +It appeared that the Bacon-Shakespeare volume was locked up in a steel +vault in the Fields' residence, guarded by an approved time-lock and +other interesting features. The book was never to be removed from the +safe, unless in the presence of the owner and a trusted servant. + +Robert Hooker was extremely desirous of adding this treasure to his +mythical museum! He said it was an outrage that one man, on account of +the accident of great wealth, should become the sole possessor of it. +It was a shock to public decency! It should repose, as it had for more +than seventy years, in a library or an institution, where it could be +freely seen. He therefore resolved to add it to his own. + +But how? The book was constantly under guard in a guaranteed +burglar-proof vault. To employ the most experienced crackmen to +undertake the job would be almost insane. He could not try to +substitute a facsimile as in the "Three Trees." To bribe the guard was +foolhardy because the guard did not know the combination of the +safety-lock. He was at his wit's end! Not a single practical idea +entered his head. For once he was at the end of his resources! + +Robert Hooker was a great lover of books. Like other kinds of love, +the more he was denied, the greater the love grew; and time added fuel +to the flames. + +One evening in his library he was thinking what a pity it was that he +could not see with his own eyes this evasive little book, when an idea +flashed through his brain. + +That night he did not sleep. + +The following day Hooker paid a visit to an old building in lower New +York. It was the United States Custom House. He asked to see an +appraiser whom he had known from boyhood days, and he talked with him +for an hour about the weather, the base-ball score and other absorbing +questions. + +"By the way, Girard, that was a nice purchase Fields made last month--I +mean the Bacon volume. I suppose you saw it when it came through the +Customs!" + +"No, I don't remember it. That's curious." + +"Well, at any rate, it was free of duty by age!" + +"I know that, Hooker. But even so, everything worth over ten thousand +dollars, I personally examine." + +"Well, it doesn't make much difference. The book should come in +without paying duty. Perhaps it came by another port." + +"No, through this. All Fields' things come here. We are told to +always hurry his through. He's got lots of pull, and we like to oblige +him." + +"Yes, of course." + +"But Fields, too, has to obey the letter of the law. I want to look +this thing up." + +Mr. Girard was gone for over half an hour. He returned. "Here's the +thing. Look at this consular invoice." + +"Bacon's Essays 1597. £200." + +"But what good does it do? The book comes in free, if it's worth a +million!" + +"I know. But Fields wanted this cleared the very day it was received. +He or no one else has a right to undervalue, even if the article does +not pay duty. I'm going to find out about this. I'm going to get that +book back and examine it. Fields or no Fields, he must obey the law! +I might get fired for this." + +The owner of the Bacon was much disturbed. Mr. Fields did not like the +publicity that followed the newspaper revelations. He was much annoyed +at one newspaper which said that if he undervalued non-dutiable things, +how about those that carried a high impost? + +Of course, the whole matter was nothing. And yet he was vexed. He did +not like the notice that a Treasury official was to call for the sacred +package that reposed within the solid walls of his safe. + +The next day, a gentleman with an order from the Treasury Department of +the United States paid him a visit. It was an official messenger in a +blue suit with a conspicuous nickel badge. The great steel doors were +opened and closed; the book was then removed; an instant later the +click of the lock was heard. The other treasures in the vault were +safe against the machinations of men! + +Twenty minutes later another official called. Mr. Fields thought at +first it was the same gentleman returning. He came for a book that had +been under-valued at the Custom House. + +"What! I've just given it to one of your men!" + +"Impossible, Mr. Fields. This order was issued to me!" + +"Why, that's a fake. Why, the one just presented to me had a big red +government seal on it. It was signed by the head of the Treasury." + +"Must have been a forgery. This is merely an order signed by Mr. Bond, +the representative at New York. But it's genuine!" + + +The various theories of the robbery that were advanced would have +filled many volumes. Even the British Museum was suspected! + +Mr. Girard, the appraiser, felt in his inmost soul that Robert Hooker +knew something about it. He told his story to the greatest detective +in the world, who was in charge of the case for the Government. He did +not want to issue a warrant for Hooker's arrest without any evidence +whatever. He could not take into custody an honorable gentleman merely +on suspicion. He had to have tangible proof. + +The great detective accordingly employed three able assistants to +examine every nook and corner of Hooker's house, including his library. + +All this was done during the absence of the owner. The police even +employed pickpockets to jostle him on the streets to make sure the book +was not upon his person. Hooker had been under surveillance three +hours after the robbery; it was either in the house, or he was not +guilty. + +Every book in his large library was examined. The police authorities +finally had a complete catalogue of his collection, which some day will +make interesting reading. The detectives took pen and pencil and noted +the titles of every volume with the year of publication; they admitted +that bibliography and literary work was not to their liking. It lacked +excitement and they all agreed it was only fit for poets, professors, +and other inferior persons. + +The detectives found it much easier at first to look for a volume bound +in red levant morocco with "Bacon's Essayes" in gold letters on the +back. This was the description given them of the original. + +Fearing some error, and being naturally suspicious, they were compelled +to be scholarly and open the volumes, but they did not find one dated +1597, or which answered in any way to the form and matter of the +missing volume. + +After a month of search, the detectives came to the conclusion that the +book was not in his possession. Robert Hooker was guiltless! + +When he is not going out of an evening, Hooker will often remain by the +fireside in his library, reading his favorite authors. When no one is +about, he will go to the largest book-case, and in a conspicuous place +in the centre of the third shelf, he will take down a small thick +volume, which he handles tenderly. He will often touch it fondly with +his lips. It is bound in shabby old black calf and is labelled on the +back "Johnson's Lives." Opening the volume you will see the curious +title-page, which reads: "The History of the Lives and Actions of the +most famous Highwaymen and Robbers. By Charles Johnson. London. +Printed in the year 1738." + +Sewed in the centre, and uniform in size, is another book which a short +time before was one of the glories of the British Museum. It had been +bereft of its red morocco covering. + +It is destined to be the chief article of interest in another museum, +to be founded for the use and instruction of the public for all time. + +For Shakespeare and Bacon are immortal! + + + + +THE COLONIAL SECRETARY + +One of the most eccentric characters in the book-world was Doctor +Morton. He knew a great deal of the lore of books and made a splendid +living by stealing them. Old volumes were meat and drink to him. He +lived quietly and respectably in a small New England town where he was +honored for his learning and piety. + +Although Dr. Morton was a thief, a pilferer of libraries and +collectors, he committed a far greater crime, for which it is +impossible to forgive him. Murder, assassination, arson and treason +were naught to this unspeakable thing. It was worse than the Seven +Deadly Sins. + +Doctor Morton was unlike the celebrated Spanish bibliophile, who, not +being able to obtain it in any other way, killed a fellow-collector in +order to secure a unique volume of early Castilian laws. He died upon +the scaffold unrepentant, maintaining that the prize was worth it. All +honor to poor Don Vincente of Aragon! His name shall always be +tenderly cherished by lovers of books! + +Doctor Morton _sold_ the books he stole! This, in the calendar of +bookish misdemeanors, is the crime of crimes. + +Now this respectable citizen of Connecticut was a man of parts. There +was no gainsaying his knowledge. His home was beautifully furnished, +for he was a person of excellent taste. He would point to an old +Italian cabinet in his living-room, and say to himself: "I paid for +that with the first edition of Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and, as to the +Chinese Chippendale table: that was bought from the proceeds of the +Elzevir 'Cĉsar.'" + +Sometimes his friends would be astounded at his unintelligible speech. +He would say in an unconscious moment: "Bring in the Vanity Fair in +Parts!" meaning nothing else but an antique astral lamp, that he had +exchanged for the first edition of Thackeray's immortal novel, or he +would exclaim to his maid at tea-time: "Sarah, use to-day the uncut +'Endymion' from the Sterling Collection," pointing at the same time to +a beautiful old silver tray. All the furnishings in his home +represented a book "borrowed" from some famous library, and then +shamelessly sold and the money expended on household gods. + +Doctor Morton obtained the books of other men by many devious ways. +For instance, he would write to a collector under the name of a +well-known amateur, and always upon the most exquisite stationery, +requesting the loan for a few days of the third quarto of Hamlet; he +was writing a brochure on the early editions of Shakespeare, and it was +necessary, in the holy cause of scholarship to inspect the volume. + +Alas! Poor Yorick! + +The collector would send the book, and that was the last he would hear +of it. + +Morton would borrow a wonderful old woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, in +pursuit of his investigations in the early history of engraving, and +return in its place in the old frame a modern facsimile, stained to +look like the original, and which the owner might not discover until +years after. + +It is not our purpose to chronicle the activities of this New England +worthy, however interesting and instructive they may be. It was Doctor +Morton's well-known coup in connection with the Welford library that +brings him into this story. + +Thomas Pennington Welford was growing old. He was a Quaker, a +descendant of the Penningtons that came over with William Penn. He +lived in an old house on Arch Street in Philadelphia, just a stone's +throw from Benjamin Franklin's grave. + +He was a Quaker of the old school; was known as conservative by members +of the Meeting-House; by others, as "close" and "tight-fisted." + +Welford gloried in this saving habit. He was considered quite wealthy +by his heirs, who were the only ones who approved of his penurious ways. + +When he arrived at the age of seventy, he determined to put his house +in order. He would sell his curiosities and his useless household +furnishings to the highest bidder. + +When Doctor Morton called one hot day in summer, Welford was in the act +of examining his books, before an old mahogany case that looked as if +it had come over with the first Pennington. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Welford, you seem pleasantly engaged." + +"Yes, sir. I'm looking over some old things. I want to get rid of +everything that I can do without." + +"I'm Doctor Morton. I'm interested in anything old or curious. Let me +see what you've got. Ah! here's an old copy of Barclay's 'Apology.' +That's very valuable." + +"How much is it worth?" + +"Seventy-five dollars." + +"That much? You surprise me." + +"It's worth probably more. Oh, look! Here's another gem. It's bound +in full morocco. Sewell's 'History of the Quakers,' 1770. That's +easily worth a hundred!" + +The two book investigators pursued their investigations. + +Mr. Welford was astonished when he learned that these old religious and +controversial writings were worth so much money. He did not know that +the modern collector was purchasing for fabulous sums the old sermons +of eminent divines. + +According to the learned Doctor Morton, these were just the things that +the rich bibliophile demanded! + +In going over these dusty books and pamphlets, Doctor Morton laid the +dingiest and shabbiest in a little pile. These were of no value he +said, and worth only the price of waste-paper. + +In the lot was a mutilated almanac, printed by Benjamin Franklin in +1733. + +"Look at that dirty old almanac! A modern one is a hundred times more +valuable!" Doctor Morton would exclaim; knowing at the same time that +this first issue of Poor Richard was worth its weight in gold. + +"That ought to be destroyed! It's a filthy attack on William Penn and +the Quakers. If I were you I'd put that in the fire!" said the +virtuous doctor, pointing to a little quarto pamphlet published in +London in 1682, and one of two copies extant, the other being priced at +$600.00 by a well-known book-seller. In it is the curious statement +that Penn was fond of certain ladies of the wicked court of Charles II. +And it was not in Lowndes, or in any bibliography! + +When the last volume on the last shelf had been valued by the doctor, +Mr. Welford stated that he did not care to sell immediately. He wanted +to "look around a little." The books were really worth more than he +thought. + +"Then, sir, why have you put me to all this trouble! I've lost a whole +morning going over your things and telling you about them. When you +make up your mind to sell, let me know. This pile of trash you can +burn, or you can sell it to the old-paper man. You might get +twenty-five cents for the lot. Perhaps you might give a few of those +worthless pamphlets to me. You've taken up enough of my time." + +"The lot will cost thee two dollars, Doctor." + +"All right. Give me a receipt. This is the last time I'll give free +advice to anyone! Particularly a Quaker!" + +When Mr. Welford "looked around" he discovered that the beautifully +bound sermons, eulogies, prayer-books and catechisms were worth next to +nothing. He almost passed away when a kind friend told him that Poor +Richard's Almanac was worth a thousand dollars. + +Another amiable acquaintance cheerfully imparted the information that +the scandalous pamphlet about the First Proprietor of Pennsylvania was +valued at ten shares of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. At hearing this +good news, he put on his gray hat and started full of righteous +indignation to interview the lucky purchaser. + +"Don't swear, Mr. Welford. That's not becoming one of your persuasion." + +"Thou--thou--" + +"Don't choke and splutter so. It's bad for the heart." + +"Thee told me those big books of sermons were valuable. They're not +worth the paper they're written on!" + +"Now, you're becoming sacrilegious!" + +"Thee knows that rotten old thing about Penn was worth all those +catechisms and sermons combined." + +"I naturally thought that a religious book was worth more than a +scandalous one. That stands to reason." + +"There's no arguing with thee. I'll expose thee, if it takes--" + +"Oh, no, you won't. I have your receipt in full." + +Mr. Welford thought a minute. A grim smile overspread his features. + +"I congratulate thee, Doctor. If thee can get the better of a +Philadelphia Quaker, thou art welcome to the profit!" + +Now this has nothing to do with Robert Hooker. It appears upon further +investigation, however, that the candle-stick made by Paul Revere, +silversmith and patriot, that stood upon the mantel-piece of the +Doctor's home in Connecticut, was known under the outrageous name of +"Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy in Old Calf." + +Why this candle-stick was catalogued in this mysterious way was known +only to Doctor Morton. + +Three years ago the first edition of Burton's great book, published in +Oxford in 1621, and in its original calf binding, was borrowed by the +Doctor, who said he was writing an article for the _Atlantic Monthly_, +on "Old Burton and the Anatomy." + +The owner of the book could not resist the gentle demands of the true +scholar, and sent the volume. He ought to have known better, for his +name was Robert Hooker! + +It was not soothing to the imaginations of book-lovers when it became +known that the two gems from Welford's library had gone into the +rapacious hands of Doctor Morton, to be turned into an old mahogany +sofa or a colonial high-boy. + +It was criminal, and must be prevented at all costs. And Robert +Hooker, smarting under the recollection of the loss of the "Anatomy" +thought he would like to add wicked "Penn" and "Poor Richard" to his +household. They would prove a considerable addition to his "museum of +the imagination." + +How to secure them was a problem! Ordinary methods could not be +applied to the extraordinary Doctor Morton! The wisdom of the serpent +was as nothing to the vivid intellectuality of the Connecticut Sage! +It must be confessed that only New England could have produced him; +only the rarified bookish atmosphere of three hundred years could have +engendered a creature of such genius! + +Hooker never despaired. A remedy was close at hand. + +He was walking one day, on Thirty-ninth Street, and just off Broadway, +he noticed a very handsome mahogany secretary in an antique store. He +entered the establishment, and asked its price. + +"A hundred dollars!" said the proprietor. "This piece is believed to +have been once the property of Thomas Jefferson. I purchased it from +one of his heirs." + +"I'll take it," said Hooker simply. + + +Three weeks later Doctor Morton entered a little shop on Fourth Avenue. +He had received a letter from the head partner, asking him to call the +next time he came to New York, and inspect a piece of colonial +furniture of the greatest historical interest. + +The doctor was almost carried away when he beheld the beautiful relic +of revolutionary days. This would grace his home with rare charm! He +asked the price. + +"Forty-five hundred dollars!" + +"I don't understand. Why is it so valuable?" + +"That's Thomas Jefferson's desk. It comes from his heirs; the +Declaration of Independence was written on it!" + +"That's a pretty story. Where's your proof? Without documentary +evidence, it's not worth more than a hundred dollars." + +"I have the proof, Doctor. Look here." + +The proprietor then rolled back the top. He put his finger upon a +secret drawer. He took out a letter and handed it in silence to Doctor +Morton. + +He read as follows: + + +Monticello, June 12, 1821. + +This secretary which is five feet four inches high and three feet wide, +made of Santa Domingo mahogany, was purchased by me in Philadelphia in +November, 1775, of Robert Aitken, the printer. Upon this desk, I wrote +in my home on High Street near Seventh, the celebrated instrument known +as the Declaration of Independence. Thinking that my heirs and others +would value this article for its association with the sacred cause of +liberty, I make this statement. + +Witness my hand and seal, this twelfth day of June, 1821, and the year +of American Independence, the forty-fifth. + +THO. JEFFERSON. + + +Doctor Morton looked carefully at the letter. He examined the red +wafer with "T. J." in faded letters upon it. + +Accompanying the letter was another from one of the heirs of the +celebrated statesman. + +"The desk is cheap at any--" Doctor Morton blurted. He caught himself +in time. + +"I'd like to own it. I'd give your price, but haven't the cash. I +have some old books worth lots of money. Perhaps we can arrange a +trade." + +For two hours the two worked over this momentous transaction. At the +end of that time, and in consideration of a rare pamphlet containing +scurrilous remarks on William Penn, an old ephemeris printed by +Benjamin Franklin and seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, the +mahogany colonial secretary was transferred to Doctor Willis Morton--to +have and hold forever. + + +One evening, about a month later, the eccentric collector of the little +Connecticut town sat down in his chair to gloat over and hold communion +with his "literary" treasures, for he did not call them articles of +virtu or specimens of bric-a-brac, or furniture of the Jacobean period, +but gave each piece that was dear to him a name that smacked of books +and learning. His mind turned to the evil early life of William Penn, +and the wisdom of Poor Richard, while at the same time his eyes were +riveted upon a beautiful eighteenth century desk. A bell interrupted +his agreeable visions. A telegram had arrived. He opened it +hurriedly, and read: + + +Please look under red wax wafer on Jefferson's letter. Important +Information. R. H. + + +Doctor Morton went to the secretary, and taking the letter in his +trembling hands, gingerly lifted the seal of the third President of the +United States. + +"Damn!" he cried, as he read in minute letters: + + +"A forgery,--in pleasant memory of my lost 'Anatomy.' + +"Robert Hooker, _fecit_." + + + + +IN DEFENCE OF HIS NAME + +He was again talking of his ancestors. He was always talking of his +ancestors.... + +It was in the library of a Fifth Avenue club, but the gentlemen seated +at a window overlooking the famous thoroughfare were not discussing +books. They were examining with care the beautiful ladies that always +decorated this brilliant highway. + +"_That_--with the blue bonnet and the short blue sleeves, is Mrs. +Wilberforce Andre," said John Stuyvesant DePuyster. "Her husband is a +descendant of Varick who served as aide-de-camp to General Arnold." + +"That doesn't make her more attractive," said Robert Hooker. + +DePuyster ignored the remark. "My great grandfather--" + +"We know all about him," chorused the others. "Let-up, please. Have +mercy on us, it's a hot day." + +"My great grandmother, on my father's side--" persisted DePuyster. + +"We know all about _her_!" the others answered, wearily. + +"But Mrs. Andre reminds me of an interesting story. And you are always +looking for stories. In January, 1779, my great grandfather was +serving on the staff of Benedict Arnold. As you know, it was he, John +Stuyvesant DePuyster, my namesake, who rescued the colors so gallantly +at Saratoga--who fought at Germantown--who almost starved at Valley +Forge--who rescued General Greene at the risk of his life--who was +wounded with two bullets in his flank at the battle of Trenton--who +served so brilliantly under Mad Anthony Wayne--who--" + +The others looked at each other furtively, with misery indicated on +every feature. + +One of them, the great autograph collector, Robert Hooker, nervously +twitched his fingers. He seemed in agony, and looked around, evidently +for signs of relief. + +--"Who received a medal for gallantry at Monmouth," chronicled the +voice in a perfectly satisfied tone,--"who rebuked Colonel +Tarleton--who was praised even by the British commander Lord Howe--who +sat at the court-martial of Andre--and who--" + +"Was a traitor to his country!" said Hooker, quietly. + +Everyone looked uneasy. They all hated scenes. But at any rate, it +was a fortunate escape. A duel with bloodshed would be better than +DePuyster's stories! + +"Sir," he returned hotly, "an accusation such as this has never been +made against our family!" + +"Then I shall be the first to make it." + +"It is outrageous,--a damnable, lying statement, and you've got to +prove it I I'll force it back into your throat, you slanderer! You've +got to prove it, I say, Sir!" + +"I have the proof!" + +"Then you've got to show it. I demand it. I have the right to demand +it." + +"Two weeks from now, there will be sold at the Amhurst Auction +Galleries, an autograph letter of General Arnold, in which he speaks of +General DePuyster as an accomplice, who was ready to turn over to the +British cause his honor and his sword. The catalogue will be issued in +two weeks' time, and the full text of the letter printed. It might be +well for your precious family that this letter remains unpublished!" + +"I'll look it up at once," said DePuyster. "Until you prove your +statement, I'll not notice or speak to you, Sir." + +A week later an old autograph letter was shown to him at the +cataloguing rooms of the auction-house. DePuyster had called every +day, but it was a week before he was allowed to see it. It was to be +sold as the "property of a gentleman." + +With trembling hands, he examined this tomb of the secrets of the +illustrious DePuyster, this time-stained document with faded writing. +The letter read as follows: + + +Robinson's House, + September 2, 1780. + +Sir:-- + +Everything is progressing as agreed. I have secured a pass for Hett +Smith. I suppose the ordnance at West Point is the same as given. +What of the military force? We have not enough to help us _on this +side_. We need more than two, a third or fourth person is required. +Colonel DePuyster, in charge of the ordnance, has given me his word +that he will be ready when called upon. He has already written me, +giving the number of blackberries in the first field. He is of great +assistance, and his name, which has always stood for honor in America, +will prove a great asset to us. It is a name that is like Cĉsar's +wife, and has never been _suspected_. I have supplied the third +help-mate; will you furnish our fourth? + +I am, Sir, with great respect, + +Your most obedient humble servant, + GUSTAVUS. + +Maj. John Anderson. + + +The descendant of the gallant revolutionary soldier trembled like a +coward. The name of John Anderson and Gustavus were well-known to him +as those assumed by Andre and Arnold in the great conspiracy. The +hand-writing was, undoubtedly, Arnold's; he had letters in his own home +written by the infamous general to Col. DePuyster, his great +grandfather--letters written years before the treason--and the writing +was identical. + +"What--what will you take for this letter?" asked DePuyster. + +"It will be sold at auction in two weeks' time," the clerk answered, +politely. + +"But I would like to purchase it before the sale." + +"Sorry, sir, but its owner will sell only at public sale. The +competition will cause it to bring a high price." + +"Who is the owner?" + +"I don't know." + +"Can't you find out?" + +"He desires to remain unknown." + +"Tell him for me, that I will give any price for it before it is +published in the catalogue." + +"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Hooker also came here to examine it. He +wanted to buy it. He is a great expert, you know, and he always +desired a letter of General Arnold's--about the treason. Mr. Sterling +also wants it. He has a letter giving the amount Arnold received for +betraying his country. It is said his letter is worth five thousand +dollars. This is worth almost as much." + +"I'll give him five thousand for this one." + +"No, sir. You will have to wait until the sale." + +Mr. Hooker sat at the club window. The feminine decorations of the +Avenue did not interest him. He was thinking of poor DePuyster. +Someone had just told him that DePuyster had remained indoors, not +daring to show his face at the Club. He was at his apartments drinking +Scotch whiskeys to take his mind away from the letter which haunted +him. He could not bear to look into pedigrees and genealogies, which +used to be his constant companions. + +Hooker was actually sorry for the descendant of the stalwart +Revolutionary hero, who dared not face his friends--much less his +enemies. He would give the old man a tip! he said to himself. Anyhow +it was delicious to have seen DePuyster's face when the accusation was +made. + +"DePuyster made me so nervous that I just _had_ to do it. But I'll +give him a hint. I'll write him, telling him perhaps the letter is a +forgery. That will give him a chance. As a gentleman of honor, I +shall write him. I should wish the proof, like his ancestors, to be +"above suspicion!" + +The letter was received by DePuyster, who becoming suddenly brave, +faced the light of day, and made the astounding charge to the president +of the auction-house that the Arnold (Gustavus) letter was nothing but +a forgery! A rank imitation, a fabrication to blackmail a noble family +distinguished for three hundred years in American History! + +The president grew angry; the letter had been passed upon by well-known +experts, as well as their own cataloguers of autographs; it was +undoubtedly genuine, and would be sold as such. + +"I'll sue you for damages, if you publish that letter before it is +passed upon by the greatest experts in the world." + +"Go ahead and sue," said the president, turning away. + +DePuyster, however, had among his numerous acquaintances, many famous +lawyers, one of whom secured an injunction, preventing the sale, and +impounding the letter. + +It came later before the Court which, with unusual wisdom, stated that +the matter should be decided by three disinterested experts, one to be +selected by the Court, one by the auction-house, and one by DePuyster. + +The contestants assembled in the little court-room which was crowded +with friends of the parties to the suit, and eminent autograph and +book-collectors. They came from many cities to hear the wrangle over +the famous letter, and to witness the battle of the experts. + +The name of each expert was placed in an envelope, and sealed. + +"The appointment of the Court--is Robert Hooker," announced the judge, +tearing to pieces the envelope. + +"The expert for the defense," read the judge, tearing open another +envelope, "is Robert Hooker. + +"The expert that will represent the plaintiff," continued His Honor, +breaking with his fingers the manila paper, "is Robert Hooker." + +All eyes were turned to the corner where Robert Hooker sat unconcerned. +He seemed, in a measure, overwhelmed by this new distinction. + +He had been known the world over as a collector of autographs and +manuscripts, but he had never been called upon as an expert. + +Hooker arose. He examined the letter but for an instant. + +"I have formed an opinion, Your Honor." + +"So soon?" + +"Yes." + +"What is your decision?" + +"It is a forgery!" + +"Are you certain?" + +"Without a shadow of a doubt!" + +"Why are you so positive," queried the Judge, "when so many other +authorities state that it is genuine?" + +"I am positive," said Hooker, "because I wrote it myself!" + +There was an uproar in the Court. + +"Please explain, sir," said the judge sternly. + +"DePuyster had become such a pest, such a terror to his friends by his +family anecdotes and antique stories that I could stand it no longer. +I was literally bored to death. I made the charge in jest. DePuyster +took it so seriously that I was compelled to supply the proof. I +purchased an old sheet of writing paper with the water-mark of the +Revolutionary period. I practised for hours, so I could imitate +General Arnold's handwriting. When I finished the letter I almost +thought it an original myself! The farce was wonderful! The hoax--a +joy! I thought that I had become a Good Samaritan who had saved his +friends from a very tiresome old gentleman with a hobby for family +history. When my name was first called--I hesitated, but when you all +selected me, I was overwhelmed with the distinguished honor. I told +the truth, and spoiled a story." + +"You have _created_ a story!" said the judge. + + + + +"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY" + +The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The +volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of +Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one +of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed +in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of +the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair +Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides +would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of +Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais. +The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of +book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr. +Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over £2000 and +since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved +by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been +knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,--and bibliophiles! + +On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had +been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli +Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints, +books, typography, early manuscripts, and money. The volume, after +having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and +gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling +of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his +pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and +inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the gods; and a very +thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of +temerity to read it! + +The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a +vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the +Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong space that had been so gloriously +filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The +Boccaccio had vanished! + +The news of its loss was flashed over the entire world. Comment on its +strange disappearance was general; articles appeared in the newspapers +on how to safeguard the world's great literary treasures; the _London +Times_ had a leading article in which it was stated that "America did +not deserve to own things of inestimable artistic and intellectual +value if it did not know how to preserve them." + +The first thing a gentleman does when he has been robbed is to call in +a detective whose name is always a household word in novels and plays. +Mr. Libro requested John Bunting to aid him with his advice, +notwithstanding the fact that he had been overwhelmed with suggestions +from every newspaper reporter in the United States and Canada. + +At noon Bunting called. After asking the usual questions, which +although a great detective, he did not disdain to do, he requested Mr. +Libro to tell him the names of his guests of the night before. + +"But, Mr. Bunting, I tell you I myself locked the case, put the key in +my pocket, and retired. They could not possibly have extracted it in +my presence, and I saw the last of them to the door." + +"I would like their names." + +"But I do not suspect any of them, Mr. Bunting." + +"That is not so, Mr. Libro, if I may be permitted to say so. You do +not care to admit it, but you suspect someone of that Literary Club." + +"I am suspicious of my best friends, but dare not indicate any one. If +you want their names, I shall tell you--James Blakely, the great +authority on Elizabethan Poetry; Henry Sterling, of Sterling, Petty & +Co.; Robert Rodd, who knows more about the first editions of Paradise +Lost than anyone; Edward Stevens; James Janney--that's five--there were +six,-- Oh, yes, Robert Hooker. He is quite a student but does not +possess the bank account to buy all the books he wants. He would spend +a million a year if he had it. He was the underbidder on the +Boccaccio. Yes, Mr. Bunting, Hooker came near owning it once. I sent +an unlimited bid for it at the Sunderland Sale. He tried to buy it +from the bookseller who acted as my agent, when he found his own bid +had not been high enough." + +"Mr. Libro, that is interesting. It was no ordinary thief, however, +who took it. The ordinary New Yorker does not know the difference +between _that_ book and one by Marie Corelli!" + +Bunting began the investigation at once. He followed zealously every +clew. A few notorious criminals, who were seen in the immediate +vicinity of the house, were interviewed without result. One of them, +who had been noticed a block from the house shortly after midnight, was +locked up on suspicion. He was discharged from custody the next +morning as nothing could be proved against him. This individual, who +was known to the police as "Booky" Phillips, had been arrested many +times, but never convicted. The Chief found him quite placid under the +rapid fire of his questions. He had read of the lost Boccaccio in the +_Herald_, but did not understand why any "self-respecting thief would +stoop to steal a worthless old book!" + +As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of +the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found, +much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called +one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit. + +"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing +from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?" + +Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not +answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew +angry. + +"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing +with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book +will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be +continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day." + +The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared +to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would +have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was +nowhere to be seen. + + +Two years passed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's +wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw +each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they +avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members +of the Maioli Club--it was a thing never to be spoken of at its +meetings. + +It was, however, again to be the subject of talk and gossip. On +December 12, 1912, two years to a day after its strange disappearance, +the volume turned up in all the glory of its illuminated page and +superb morocco binding. Giovanni Boccaccio had added another story to +the Hundred that composed his immortal collection. + +And where had it been found? The last place in the entire world. In +the New York Public Library! For almost two years it had reposed +there, with no one to cherish it or dip into its witty contents. In a +book-case, side by side with other great masterpieces of literature, it +had remained neglected by the inhabitants of New York, who in the +newspapers of that great city figure as learned and scholarly! The old +story, "that the best place to _hide_ a book was in a Wall Street +broker's office" was found to be pleasant but fanciful fiction! It was +far safer in the public library: no one would look for it there! + +On the morning of the twelfth of December a gentleman came to the +Inquiry Desk. He appeared to Mr. Jones, one of the assistant +librarians, to be interested in books on the subject of Religion, so he +requested the visitor to go with him to the book-stacks, as there were +too many of them to carry to the reading tables. And theological books +were always so heavy! While looking over the collection the man called +Mr. Jones' attention to the label of John Libro in one of them, and +asked why the "Decameron" of Boccaccio was put among the religious +books? Mr. Jones blushed! He gasped, however, when he recognized the +long-lost volume. He would take it at once to the principal librarian. +He first asked the stranger's name,--the fortunate discoverer of the +missing treasure. He gave Mr. Jones his card. Engraved thereon was +"B. Phillips." + +The newspapers were full of the curious recovery of the Boccaccio, were +quite facetious about it and went so far as to call the great building +on Fifth Avenue a Literary Mausoleum. Others suggested that the State +should appropriate money for the purchase of modern sex novels,--the +only books that were really read! But despite the jibes and +explanations the real mystery was unsolved. How was the book stolen +and why? + +Three days later the following letter appeared in the newspapers. It +is given here because it will make a fitting ending to the Hundred and +First Tale of the Decameron. + + +New York, December 14, 1912. + +Sir: + +I have read with interest the various explanations given in the papers +concerning the disappearance of the book from Mr. Libro's library. I +can supply the key to the whole problem. + +Some two years or so ago, I was stone broke. One day I read that Mr. +Libro had purchased at a great price the book which has caused all this +commotion. I thought I would lift it some night when I had nothing +better to do, and sell it back to its owner or some other book crank. +I called one afternoon at the Libro house with some magazines on +pretence of securing subscriptions. The ruse worked. Mr. Libro +ordered the _Bookman_,--a magazine I had never heard of. He showed me +one or two of his books,--these maniacs always want to show you their +things. I was bored to death, as you can imagine. + +While he was signing the subscription blank I made a wax impression of +the key to the cases. That night I did a second story job. The window +was open. I easily found the library. But where was the confounded +book? I looked everywhere. There seemed to be millions of books. In +one case I noticed a shelf that was uneven. I looked at it. I saw the +name "Boccaccio." I placed the volume underneath my coat and left. + +The evening papers were filled with the news. What could I do with the +volume? I could not keep it in my room, as I feared the police would +find it. I did not dream that it would be missed so soon, and I did +not anticipate all this fuss over a shabby old book. I tried to think +of a place to hide it, but could not. One of the papers said that a +Richard Hooker was the other crank who had bid for it at the auction +sale. If I went to him now he would refuse to buy it and arrest me. + +I tried another and surer course. That night I went to Hooker's +house,--another second story job--and left the cursed book in the most +conspicuous place in the library. The next day I called on him. I +said I was Mr. Scott,--a detective. I accused him of stealing the book +from Mr. Libro. He said I lied. I told him he had the book in his +house now. From the expression on his face I knew I had him. He said +he had found the book in his library, but had not taken it and did not +know how it had got there. I asked him if he thought anyone would +believe him. He said--No! Everyone would think he had stolen it. +Hooker offered me a thousand dollars to take the book and say nothing. +I accepted two thousand dollars in cash. I took the book, but where to +hide it I did not know. It was under my coat when I was passing 42nd +Street and Fifth Avenue. A thought struck me. I would place it where +it would never be found. The people here have no time to read books; +it was the best place of all. In a moment I was in the library; I +threw the cursed old thing on one of the shelves. I left in great glee. + +At the corner of 40th Street and the Avenue I was arrested by one of +Captain Bunting's men. They tried to get something on me, but could +not. I was innocent! + +I am on my way to London to visit the British Museum, for I find the +study of books profitable. + +Yours very truly, + B. PHILLIPS. + + + + +THE LADY OF THE BREVIARY + +The Abelard Missal was lost to him forever. + +When Mr. Richard Blaythwaite was alive, Robert Hooker had a small +chance, one in ten thousand perhaps, of securing it and adding this +beautiful memento of the Renaissance to his "museum of the +imagination." But now that Blaythwaite was dead, all hope of owning it +had vanished. + +Hooker would not have hesitated, in the cause of the public, to have +taken it by fair means or foul from Blaythwaite, but he would not rob a +woman. He was singularly squeamish upon this point. + +Richard Blaythwaite had left everything to his only daughter, including +the famous Abelard missal. + +It was a marvelous manuscript dating from the sixteenth century, and +contained at the end the beautiful and tragic story of those mediĉval +lovers, Abelard and Heloise. + +The pictures that decorated the missal, however, were its chief +glory.... They were the work of Giulio Clovio, and executed by the +great miniaturist for Philip the Second of Spain. The full page +illuminations, with the exquisite colors, heightened with gold, were +worth a king's ransom, or a queen's reputation. The binding was in +keeping with the superb quality of the breviary, being in old purple +morocco, the royal arms of Castile impressed in gold upon the sides. + +Hooker tried in every way but could not give up the idea of being its +possessor. It haunted him at night, and during the day his mind +constantly reverted to its matchless colors and quaint designs. + +He knew Miss Blaythwaite slightly, having met her in former days at her +father's house, when he used to delight in looking over his famous +library. The pity of it all was that the missal was to be in the +keeping of a woman. If it had gone to some collector who would +treasure it as a delectable gift of the gods, it would not be so bad. +But to a woman! The thought almost drove him mad. + +One evening, in despair, he resolved to call at the fine old house, and +glance once more at the lovely picture of Abelard imprinting his last +kiss upon the lips of Heloise. + +He felt some misgivings, when he was told that Miss Blaythwaite was at +home and would see him. He almost hated her, and he could not forbear +the thought that the Abelard missal was no more to her than her pet +dog, or the bracelet upon her fair wrist. + +When she entered the room, he was taken aback. When he saw her some +years ago, she was but a slip of a girl, with long hair down her back. +She was now tall and stately, with beautiful deep blue eyes. She was +dressed simply; and Hooker thought exceedingly well, but he was not a +judge. He knew more about the morocco covering of an old book than a +lady's apparel. + +"Good evening, Mr. Hooker. I'm glad you called," she said. + +"Thank you, Miss Blaythwaite. It's been a long time since I've had the +pleasure of seeing you." + +"Yes, you've rather neglected us lately. Are you still interested in +books? Poor father had quite a mania for them." + +"That's what first brought me to the house. Do you remember how we +used to spend hours going over his books?" + +"Hours? It seemed ages to mother and me. Poor mother, how furious she +used to be when father brought those dusty old books into the house. +She used to say that father threw away his money on them. He'd give a +hundred dollars for a shabby old thing, when he could have bought a +nice, modern edition for five." + +At this, Robert Hooker was speechless! + +"I suppose you would like to see some of the additions to the library," +Miss Blaythwaite continued, "father bought books until he died. You +know he caught pneumonia by going to an auction-sale, one cold day last +winter. This is the book he bought,--but at what a cost!" + +She took from the shelves which lined the walls, a small volume. It +was a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, the first edition; published in +1609. + +"And the strange part of it all, Mr. Hooker, I believe in my heart that +papa never regretted its purchase." + +Hooker was about to remark that it was worth the risk, but checked +himself in time. + +"It was foolish. Your father, however, was a true bibliophile." + +Miss Blaythwaite returned this volume of volumes to its position in the +case, and when Hooker saw it, he turned pale. She had put it in upside +down--a terrible thing to do. One would have to stand upon his head to +read the title, and booklovers do not believe in gymnastics. + +He immediately placed it in its proper position, carefully, +tenderly--as if it had been a baby, which was precious to him, but not +quite so precious as an old book or manuscript! + +"Father could not bear us to put books in upside down, but mother and I +would often forget, and the way father scolded, you would think we had +committed a horrid crime." + +At this, they both laughed. + +When Hooker was shown the breviary, he lingered for a long time over +its magic pages. He felt the cool vellum leaves with his fingers, for +fear lest the missal would slip through his hand, and disappear forever! + +For over two months, Hooker was a constant visitor at the Blaythwaite +home. He became intimately acquainted with every book in the library; +he could tell the exact date of publication of the early printed +volumes; the place where it was printed; the name of the binder, and +other useless information. + +Even Miss Blaythwaite caught some of the contagion. She, who had +formerly cared nothing for her father's "playthings," became interested +in them. Sometimes she would take down from a shelf a volume of old +English poetry, and become absorbed in the lyrical sweetness of the +verse. Occasionally, she would read aloud to Hooker some beautiful +poems that she had discovered in Ben Jonson, in Crashaw, or in Herrick; +and he would tell her of his aspirations, and of the Museum that +existed only in his mind. He told her of the wonderful things he +already possessed. + +Although Hooker had known Miss Blaythwaite for some time, she was to +him always, the Lady of the Breviary. + +When he felt the delicious warmth of her hand, he thought of the +missal; when she was seated near him, poring over some old volume of +forgotten lore, his mind turned to its wonderful binding, or its +miraculous miniatures. Strange as it may seem, Miss Blaythwaite was +nothing more to him than the guardian and sole owner of a book that his +soul desired. Sometimes, when they were reading together some volume +of Elizabethan verse, another caller would be announced; Hooker would +be presented, and then he would retire gracefully to her father's +library, leaving the field clear to his rival. This, of course, was +not flattering to Miss Blaythwaite! + +One night, Jack Worthing was there before him. He was a clean-cut, +manly fellow, interested first in sports, and after that in business. +He had known Miss Blaythwaite for years. The talk turned, as it will +always turn, when bibliophiles are present, upon books. + +"I don't understand you fellows," said Worthing. "You think more of an +old book than many people of their children!" + +"Of course! Children often grow up into ill-mannered youths and +conceited young ladies. Books always remain young and delightful!" + +"But, confound it! You never read them. You have thousands around you +all the time, and I bet you don't read ten a year." + +"Rare books are meant to be carefully nurtured during our lives, and +passed on after our death to those who will appreciate them. Only +college professors, students, scholars, and such people ever _read_ +books," answered Hooker, contemptuously. + +"I think book-men the most foolish class of persons on earth," retorted +Worthing. "Give me some good old sport, like boxing, or foot-ball, +that makes your heart tingle, that causes the red blood to shoot +through your veins--that makes life worth living! Man wasn't created +to spend his life roaming around a dusky old library, when he can go +out into God's pure air and enjoy the fields and the streams, the +forests and the lakes!" + +At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to smile approvingly. + +Hooker said nothing. Bibliophiles are not missionaries. They do not +go into the by-ways of the world to uphold their creeds, for the love +of books is such a wonderful thing that it can never be explained! + +When he left Miss Blaythwaite that night, he felt that the breviary was +farther from him than ever. + +Hooker, however, came swiftly to a decision. + +The only way he could obtain the Abelard Missal, was by marrying Miss +Blaythwaite. The next evening he called, with this firmly fixed in his +mind. This wily, calculating book-worm had slowly crept into her +affections. He knew she liked him, but would she marry him? + +He asked her with great fervor, which was assumed, whether she would +become his wife. He waited breathlessly for her answer. + +"I want to be frank with you, Robert," she said. "I do not think you +love me." + +"How can you say such a thing?" + +"Instinctively, I feel it. I like you, but I cannot marry you." + +"Why not? Is there someone else?" + +Miss Blaythwaite smiled. + +"Yes." + +"I never dreamed of it. Of course I might have known." + +"You do know, Robert." + +"Is it Jack Worthing?" + +"No." + +"Then, who is it?" + +"It's that old missal. You are more in love with _that_, than you are +with me. I can see it in your eyes, in your talk, in everything. If I +were not its owner, you would never come near me." + +"Then you will not marry me?" + +"No, I cannot. Do you know, Robert, I've become actually jealous of +that breviary, and intend to present it to some library or museum! It +ought, by right, to go to the Metropolitan." + +"For God's sake," Hooker cried in mortal anguish, "do anything but +that!" + +For over six months the forlorn bibliophile remained away from the Lady +of the Breviary. Somehow or other, it was not the missal which was +foremost in his thoughts. His books, his autographs, his porcelains, +his engravings had no longer the charm they once had. He no longer +took an interest in the auction-sales, and the catalogues that came to +him would lie neglected upon his desk. + +He looked with particular distaste upon the "Three Trees" and the +"Unpublishable Memoirs" and the Shakespeare-Bacon volume. He even +thought of returning them to their owners! The great institute to be +founded and called after his name, was a thing of the past! He had +acted like a cad, he said to himself. To marry a woman for an old book +was almost as bad as marrying for money! + +One evening, Hooker came to the conclusion that he could not stand this +loneliness, this desolation, any longer. He intended to leave the +country, to wander in foreign lands! He would call again upon Miss +Blaythwaite for the last time, but would she receive him? + +His heart was beating rapidly when the maid told him she was in, and +would see him. + +And there was Jack Worthing with her, looking big and manly, and +courageous as ever! + +Miss Blaythwaite seemed delighted to see him. A sudden joy seemed to +overspread her features! And Hooker noticed things about her he had +never noticed before. He saw the appealing dimples in her cheeks--the +fine hair blowing near the temples--the exquisite shape of her +ears--the wonderful turquoise-blue of her eyes! + +And Jack Worthing was talking of books! A miracle had happened! +Somehow or other, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to take a decided interest in +the library left her by her father, and during the last half of the +year, she was continually speaking to Worthing of first editions and +Caxtons; of Elzevirs and typography; of Americana, incunabula and such +ridiculous things, and all in a jargon that was quite unintelligible to +him. And Worthing determined to study the things she liked, and +borrowed some reference-books from a library that told of the mysteries +of the book-lovers' cult. And when Hooker heard Worthing speak of the +rare first edition of Poe's Tamerlane, he almost fainted with surprise! + +"Don't you want to look over father's books, Mr. Hooker," asked Miss +Blaythwaite. "You may go in the library as usual, and make yourself at +home. I have added a few things myself!" + +"No, thank you, I'd rather remain here. Which side do you think will +win the polo match to-morrow? Meadowbrook?" + +At this, Miss Blaythwaite and Worthing looked at each other in +astonishment. Hooker thought he saw a mysterious understanding between +them. He became at once insanely jealous of the athletic young man who +was discoursing so eloquently of Tamerlane "in boards, uncut." + +"Meadowbrook?" persisted Hooker. + +"I suppose so," returned Worthing, in an uninterested manner. + +Yes, this talk of books had become decidedly distasteful to the once +enthusiastic bibliophile. + +"By the way, Mr. Hooker," said Miss Blaythwaite, "I've made up my mind +about the Abelard missal. Jack and I think it would be a good thing to +give it to the Metropolitan Museum." + +"I quite agree with you, Miss Blaythwaite," said poor Hooker. "There +it would always be safe from fire, and could be seen by the public. It +is certainly the proper thing to do." + +At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed overjoyed. + +When Worthing left, after an interminable time, Robert Hooker sat by +her side upon the old Chippendale sofa in her father's library. When +she discoursed of books and learning, he would quietly change the +subject. + +He wanted to hear about herself, and what she had been doing since he +saw her last. As for himself--he was going away. He was taking a +steamer next Saturday for Europe. + +She asked him quietly if he did not want to take a last look at the +breviary. + +"Damn the breviary!" he said to himself. He did not care particularly +about it, but she insisted. + +He took the precious volume from its place on the shelf, and together +they looked at the marvelous illustrations that traced so vividly the +history of the two devoted lovers. + +They glanced not at the calendar, or the litany that came first in the +breviary, but bent their heads over the lovely miniatures that narrated +so touchingly the tragic story. + +When they came to the picture showing the final parting of Abelard from +his beloved Heloise, Hooker looked at Miss Blaythwaite. + +Her eyes were filled with tears. + +"Robert," she said tenderly, "I'm not going to present it to the +Metropolitan. I'll give it to the Hooker Museum! Then--we _both_ can +always enjoy it." + + + + +THE EVASIVE PAMPHLET + +He was disappointed again! + +He sat alone in his office thinking of the auction sale of the day +before. A copy of the rare first edition of "The Murders in the Rue +Morgue," the immortal story of Edgar Allan Poe, was lost to him and his +heirs for ever more. + +He had gone to the auction with the virtuous intention of buying it; +when the shabby little pamphlet with its brown paper wrappings--printed +in Philadelphia in 1843--was offered, the bidding was remarkably +spirited. It was finally sold to a distinguished collector for +thirty-eight hundred dollars. He had been the underbidder, but what +chance had a poor devil of a bibliophile against the wealthy captains +of industry? At sales of this character the race is not to the swift, +but to the--rich! + +Robert Hooker had once owned a copy of this precious volume. This made +his disappointment the keener. It was a more interesting example than +the one that had just been offered under the hammer of the auctioneer, +for it had been a presentation copy with a simple though beautiful +inscription written in the delicate handwriting of the poet upon the +title-page: + + "_To Virginia from E. A. P._" + +This was the very copy the greatest of story-tellers had lovingly given +to his wife. Years ago it had mysteriously disappeared from Hooker's +office, where he had kept it in a fire-proof, feeling it was more +secure there than on the shelves of his library. He sought for it +everywhere, offering large rewards for its return, but the evasive +little volume never was heard of again. + +Hooker was musing over his "defeat" of yesterday in the salesroom when +his thoughts reverted to the fate of his own copy. Where was it? What +was its history? Its possessor could not seek a purchaser, because the +inscription on the title-page would instantly identify it. Had it been +destroyed? Was it-- + +"A gentleman to see you, sir, about an old book!" + +He instantly awoke from his reverie. It was his secretary who had +spoken. + +"Tell him I have no money for such things!" said Hooker. + +John Lawrence, his secretary, did not turn away, but waited with the +flicker of a smile upon his face. He knew the foibles of his employer. +He had been with him for many years. And a really good clerk always +knows his master's weaknesses. + +"Hold on a minute, John. Perhaps I can give him a few minutes. Tell +him to come in." + +"Hello, Colonel! What can I do for you this morning?" said Hooker +cheerily, to a middle-aged man, erect of figure, who had just entered. +He was one of those men who make their living picking up old books, old +guns, old papers, old coins, old pictures, old everything. He also, at +times, had a faculty of picking up old liquors, which was not good for +him. He was known as the "Colonel" because of his military bearing and +his interest in the Civil War. He had really been a soldier serving in +the glorious and extensive regiment known as the home guard. + +"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I've a matter I'd like to speak to you +about--but in the strictest confidence. I'm on the track of a really +fine book." + +At this Hooker smiled. Although in his long and busy life and in his +strange wanderings the Colonel had secured a few good things his +"finds" generally turned out to be of no value. Hooker had frequently +advanced him money to purchase what the Colonel termed "nuggets," but +when they were brought to him changed, in the twinkling of an eye, into +fool's gold. + +"Well, what is it?" said Hooker, rather impatiently, fearing another +tug at his purse-strings. + +"You've read this morning's papers? The 'Murders in the Rue Morgue' +brought at the sale yesterday thirty-eight hundred dol--" + +"Enough of that!" retorted Hooker, who was becoming angry. "I never +want to hear of that damned book again!" + +"But I know where there's another copy," presented the Colonel, weakly. + +"So do I. In the British Museum!" + +"No, Mr. Hooker. Right here in New York." + +"Where?" + +"But you're not interested, you just said--" + +"Of course I am, you old fool, go on!" + +"Well, the book's in an old house down near Washington Square. It'll +be difficult to get. Its owner's in jail." + +"In _jail_!" + +"Yes. He's serving a stretch--twenty years." + +"What for?" + +"Murder!" + +"Now, Colonel, I hope you didn't come here to amuse me with fairy +tales. I'm very busy this morning." + +"No. That's straight. He's up for twenty years. He murdered his +sweetheart. The court brought in a verdict of manslaughter, so he got +a light sentence." + +"Well, what's that got to do with the book?" + +"Have patience, Mr. Hooker. You know of the Tomlinson case?" + +"Never heard of it." + +"Impossible, sir! The newspapers were filled with it at the time. +Seven years ago every one was talking about it and surely you +remember--" + +"No, Colonel, seven years ago I was in Europe. Tell me about it." + +The Colonel went into details-- + +In June of 1907 a family by the name of Clarke moved into two rooms in +a large, old fashioned residence on Eighth Street, near Fifth Avenue. +They were there for less than a month when they gave the landlord +notice. They could not remain in the house on account of ghosts! Now +_everyone_ believes in ghosts but landlords. It injures their business. + +The Clarkes contended that every night in the front room the most +mysterious noises were heard; they called in the janitor, but he knew +nothing. The strange sounds continued; they were uncanny, +inexplicable. The Clarkes moved out and they were succeeded by other +nervous and hysterical persons. The landlord in desperation reduced +the rent, but still the tenants would not remain. + +At last even he, who was sceptical and would not believe in hobgoblins, +or ghosts, or spirits, or any of those fantastic creatures that exist +outside the material mind, resolved to investigate for himself. He +literally camped in the rooms for months and heard not a sound! Every +night he determined would be his last and that he would not waste any +more of his valuable time over the mystical phantoms of his foolish +tenants. + +One evening, which he resolved was to be the final one, while he was +playing solitaire to pass the tedium of the vigil, he heard a noise in +the wall. He turned pale with fear. A cold chill ran up and down his +back. A moment later the sound of a falling coin reached his ears and +there rolled toward him from the old Georgian fire-place a shining +object. + +It was a few minutes before he had the courage to pick it up. It was a +small gold ring. He examined it carefully and engraved therein were +the initials "M. P. from J. L." He put the ring in his pocket, removed +the fire dogs, the tongs, the coal-scuttle and the whole paraphernalia +of fire-places and looked up the flue. He could see nothing. Although +it was a clear night he could not see the stars. Something was in the +way.... + +The finding next day of the poor, bruised body of little Marie Perrin +up the chimney of "No. 8" was the sensation of the hour. A horrible +crime had been committed, and in an unknown and terrible way. It was +Edgar Allan Poe in a new guise and his wonderful stories immediately +became popular and new editions of the "Tales" were called for by a new +set of readers. Some critics of crime suggested that the "Murders in +the Rue Morgue" had been repeated at No. Eight East Eighth Street. The +hiding-place of the body was identical with that in the famous story +and it was said that the police were on the look-out for apes, +gorillas, and other animals, which alone were capable of committing +such hideous crimes. + +The whole life of poor little Marie was laid bare. Her picture was in +every newspaper and her history was given from the day of her birth +with remarkable ingenuity. The reporters, with uncontrolled +imaginations, turned out from the scanty material at their hands an +excellent biographical sketch, that seemed and rang true, which is +sufficient for the reading public. + +Marie Perrin had disappeared without paying her rent from No. Eight +over a year ago. When the agent came to collect the arrears, he found +the tenant had departed with all her chattels. This was a libel, for +she was in the room but not visible. The detectives, when they +investigated into the tragedy and after asking ten thousand questions +in a thousand and one places, found out that Marie had a sweetheart and +that his name was Richard Tomlinson. He refused to admit his guilt, +but after being prodded with the iron-fork of the law, technically +known as the "third degree" he broke down and confessed. In a fit of +anger he struck her over the head with the brass fire-tongs. He had no +intention of killing her, or even harming her, but he had become +insanely jealous of another who was paying her attentions. In fact he +said he must have been mad at the time, as he did not remember having +struck her until she lay before him, quiet and cold upon the floor. +After a trial lasting over two weeks, and full of sensational +incidents, Tomlinson was sentenced to spend twenty years of his life in +prison. + +"That's an interesting tale," said Robert Hooker, when the Colonel had +stopped speaking, "but what has all this to do with the first edition +of Poe's story?" + +"Well, you see, Tomlinson was a friend of mine. He told me that, after +he had accidentally killed the girl, he was terribly frightened. He +did not know what to do with the body. He had a mind to go to the +police and confess all, but did not have the courage to do so. He +remained in a trance, he thought, for hours, thinking of his fearful +crime and the dreadful consequences. While he was in this deep, +agonizing study and not knowing what he was doing, he picked up a small +book on her reading table. It was 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' It +was the title that attracted him, and some compelling force, what it +was he knew not, caused him to read it. He told me that never in his +whole life had anything so interested him as that story on that +frightful occasion; although pursued by terrible fears he read every +word, every syllable of it. The rest you know." + +"But, Colonel," said Hooker, with one thought uppermost in his mind, +"it might be any edition, not necessarily the first. There have been +hundreds of editions published. How do you know what edition it was?" + +"It was the first, Mr. Hooker. Tomlinson told me the girl had borrowed +it to read and that it belonged to some one who had a mania for old +books and who had kept it always under lock and key." + +"Do you know where it is?" + +"Yes." + +"Can you get it?" + +"Perhaps." + +"I shall make it worth your while. How much do you want?" + +"All I can get. I'll have to steal it!" + +"What!" + +"Yes, I'll have to steal it. It cannot be had in any other way. Why +do you start?" + +"I didn't think you'd have to do that!" + +"Yes. You see Tomlinson, when he moved from those furnished rooms, +took everything he could carry to his brother's lodgings near +Washington Square. The book is in a sealed trunk on the third floor. +Tomlinson made his brother promise that this trunk was not to be +disturbed under any circumstances until he came out of jail a free man. +I've tried in every way--by bribery and everything--but his brother +will not touch it. He seems afraid of that old trunk. I'll get it, +however, at all costs. Are you with me?" + +Hooker was, above everything, a true bibliophile. He instantly +answered: + +"Yes, Colonel! Go the limit. I'll back you." + +The Colonel without another word picked up his hat and left the office. + +For three tedious weeks Hooker heard no more of the book or of his +curious friend, the Colonel. The whole thing seemed like a tale woven +by Poe himself. + +Would the book, if it ever was secured, turn out to be a second edition +and worthless? Booklovers, after the strange manner of their kind, +only cherish the first, the earliest issue, in the same state as it +came from the master's hand, unrevised and with all the errors +uncorrected. They do not care for new and more elegant editions. +Hooker grew restless as the weeks rolled by, and still no Colonel. + +One morning, as he was looking over his mail, a gentleman was +announced. Then, tottering into the office, with his arm in a sling +and a patch over his left eye, came the gallant Colonel. + +"Why, Colonel, what's the matter?" + +"Nothing at all, sir." + +"But your arm and your--" + +"That's my affair, Mr. Hooker. I've come to secure the reward of my +labors. I've got the book," he said in triumph,--"I told you I'd get +it." + +"Where is it?" + +"Here in my pocket. Look at it. It's a superb copy!" + +The Colonel laid before the astonished eyes of Richard Hooker the +priceless first edition of Poe's marvelous story. It was in the +original brown printed wrappers, just as it was published. With +trembling hands he grasped the book; he turned the first page and +gasped. A startled cry broke from his lips. The Colonel at once +noticed his pallor. He did not dream that an old book would affect +even the most ardent bibliophile in this manner. In all his experience +of forty years he had never seen anyone so overcome at the sight of a +dingy pamphlet. + +There, upon the title-page, Hooker read the tender inscription written +many generations ago, with which the most imaginative of American poets +had presented his greatest story to his loving wife. It was his own +copy, returned like bread upon the waters. Hooker was speechless. He +went over to his check book and handed the Colonel the equivalent of +three thousand dollars. The Colonel retired, murmuring his thanks. + +The book lay upon Hooker's desk. Here was a new problem, worthy of M. +Dupin himself. Question after question came into his excited mind to +depart unanswered. Who had stolen it? and how? Why had it been taken? +How had Tomlinson secured it? and what, above all, had it to do with +Marie Perrin? + +Hooker remained there, gazing at the pamphlet for hours. It fascinated +him horribly. The luncheon hour went by and still he sat staring +intently at its faded covers. Would he ever solve the riddle? + +His mind was still at work on the problem when he was interrupted by +his secretary. + +"It's closing time, sir. Is there anything you want before I go?" + +"Nothing, John, thank you." + +The secretary turned to depart. He drew back suddenly! + +"The book! Mr. Hooker, the book! Where did you get _that_!" + +Robert Hooker looked at his confidential assistant. His face was the +color of the whitest parchment. His breath came in gasps and cold +drops of perspiration were visible upon his forehead. + +"I bought it to-day," said Hooker, quietly. "It once belonged to +me--and Marie Perrin." + +"She was my--" + +John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and +he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement. + +"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know +something of it." + +"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do +anything wrong." + +"Why, what do you mean?" + +"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about +that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the +combination. I told you I knew nothing about it--that perhaps it had +been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken +it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was +particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with +no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by +it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head." + +"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?" + +"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from +Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of +the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned +it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never +saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She +had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of +her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see +me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the +questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had +fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her +affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same +since. I think of her every night of my life--I've now told you all +and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of +me." + +"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home--and +come down to-morrow, as usual." + +The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to +keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely +it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in +existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its +wanderings, all the pages were intact--"collating" it, as bibliophiles +love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect--just as +when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,--what +were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not +have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin. + + + + +THE GREAT DISCOVERY + +He was considered by all his friends thrice a fool. First, he was +engaged to be married; second, he was a speculator in stocks; and +third, he was a book-lover. Some condoned the first offence, others +pardoned the second, which was considered a weakness, and all +universally condemned the last! + +John Libro had money on July 28th, 1914. On July 29 he did not possess +a cent. The War caused it all. When New Haven dropped to fifty and +Reading to seventy, John Libro's fortune shrank with them and he was +left high and dry with nothing but the advice of his friends, a little +jewelry, some clothing, and a few old books! + +Libro went home, made an inventory, and counted the change in his +pocket He was thirty-five years old, big, healthy, good-natured, and +irrepressible. Here he was face to face with starvation. He grimly +smiled, for it was at any rate a new experience. He sat down by the +little bookcase, forgot his cares and his creditors, and took out his +beloved friends. He tenderly fondled the first edition of Elia, dipped +into Beaumont and Fletcher, and took solace from the "Pleasures of +Memory." When he looked at his watch, it was eight o'clock. Two hours +had glided away in the company of his morocco-clad companions. + +It was then that he thought of Ethel. He would go to her at once and +unfold his story. He told her in a few words that he was ruined and +could not marry her. This made her more than ever determined to marry +him. She loved him and could not allow such a small thing as money to +interfere with their plans. The more he insisted, the more determined +she became. At last they reached a compromise--he would put the matter +squarely up to her father. Mr. Edwards was called from his study. + +"Mr. Edwards," he began, "I suppose you read of what happened to-day in +the stock-market--" + +"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Edwards replied quickly, "what of it?" + +"Well, I was long on New Haven and Reading--" + +"Speculating again, have you?" + +"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the +engagement until I spoke to you." + +"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing +for my daughter." + +"Perhaps some day when I go to work--" poor Libro pleaded. + +"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker +who _worked_!" + +Without another word they parted--and Libro returned to the +drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel. + +When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most +terrible thing in the world--it destroyed in a moment love and +happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool--for he was not +engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease +to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect +of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a +beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a +quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident +appealed to him. + +The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends, +who could do nothing "on account of the war." + +He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the +theatres--everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker. +Mr. Edwards was right! + +But he must live--the situation had become not so fantastic. He would +sell everything--his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing, +everything but his books. Those he would not part with. + +On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop--he had +passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half +of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry +had a huge white card on which ran some such legend--"Former price +$1,000--now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real +"business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their +patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times +and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper +covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a +first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of +heaven--he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but, +nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep. + +Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality +of this American Mont de Piété. But he was again afraid to enter. He +seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they +smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to +contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of +the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps +half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious +possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice. +This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up +to the door and enter before anyone would notice him. + +He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed +acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met _friends_! +All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of +the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The +Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter +was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and +their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the +legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in +the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were +putting up "more margin!" + +John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He +laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that +cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well +known Broadway habitué objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a +gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn. +He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his +mother. + +"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold +voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to +this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king +among his brethren of this old and honorable profession. + +"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro. + +"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you +fifteen dollars, and not a cent more." + +"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!" + +"Fifteen dollars--my time is valuable." + +It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed. +He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman +who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering +windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob, +his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the +tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or +implored him, Steinman remained the same--heartless, brusque, cutting, +satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness," +gasped Libro--"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!" + +This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If +I could only get even"--he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance +in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a +dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he +had pledged everything. + +Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages +to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went +to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all, +quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the +little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the +"Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He, +however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and +blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to +mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his +condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus. + +Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when +a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once +sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him! +He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his +soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh +of his own. + +But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the +precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was +he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He +gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume, +awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its +appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers. + +"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice +before. Not one cent!" + +"You,--you--" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He +would have killed him had he a weapon near. + +"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at +auction," exclaimed Libro. + +"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and +crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him. + +"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would +like to see this." + +Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist. +An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming +him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy +the book. He opened it. + +"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then +stopped suddenly. + +The proprietor was looking at him narrowly. Libro's heart had almost +stopped beating. There was the long lost quarto of "Titus Andronicus," +1594, and a perfect first edition of "Hamlet"! There were others in +the volume, a veritable treasure trove. It was, in truth, a great +discovery! + +"What's it worth?" said Steinman. + +"Something to a collector," replied Libro, honestly: "nothing to you." + +"Well, if you know anyone who wants the old thing he can have it for +ten dollars. I once advanced that amount on it. Since then I say, No +Books!" + +John Libro by a superhuman effort controlled himself. + +"Steinman, I need money for food. You already have everything valuable +I possess,--but this." + +He took from his finger a ring. It had been his mother's wedding ring. +It was the last that remained to him of his parents' legacy. + +"How much will you give me on this?" he said, trembling. His very life +depended upon Steinman's answer. He held his breath. + +"A little less than gold-value," said Steinman. He threw it carelessly +on the scales. + +"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents." + +Without further ado Steinman counted out the money and Libro departed. +He, however, went out one door and came in by another. It was the +first time that he had entered the half of the establishment where the +unredeemed merchandise is sold. On this side he was a patron and not +to be patronized. + +"How much for that old book?" said Libro boldly. + +"Ten dollars," answered Steinman in a surprised tone. This was a new +dodge, a customer pledging one article to obtain money to purchase +another! + +It was Libro's turn now; but he was not used to the game. "I shall +give you five dollars. Not a cent more." + +"No. Ten dollars or nothing." + +"All right. I'll take it; wrap it up." + +He counted out the money and left. Steinman felt uneasy. He thought +he saw the flicker of an unholy smile on Libro's face, as he passed +through the swinging doors. + +It is almost unnecessary to state that Libro sold the book--the only +book he ever parted with--for a fabulous sum--more than its weight in +gold,--and for many thousands of dollars. A noted collector purchased +it immediately, and it is now the chief attraction of his wonderful +library. + +With the money jingling in his pocket he returned to the scene of his +former misery. He was to redeem his pledges with the broker's own +money. + +"Steinman," he said, "collect all my things. I shall pay what I owe +and take them with me." + +"I congratulate you, Mr. Libro, on your return to fortune," replied +Steinman affably. + +"I want to thank you, Steinman." + +"Thank me! Why?" + +"Because of the old book," said Libro, politely. "I sold it to-day for +thirty thousand dollars!" + + +In a joyous mood John Libro called upon Ethel Edwards. The story of +"the Shakespeare Find" was in the evening's papers. No one was more +glad to see him than Ethel's father, who welcomed him like an old +friend. That night he mused as he walked home: "I am no longer a +stock-broker, I am engaged to Ethel, and I can still collect books. I +_am_ a fool; and I glory in it!" + + + + +THE FIFTEEN JOYS OF MARRIAGE + +He was showing the distinguished guest through his magnificent library. +He exhibited with pride his treasures, telling an interesting tale +about this volume, and his merry adventures about that. In +glass-covered exhibition cases were displayed some of his greater +rarities and the colors of their morocco coverings gleamed and glowed +in the light. At one end of the spacious room was a case with bronze +mountings, and within reposed a volume bound in old olive levant, +powdered with the bees and other devices so often used by Nicolas Eve, +binder to his Majesty Francis the First. The visitor asked about the +volume that was so superbly housed, and begged Mr. Henry Stirling to +give its history. + +"Pray examine it," he replied, taking the volume with the greatest care +from the case. On its back, in letters of gold, mellowed by age, was +its title: "Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage." "Ah, that is indeed rare!" +exclaimed the visitor, "and its binding is marvelous. But hold, it is +rubbed in one corner. Some vandal did that! It is a shame such a +treasure should have been used so damnably!" + +"It is for that reason, sir," Stirling replied, "that it is my most +beloved volume. I value it above all the books in my library. This is +its history:-- + +"Some fifteen years ago I met at a house party a lady to whom I was +instantly attracted. She was handsome, with high coloring, and the +most glorious hair. We met often thereafter, and a year later she +became my wife. We lived for some time most happily together. +Occasionally we had petty disputes that always ended in a victory for +both of us! + +"About twelve years ago, attracted by a great book sale, I started to +form this library, which has been the passion of my life. I read all +the catalogues, became skilled in bibliography, lived in the bookshops; +spent all my time collating and going over my precious volumes. In the +evenings, instead of talking to my wife about the Ives' coming ball, or +a problem in bridge, or the newest shades of silk, I pored over the +catalogues which came to me from all parts of the world. My wife said +nothing at first, but when one bookcase was added to another, crowding +out the little Sheraton writing tables, and the bijou cabinets, she +objected mildly, 'Why bring all this trash into the house? And besides +you never read them. I suppose they don't cost you much. I loaned a +few to one of my friends yesterday.' + +"I winced; but said nothing. + +"Gradually I became absorbed in the pursuit. Other collectors--men +after my own heart--rich, and always wearing the oddest clothes--so my +good wife said--came to visit me. We would stay up far into the night +relating our experiences, telling wonderful stories of how we secured +our rarest volumes, and remarking about the prices, which seemed always +soaring! My wife knew at last that these old books cost a great deal +of money; that I would spend a hundred dollars for an old almanac or an +Aldus, while I objected to the forty dollars she paid for a hat. She +said she would stand it no longer. I remonstrated, but in vain. She +remarked that I had changed--that I no longer loved her. This was not +true; I loved her as I always did--but I would not allow anyone to +dictate to me. + +"However, I displayed no longer the little morocco things that I had +bought, but brought them home surreptitiously, placing them in the +corners of the bookcase. I concealed them in my newspaper of an +evening, or had them sent home when my wife was out shopping, or +visiting her friends. Sometimes she would catch me _flagrante +delicto_, as I would stealthily remove my beloved from its brown +wrapping-paper; or catch me napping with a first edition that she was +sure she had not seen before. + +"The situation grew intolerable. I could not bear to have some one who +had promised to obey me, taunting me at every turn, remorselessly +dropping an Elzevir on the floor, or shattering my nerves by insolently +showing me a receipted bill for a presentation copy of 'Endymion.' I +tried to be gentle with her, to reason with her, to tell her what a +scholarly thing I was doing,--but it was of no avail. She became +actually jealous of my books. She looked with distrust at every parcel +that arrived; she was suspicious of everything that had the +_appearance_ of a book. + +"At first she was only mildly oppressive; she now became severe, +scolding continually, making my life a burden. She said my love of +books was unnatural, wicked, unspeakable. I could stand it no longer; +I could not live with a woman who treated me in so cruel a way. When I +told her this she was docile at first, but the fire broke out anew at +some new victory of mine in the auction rooms, which one of my spiteful +friends told her about. Matthews was always jealous of me, because I +had more courage than he and snatched the uncut 'Comus' from him when +it was almost within his grasp. + +"I tried no longer to bear with my wife--she was a vixen, a mad woman, +a very devil. I resolved to divorce her--but on what grounds? I could +not think of a single charge that could be placed before a +jury,--American juries generally consisted of the most stupid and +unimaginative men. My wife said she ought to secure the action on the +grounds of infidelity,--that I loved my first folio of Shakespeare more +than I did her! + +"Things came to a climax at last. The famous library of Richard +Appleton was to be sold at auction. I was intensely excited, as you +can imagine. I read the catalogue item by item, word by word. I +marked with ink the things I most _needed_ and determined to buy a few +exquisite volumes even at the risk of bankruptcy. And there was 'Les +Quinze Joyes de Mariage,' the first edition in the superb binding made +by Nicolas Eve for Diane de Poitiers. I had resolved to purchase it +many years ago when Appleton wrested it from me at the Amherst sale. I +had even waited for his death knowing it would again come upon the +market. I resolved to have it at all costs. The eventful day arrived. +I went to the rooms in person. The little volume started at one +hundred dollars and rose to three thousand. It was already beyond my +means. I just had to have it. I nodded. There was no other bid. + +"I drew my check for the amount and carried it home. I was reading it +in the library when my wife entered. I casually, in an unconcerned +way, although my heart was trembling, placed it on the table. I looked +at my wife. Her eyes were flashing. She held the evening paper on +which I could read the headlines.--'Rare Book brings $3010.' + +"I knew the storm was coming. She said I was an ingrate, a dissipater +of her fortune, a fool, a heartless villain, a-- + +"She went no further. + +"I grabbed the first thing at hand,--it was 'The Fifteen Joys of +Marriage,'--and threw it at her head. It struck her arm and fell upon +the floor. When I stooped to pick it up, noticing the poor, bruised, +broken corner, I looked about. My wife was gone. + +"The next day she served me with the papers for the divorce which is +now a _cause célèbre_. + +"At last I was free!" + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Unpublishable Memoirs, by A. S. W. 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Rosenbach +</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 4% } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 120%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: center } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.contents {text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 10% } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.capcenter { margin-left: 0; + margin-right: 0 ; + margin-bottom: .5% ; + margin-top: 0; + font-weight: bold; + float: none ; + clear: both ; + text-indent: 0%; + text-align: center } + +img.imgcenter { margin-left: auto; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 1%; + margin-right: auto; } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Unpublishable Memoirs, by A. S. W. Rosenbach + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Unpublishable Memoirs + +Author: A. S. W. Rosenbach + +Illustrator: Oliver Herford + +Release Date: February 1, 2012 [EBook #38746] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<p class="capcenter"> +<a id="img-front"></a> +<img class="imgcenter" src="images/img-front.jpg" alt="THE BIBLIOFIENDS. DRAWN BY OLIVER HERFORD" /> +<br /> +THE BIBLIOFIENDS. DRAWN BY OLIVER HERFORD +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<h1> +THE +<br /> +UNPUBLISHABLE +<br /> +MEMOIRS +</h1> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="t2"> +BY A. S. W. ROSENBACH +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> +NEW YORK +<br /> +MITCHELL KENNERLEY +<br /> +MCMXVII +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t4"> +COPYRIGHT 1917 BY +<br /> +MITCHELL KENNERLEY +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t4"> +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES +<br /> +BY THE VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY +<br /> +BINGHAMTON - - NEW YORK +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3"> +TO +<br /> +R. R. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +CONTENTS<br /> +</p> + +<p class="contents"> +<a href="#chap01">The Unpublishable Memoirs</a><br /> +<a href="#chap02">The Three Trees</a><br /> +<a href="#chap03">The Purple Hawthorn</a><br /> +<a href="#chap04">The Disappearance of Shakespeare</a><br /> +<a href="#chap05">The Colonial Secretary</a><br /> +<a href="#chap06">In Defence of His Name</a><br /> +<a href="#chap07">"The Hundred and First Story"</a><br /> +<a href="#chap08">The Lady of the Breviary</a><br /> +<a href="#chap09">The Evasive Pamphlet</a><br /> +<a href="#chap10">The Great Discovery</a><br /> +<a href="#chap11">The Fifteen Joys of Marriage</a><br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS +</h3> + +<p> +It was very cruel. +</p> + +<p> +He was dickering for one of the things he had desired for a life-time. +</p> + +<p> +It was in New York at one of the famous book-stores of the metropolis. +The proprietor had offered to him for one hundred and sixty +dollars—exactly the amount he had in bank—the first and only edition +of the "Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel, a little volume issued +in London in 1790, and one of two copies known, the other being in the +famous "hidden library" of the British Museum. +</p> + +<p> +It was a scandalous chronicle of fashionable life in the eighteenth +century, and many brilliant names were implicated therein; +distinguished and reputable families, that had long been honored in the +history of England, were ruthlessly depicted with a black and venomous +pen. He had coveted this book for years, and here it was within his +grasp! He had just told the proprietor that he would take it. +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker was a book-collector. With not a great deal of money, he +had acquired a few of the world's most sought-after treasures. He had +laboriously saved his pennies, and had, with the magic of the +bibliophile, turned them into rare volumes! He was about to put the +evil little book into his pocket when he was interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +A large, portly man, known to book-lovers the world over, had entered +the shop and asked Mr. Rodd if he might examine the Beau Brummel +Memoirs. He had looked at it before, he said, but on that occasion had +merely remarked that he would call again. He saw the volume on the +table in front of Hooker, picked it up without ceremony, and told the +owner of the shop that he would purchase it. +</p> + +<p> +"Excuse me," exclaimed Hooker, "but I have just bought it." +</p> + +<p> +"What!" said the opulent John Fenn, "I came especially to get it." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenn," returned the proprietor, "Mr. Hooker, here, has +just said that he would take it." +</p> + +<p> +"Now, look here, Rodd, I've always been a good customer of yours. I've +spent thousands in this very shop during the last few years. I'll give +you two hundred dollars for it." +</p> + +<p> +"No," said Rodd. +</p> + +<p> +"Three hundred!" said Fenn. +</p> + +<p> +"No." +</p> + +<p> +"Four hundred!" +</p> + +<p> +"No." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll give you five hundred dollars for it, and if you do not take it, +I shall never enter this place again!" +</p> + +<p> +Without another word Rodd nodded, and Fenn quickly grasped the little +book, and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. Hooker became +angry and threatened to take it by bodily force. A scuffle ensued. +Two clerks came to the rescue, and Fenn departed triumphantly with the +secrets of the noble families of Great Britain securely in his +possession. +</p> + +<p> +Rodd, in an ingratiating manner, declared to Hooker that no money had +passed between them, and consequently there had been no sale. Hooker, +disappointed, angry, and beaten, could do nothing but retire. +</p> + +<p> +At home, among his books, his anger increased. It was the old, old +case of the rich collector gobbling up the small one. It was +outrageous! He would get even—if it cost him everything. He dwelt +long and bitterly upon his experience. A thought struck him. Why not +prey upon the fancies of the wealthy! He would enter the lists with +them; he would match his skill against their money, his knowledge +against their purse. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker was brought up in the mystic lore of books, for he was the son +of a collector's son. He had always been a student, and half his time +had been spent in the bookseller's shops, dreaming of the wonderful +editions of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of rare Ben Jonson, that some day +he might call his own. He would now secure the priceless things +dearest to the hearts of men, at no cost to himself! +</p> + +<p> +He would not limit his choice to books, which were his first love, but +he would help himself to the fair things that have always delighted the +soul,—pictures, like those of Raphael and da Vinci; jewels, like +Cellini's; little bronzes, like Donatello's; etchings of Rembrandt; the +porcelains (True Ming!) of old China; the rugs of Persia the +magnificent! +</p> + +<p> +The idea struck him at first as ludicrous and impossible. The more he +thought of it, the more feasible it became. He had always been a good +mimic, a fair amateur actor, a linguist, and a man of parts. He +possessed scholarly attainments of a high order. He would use all of +his resources in the game he was about to play. For nothing deceives +like education! +</p> + +<p> +And it had another side—a brighter, more fantastic side. Think of the +fun he would get out of it! This appealed to him. Not only could he +add to his collections the most beautiful treasures of the world, but +he would now taste the keenest of joys—he would laugh and grow fat at +the other man's expense. It was always intensely humorous to observe +the discomfiture of others. +</p> + +<p> +With particular pleasure Hooker read that evening in the <i>Post</i> this +insignificant paragraph: +</p> + +<p> +"John Fenn, President of the Tenth National Bank of Chicago, departs +for home to-night." +</p> + +<p> +He laid the paper down immediately, telephoned to the railroad office +for a reservation in the sleeping-car leaving at midnight, and prepared +for his first "banquet." Hooker shaved off his moustache, changed his +clothes and his accent, and took the train for Chicago. +</p> + +<p> +As luck would have it, John Fenn was seated next to him in the +smoking-car, reading the evening papers. Hooker took from his pocket a +book catalogue, issued by one of the great English auction houses. He +knew that was the best bait! No book-lover that ever lived could +resist dipping into a sale catalogue. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker waited an hour—it seemed like five. Fenn read every word in +the papers, even the advertisements. He dwelt long and lovingly over +the financial pages, running his eyes up and down the columns of +"to-day's transactions." He at last finished the perusal, and glanced +at Hooker. He said nothing for awhile, and appeared restless, like a +man with money weighing on his mind. This, of course, is a very +distracting and unpleasant feeling. Several times he seemed on the +verge of addressing his fellow-traveller, but desisted from the +attempt. Finally he said: +</p> + +<p> +"I see, friend, that you're reading one of Sotheby's catalogues." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," answered Hooker, shortly. +</p> + +<p> +"You must be interested in books," pursued Fenn. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes," was the brief response. +</p> + +<p> +"Do you collect them?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +Fenn said nothing for five minutes. The stranger did not appear to be +very communicative. +</p> + +<p> +"Pardon me, Mr.——, I am also a book-collector. I have quite a fine +library of my own." +</p> + +<p> +"Really?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I always visit the shops when I go to New York. Here is a rarity +I picked up to-day." +</p> + +<p> +The stranger expressed little interest until Fenn took from his pocket +the "Unpublishable Memoirs." It was wrapped neatly in paper, and Fenn +carefully removed the little volume from the wrappings. He handed it +to the man who perused so assiduously the auction catalogue. +</p> + +<p> +"How extraordinary!" he cried, "the lost book of old Brummel. My +people were acquainted with the Beau. I suppose they are grilled right +merrily in it! Of all places, how did you come to purchase it in the +States?" +</p> + +<p> +"That's quite a story. A queer thing how I bought it. I saw it the +other day at Rodd's on Fifth Avenue. I did not buy it at first—the +price was too high. Thought I would be able to buy it later for less. +This morning, I went to see Rodd to make an offer on it, when I found +that Rodd had just sold it to some young student. The confounded +simpleton said it belonged to him! What did that trifler know about +rare books? Now <i>I</i> know how to appreciate them." +</p> + +<p> +"Naturally!" said the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +"I've the finest collection in the West. I had to pay a stiff advance +before the proprietor would let me have it. It was a narrow +squeak,—by about a minute. The young jackass tried to make a scene, +but I taught him a thing or two. He'll not be so perky next time. How +my friends will enjoy this story of the killing. I can't wait until I +get home." +</p> + +<p> +The stranger with the freshly-shaven face, the English clothes, and the +austere eyes did not seem particularly pleased. +</p> + +<p> +"How extraordinary!" he said, coldly, and returned to his reading. +</p> + +<p> +Fenn placed the book in his pocket, a pleased expression on his face, +as if he were still gloating over his conquest. He was well satisfied +with his day, so intellectually spent among the banks and bookshops of +New York! +</p> + +<p> +"By the way, I am acquainted with this Rodd," said the Englishman, +after a pause. "He told me a rather interesting story the other day, +but it was in a way a boomerang. I don't like that man's methods. +I'll never buy a book from him." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Fenn. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you'd better hear the tale. It appears he has a wealthy client +in Chicago and he occasionally goes out to sell him some of his +plunder. He did not tell me the name of his customer, but, according +to Rodd, he is an ignoramus and knows nothing at all about books. +Thinks it improves his social position. You know the type. Last +winter Rodd picked up for fifty dollars a beautifully illuminated copy +of Magna Charta issued about a hundred years ago. It's a fine volume, +printed on vellum, the kind that Dibdin raved about, but always +considered a 'plug' in England. Worth about forty guineas at the most. +You know the book?" +</p> + +<p> +Fenn nodded. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it worried Mr. Rodd how much he could ask his Western patron for +it. He left for Chicago via Philadelphia and while he was waiting in +the train there he thought he could ask two hundred dollars for it. +The matter was on his mind until he arrived at Harrisburg, where he +determined that three hundred would be about right. At Pittsburgh he +raised the price to five hundred, and at Canton, Ohio, it was seven +hundred and fifty! The more Rodd thought of the exquisite beauty of +the volume, of its glowing colors and its lovely old binding, the more +the price soared. At Fort Wayne, Indiana, it was a thousand dollars. +When he arrived at Chicago the next morning, his imagination having had +full swing, he resolved he would not under any circumstances part with +it for less than two thousand dollars!" +</p> + +<p> +"The old thief!" exclaimed Fenn, with feeling. +</p> + +<p> +"It was a lucky thing," continued the stranger, "that his client did +not live in San Francisco!" +</p> + +<p> +At this Fenn broke forth into profanity. +</p> + +<p> +"I always said that Rodd was an unprincipled, unholy, unmitigated—" +</p> + +<p> +"Wait until you hear the end, sir," said the Englishman. +</p> + +<p> +"That afternoon he called on the Western collector. He had an +appointment with him at two o'clock. He left Rodd waiting in an +outside office for hours. Rodd told me he was simply boiling. Went +all the way to Chicago by special request and the brute made him cool +his heels until four o'clock before he condescended to see him. He +would pay dearly for it. When Rodd showed him the blooming book he +asked three thousand five hundred for it—would not take a penny +less—and he told me, sir, that he actually sold it for that price!" +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you believe it," said Fenn, hotly. "Old Rodd is an unqualified +liar. He sold it for five thousand dollars. That's what he did, the +damn pirate!" +</p> + +<p> +"How do you know, sir?" +</p> + +<p> +"How do I know, <i>know, know</i>!" he repeated, excitedly. "I <i>ought</i> to +know! I'm the fool that bought it!" +</p> + +<p> +Without another word Fenn retired to his stateroom. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning when Fenn arrived at his office in the Fenn Building, +he called to one of his business associates, who, like his partner, was +interested in the acquisition of rare and unusual books. +</p> + +<p> +"I say, Ogden, I have something great to show you. Picked it up +yesterday. In this package is the wickedest little book ever written!" +</p> + +<p> +"Let me see it!" said Mr. Ogden, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +Fenn gingerly removed the paper in which it was wrapped, as he did not +wish to injure the precious contents. He turned suddenly pale. Ogden +glanced quickly at the title-page for fear he would be seen with the +naughty little thing in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +It was a very ordinary volume, entitled, "A Sermon on Covetousness, a +Critical Exposition of the Tenth Commandment by the Rev. Charles +Wesley." +</p> + +<p> +"The devil!" exclaimed John Fenn. +</p> + +<p> +"How the old dodge works," said Robert Hooker to himself on his way +back to New York. "The duplicate package, known since the days of +Adam! And how easy it was to substitute it under his very eyes! I +shall call Beau Brummel's 'Unpublishable Memoirs' number <i>one</i> in my +new library." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE THREE TREES +</h3> + +<p> +In the famous cabinet of John Bull Stevens was a superb impression of +Rembrandt's celebrated etching, "The Three Trees." It was the only +copy known in what print collectors chose to term "the first state." +This exquisite work of art had only recently been discovered in +Amsterdam by a world-renowned critic, and promptly sold at a fabulous +price to the American enthusiast. It had several lines from right to +left in the middle tree that had never been noticed in any other copy; +the etching, according to the earlier authorities, had existed in but +one state. +</p> + +<p> +To the uninitiated all this disturbance about a few lines on the trunk +of a tree seemed unintelligible and ridiculous, but to the print +collectors it was considered a magnificent "find," ranking with the +discovery of electricity or the Roentgen rays. Periodicals devoted to +the fine arts published many profound articles about the unique "Three +Trees," and one of them suggested that such an extraordinary treasure +should repose in a museum, where the art-loving public would have an +opportunity to enjoy its marvelous beauty; it was a crime that it +should be locked away forever in a private residence. +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker was reading this one evening in the "Art Journal" when a +thought came to him. Why not add this immortal work of Rembrandt's to +his museum, which at that time existed only in his mind? Why not +appropriate this etching and place it securely under lock and key, +awaiting the time when it would be freely offered to the gaze of the +public in an institution to be proudly called after his name? +</p> + +<p> +He had already some tangible things to put therein,—the famous +"Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel from the Fenn collection; the +"Kann" rug; and a few other wonderful curiosities that he had +"borrowed" from celebrated amateurs as the nucleus of a loan collection +in his mythical museum. The "Three Trees" should, by right, bloom in +his own fair garden. +</p> + +<p> +John Bull Stevens was unapproachable. He did not show his things. He +gloated over them alone, in the most selfish, wicked manner, in his +dark old mansion on lower Fifth Avenue. Admission was denied to +everyone, except a few intimate friends; no one could see the originals +of some of the world's masterpieces. +</p> + +<p> +Art institutes pestered him with requests to examine this or that; +celebrated students everywhere clamored for a view of Whistler's +portrait of John Bull himself, or Gilbert Stuart's more celebrated +portrait of John Bull's grandfather. When curtly refused admission to +his galleries, extraordinary letters were written him, full of caustic +and delightful epithets, which had not the slightest effect upon him. +It was said he had no conception of the universality of art, which +includes kings and paupers,—wicked, rich collectors and virtuous, poor +students! +</p> + +<p> +To make himself appear more human, John Bull Stevens at last determined +to publish a catalogue raisonné of his pictures, his drawings, his +etchings and his engravings. He thought a beautiful reproduction or +facsimile would be as satisfying to the critics as a view of the +original. +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker, for one, did not agree with him. +</p> + +<p> +The catalogue was duly announced, to be published within the year and +presented to the museums and libraries of this country and Europe. +Photographers and printers, art writers and reviewers were employed to +get up the sumptuous work. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker suddenly became imbued with a passion for photography; he became +intimate with the distinguished artist who was to take the pictures of +the Stevens collection. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker became so much interested in his new work that he offered his +services as an assistant, without pay of course. It was just for the +experience. Nothing more.... Hooker spent one whole morning in the +Stevens' residence helping the celebrated photographer. They were to +take negatives that day of the portfolio of seventeenth century +etchings. John Bull was there of course, suspicious and watchful. The +photograph of the "Three Trees" was made the exact size of the superb +original. +</p> + +<p> +When this had been successfully accomplished, Hooker, the careless +assistant, seemingly nervous in the presence of the great collector, +let fall the frame that held the great etching; the glass was shattered +and Stevens swore as many picturesque and artistic curses as there were +fragments upon the floor. The assistant was properly rebuked and as +quickly dismissed; the unfortunate Hooker offered sixty cents to pay +for the shattered glass,—which was promptly accepted! He departed, +covered with ignominy under the glances of the angry Stevens. +</p> + +<p> +That evening a plate was made from the negative by a new intaglio +process. All that night on the top floor of a dingy building on +Thirty-ninth Street engravers worked on the copper, bringing out the +excellencies of a famous etching; old paper with the watermark of 1631 +had been procured and all that remained to be done was the printing. +By noon the next day a facsimile had been made, beautiful as the +original itself, as poetic and as glorious as the veritable "Three +Trees." +</p> + +<p> +But what was to be done with it, now that it had been created, a true +brother of the original? The fertile brain of Robert Hooker had long +before conceived the answer. The clumsy photographer's assistant had +deftly dropped the frame with practiced skill, leaving the etching +untouched, the glass alone being injured. There is even an art in +<i>dropping</i> a picture! +</p> + +<p> +But before the disgraced apprentice departed he had heard Stevens give +directions to a faithful servant: "Take <i>that</i> carefully to Kemble's. +See that a new glass is put on it and returned to me to-morrow, without +fail!" +</p> + +<p> +The next morning Hooker happened to stroll into the picture galleries, +known everywhere as "Kemble's," and actually purchased something, +paying for it with real money. It came hard with him, for he no longer +liked to buy things in what he termed "the ordinary way." +</p> + +<p> +He purchased for sixty dollars a little etching by D. Y. Cameron, and, +strange to say, not a frame in that great establishment suited him. +One was too brown or too "antique," or not the right width; the +salesman, who was a good fellow, became irritated. A whole hour wasted +over a three dollar frame. He gave vent to his pent-up feelings by +being excruciatingly polite, which is rude. He suggested that as Mr. +Hooker did not see anything to suit his fastidious taste among the +thousands of mouldings already shown, perhaps he would like to look +through the samples in the workshop? Hooker reluctantly consented, and +there among the old and new frames, in the company of gilders, fitters +and mat-makers he carefully made a suitable selection. +</p> + +<p> +Of course the "Three Trees" was there. Its light could not be +concealed—its beauty spoke to Hooker from a far corner. This +masterpiece of the etcher's art was lying on a table awaiting the glass +that was to guard and watch over it. The substitution was quickly and +quietly made. The little Rembrandt was carefully, nay tenderly, placed +in a commodious side-pocket of Hooker's coat; the treacherous younger +brother was left upon the work-table, where it would shine by a false +light—the light of the faithless, the reflected brilliancy of the +wicked. +</p> + +<p> +When the great museum was founded some years later, when it was +acclaimed as one of the art institutes of the world, when great +scholars extolled it, and poets sang of it, a list of its treasures was +published which amazed the critics of two continents. Collectors in +England, in France, in New York, were astounded! +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stevens read with envy that it contained the only copy known of the +first state of Rembrandt's "Three Trees." "Another newspaper canard! +An infernal lie! A senseless fabrication!" he exclaimed. <i>His</i> was +the only one; he did not believe another would ever come to light. +</p> + +<p> +He would examine his own again. He took the etching carefully from the +wall. What was the faint blur—was it a line at the bottom? It seemed +strange, for he had not noticed it before. He would get his magnifying +glass. He read, in microscopic letters: "Facsimile from the unique +original in the Hooker Museum." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE PURPLE HAWTHORN +</h3> + +<p> +When the Appleton collection of Chinese porcelains was purchased <i>en +bloc</i> by a well-known house doing business on Fifth Avenue, the +celebrated purple hawthorn vase was considered the most precious of all. +</p> + +<p> +It was a large vase dating from the seventeenth century, and according +to eminent authorities, it was of the great Ch'ing Dynasty with the +curious marks of the period known as K'ang-hsi. +</p> + +<p> +The vase itself was very lovely; it was oviform with a graceful, +flaring neck. The exquisite design showed a dwarfed mei tree with the +most beautiful purple blossoms, with rare foliage and gorgeous birds +painted by a great, although unknown, artist. The glazing was superb, +being transparent and of unusual brilliancy. +</p> + +<p> +This noble work of art was valued at two hundred thousand dollars. +</p> + +<p> +Three men of vast wealth competed for the prize, and the lucky +purchaser was the eminent banker, John T. Sterling. Two financiers, +known the world over, grew purple with jealousy when they first +discovered that it was to go into the Sterling collection. Their faces +resembled the color of the wonderful blossoms on the hawthorn vase. +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker wanted to add to his museum this precious gift of the old +Chinese gods. At the various places where the vase had been exhibited, +he had often been seen gazing covetously at it. When it was offered +for sale, he knew it was useless to ask the price—which was utterly +beyond him. +</p> + +<p> +One day, Hooker read in the society columns of the <i>Herald</i> that Jasper +Foster was going to take up his residence in Italy on account of the +illness of his only daughter. He intended to sell his fine old house +on 17th Street, and all the furniture that it contained. +</p> + +<p> +Now Jasper Foster was celebrated for one thing only. His name was +known to fame but for a single object. He was the owner of the mate of +the celebrated purple hawthorn vase in the Appleton collection. +</p> + +<p> +Foster was an extremely modest, unworldly, retiring gentleman. In the +last fifteen years there had been many inquiries about the vase, and +numerous offers to purchase it, but he had always declined to part with +it. It had been the property of his father and his grandfather, who +had bought it from a sea-captain about the year 1820. +</p> + +<p> +But now Foster was in dire straits. His house was mortgaged, and his +daughter was ill with a malady that required a milder climate than New +York. It was on this account that he was going to take up his +residence in sunny Italy. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Hooker read the brief paragraph in the newspaper, he hurried +to the rather imposing house on lower 17th Street. With fear and +trembling, he rang the old-fashioned bell-pull. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Mr. Foster was at home. +</p> + +<p> +The maid showed Mr. Hooker into the first parlor. He heard voices in +an adjoining room. Mr. Foster then had other visitors. +</p> + +<p> +To pass away the time, he picked up a magazine but put it down +instantly. He had heard the magic words "purple hawthorn." Some one +else was before him. He would find out. +</p> + +<p> +Going behind an old Spanish leather screen, he listened. He looked +through the aperture, and beheld two men, well-known in the world of +finance. One was John T. Sterling; the other was James Thatcher, the +celebrated collector. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Foster was not there. It was early in the morning, and perhaps he +had not completed his toilet. +</p> + +<p> +"Hello!—You here?" said one voice. +</p> + +<p> +"Check-mated!" exclaimed the other. +</p> + +<p> +"Damn it! I never expected to see you." +</p> + +<p> +"Of course not. I know your mission. We had better see Foster +together." +</p> + +<p> +"No, I came first. I claim the privilege of the first interview!" +</p> + +<p> +"No! I shall speak out. There is no use for us to bid against each +other. It would spoil the market! I'm sure we can come to some +agreement." +</p> + +<p> +"No! I own the Appleton vase, and by right I should possess the other. +It would make the finest pair of vases in the world! It will look +magnificent in my house on Fifth Avenue." +</p> + +<p> +"Don't be a hog—Foster does not know its value. He was offered five +thousand dollars for it after the Mary J. Morgan sale in 1886. If we +offer him fifteen thousand he will think it a gold mine. You know he +needs the money. If you offer more he will become suspicious." +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose we both can't have it. We'll toss for it! that is when the +business details are over. You make an offer of ten—and then fifteen, +or more, if necessary. Your hand upon it! Play fair—this is not the +stock-market!" +</p> + +<p> +The two eminent financiers grasped hands. An instant later Mr. Foster +entered. +</p> + +<p> +"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen." +</p> + +<p> +"Not at all, Mr. Foster," replied Sterling. "We read in the papers you +were going to Italy, and thought you would like to dispose of some of +your curiosities. May we look around?" +</p> + +<p> +"Certainly. I would like to sell some of the things. I hate to do it. +But to be frank with you the illness of my daughter has proved a great +expense. I'm forced to sell out." +</p> + +<p> +The two gentlemen looked around. One purchased a satsuma vase for a +hundred dollars—seventy-five more than it was worth! The other, after +much consideration, bought an East Indian brass bowl for fifty +dollars—an extravagant price. They seemed to ignore the beautiful +vase in a glass cabinet in the corner. They were unconscious of its +existence! +</p> + +<p> +"I have something really fine, gentlemen—the hawthorn vase purchased +by my grandfather. You know about it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I heard something of it once—but I've forgotten all about it. I +would be glad to look at the vase." +</p> + +<p> +They bent their heads. A thrill ran through them as they beheld the +wonderful purple and the perfect glaze. +</p> + +<p> +"That's not bad. Of course, its shape might be better. People, +nowadays, want the green or black. I have a beautiful famille rose. +What do you want for it?" +</p> + +<p> +"I've never looked at it in that way. What's it worth to you? Some +years ago I had a good offer on it. But I didn't need the money then." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I don't want to be small about it. +I'll give you ten thousand cash." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Foster was visibly affected. +</p> + +<p> +"That is a good price. But I need more than that to see me settled in +my little villa in Tuscany. What is your very best offer?" +</p> + +<p> +"I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars, and not a cent more. And +that's a mighty liberal offer." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, that's all right. I'll let you know to-morrow." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not now?" +</p> + +<p> +"I want to consult my daughter, Caroline." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'll not hold my offer open another day. I'll be here to-morrow +morning at this time. Please don't keep me waiting. You know I'm a +very busy man." +</p> + +<p> +They paid Mr. Foster for their wares, and passed out; one with an old +vase, and the other with a brass bowl in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +"I think we've got him!" Hooker overheard one of them say, as the two +passed by him in the dimly-lighted room. +</p> + +<p> +Yes. Worse luck. Hooker knew it was useless to make other offers. He +had not the bank account to compete with the famous connoisseurs that +had just left. And he knew Mr. Foster was a gentleman of the old +school, and would not use one offer to secure a better one. +</p> + +<p> +"Good morning, Mr. Foster." +</p> + +<p> +"Why have I the honor of this visit?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, to tell the truth, I read in the <i>Herald</i> that you were going to +move. I would like to know at what price you hold this house and lot?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I'd sell cheap. Properties in this section are not worth what +they once were. It is assessed at seventy thousand dollars. There is +a mortgage on it of sixty. I'd take seventy-five for it. This section +is too antiquated for residences, and business is moving uptown. +</p> + +<p> +"But I want it for a residence. May I look through it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course!" +</p> + +<p> +Hooker examined all the rooms, noted the old-fashioned plumbing, and +said that the whole house needed a thorough going-over. +</p> + +<p> +"Well—I think I'll take it," he said at last. "Do you want the old +furniture? I would sooner buy it furnished, that is, if I could buy it +at a price!" +</p> + +<p> +This was a golden opportunity for poor Foster. To sell his house with +its worn furniture and the vase, in a single day was an achievement! +</p> + +<p> +"I would sell the house and contents entire for eighty-five thousand +dollars. I must exempt one vase, however. I've just been offered +fifteen thousand dollars for it." +</p> + +<p> +"Not for a single vase?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, would you like to see it?" +</p> + +<p> +"It's not much use. But I'm naturally curious." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Foster, with great dignity, showed the beautiful hawthorn vase. It +gleamed silently in the glass case. +</p> + +<p> +"What! Fifteen thousand for <i>that</i>! Perhaps, if it is really worth +anything like that, I can afford to speculate. I might obtain a better +offer on it. I'll give you ninety-five thousand dollars for the house +and its entire furnishings." +</p> + +<p> +"No. The lowest is one hundred thousand." +</p> + +<p> +"Done! I'll take a chance. Give me an agreement of sale, and the +matter's ended!" +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker had a white elephant on his hands. The house was really +worth but the value of the mortgage, and the furniture scarcely five +thousand dollars. +</p> + +<p> +What was he to do? Thirty-five thousand dollars was a great deal for a +poor man to give for a vase.... +</p> + +<p> +He removed the vase that afternoon to his own modest apartment and +requested Mr. Foster to refer any one interested in its purchase to him. +</p> + +<p> +At ten o'clock next morning, he had an unusual visitor at his flat in +West Eighty-ninth Street. John T. Sterling had called to see him. +Hooker went into the living-room, visibly embarrassed in the presence +of the great man. +</p> + +<p> +"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I'll state my business quickly. Mr. Foster +tells me you purchased yesterday his house and furniture. Now I'd like +to buy it, if it's in the market. I think I could turn it into a +garage. I need one in that neighborhood. I'll give you ten percent +more than it cost you." +</p> + +<p> +"No—not at all. I'll tell you what I'll do. If you give me one +hundred and fifteen thousand for the house and its contents, <i>as it is +now</i>, I shall call it a bargain. It'll be a quick turn." +</p> + +<p> +"All right. We'll go down to my attorney's at once and draw up a bill +of sale. The entire contents of the house as it is this moment, mind +you. Come right along. You know I'm a very busy man!" +</p> + +<p> +"That's known everywhere!" said Hooker, with a flattering smile. +</p> + +<p> +</p> + +<p> +On Fifth Avenue, that afternoon: +</p> + +<p> +"Done! by God! and by a mere kid!" +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +On Eighty-ninth Street, that evening: +</p> + +<p> +"<i>That</i> will make the Hooker Museum famous!" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SHAKESPEARE +</h3> + +<p> +Booklovers have considered the little volume presented by Francis Bacon +to William Shakespeare the most glorious book in the world. It +remained for many years in the British Museum, and many a pilgrimage +has been made to worship at its shrine. +</p> + +<p> +It was deposited in the Museum in 1838 by the Hedley family of Crawford +Manor, and had been in the National Library for so long a time that it +was considered the property of the nation. +</p> + +<p> +The book itself was of great rarity as it was no other than the first +edition of Bacon's "Essayes" published in London in 1597. It bore the +following inscription written upon one of the fly-leaves: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="letter"> +To my perfect Friend Mr. Wylliam Shakespeare I give this booke as an +eternall Witnesse of my love. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +FRA. BACON. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +In 1908 the Hedley family were in financial straits. It was discovered +that the copy of Bacon's Essays had not been presented to the British +Museum but merely deposited as a loan. The Museum tried its best to +retain the precious volume, but the records were clear upon the point. +</p> + +<p> +In December, 1909, the Hedleys stated that they would sell it to the +Museum for £40,000 or fifty thousand dollars less than had been offered +for it. +</p> + +<p> +An unknown collector would give two hundred and fifty thousand dollars +for it! +</p> + +<p> +The newspapers inaugurated a public subscription to keep the volume in +England, claiming that its loss could never be estimated as it was the +most precious memorial in existence of the golden age of English +literature. +</p> + +<p> +It was suspected, of course, that it would go to America. +</p> + +<p> +After six months, it was found impossible to collect the money +required. There was, apparently, but little interest in things of a +literary and artistic nature. If it had been for a new battleship +costing twenty times this amount, the money would have been forthcoming +instantly. +</p> + +<p> +It was finally announced in the London papers that the celebrated +collector, William S. Fields of New York, was the fortunate purchaser +of the world-famed volume. The news was heralded the world over. +</p> + +<p> +When it arrived, Robert Hooker, an intelligent, but by no means +wealthy, bibliophile, made a request to see it; to hold within his +mortal hands this magnificent relic of the two great Elizabethans. +</p> + +<p> +"No!" was Fields' curt response. +</p> + +<p> +It had been rumored that Robert Hooker was founding a museum in some +unknown spot—but where the money was to come from was a mystery. +</p> + +<p> +It appeared that the Bacon-Shakespeare volume was locked up in a steel +vault in the Fields' residence, guarded by an approved time-lock and +other interesting features. The book was never to be removed from the +safe, unless in the presence of the owner and a trusted servant. +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker was extremely desirous of adding this treasure to his +mythical museum! He said it was an outrage that one man, on account of +the accident of great wealth, should become the sole possessor of it. +It was a shock to public decency! It should repose, as it had for more +than seventy years, in a library or an institution, where it could be +freely seen. He therefore resolved to add it to his own. +</p> + +<p> +But how? The book was constantly under guard in a guaranteed +burglar-proof vault. To employ the most experienced crackmen to +undertake the job would be almost insane. He could not try to +substitute a facsimile as in the "Three Trees." To bribe the guard was +foolhardy because the guard did not know the combination of the +safety-lock. He was at his wit's end! Not a single practical idea +entered his head. For once he was at the end of his resources! +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker was a great lover of books. Like other kinds of love, +the more he was denied, the greater the love grew; and time added fuel +to the flames. +</p> + +<p> +One evening in his library he was thinking what a pity it was that he +could not see with his own eyes this evasive little book, when an idea +flashed through his brain. +</p> + +<p> +That night he did not sleep. +</p> + +<p> +The following day Hooker paid a visit to an old building in lower New +York. It was the United States Custom House. He asked to see an +appraiser whom he had known from boyhood days, and he talked with him +for an hour about the weather, the base-ball score and other absorbing +questions. +</p> + +<p> +"By the way, Girard, that was a nice purchase Fields made last month—I +mean the Bacon volume. I suppose you saw it when it came through the +Customs!" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I don't remember it. That's curious." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, at any rate, it was free of duty by age!" +</p> + +<p> +"I know that, Hooker. But even so, everything worth over ten thousand +dollars, I personally examine." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, it doesn't make much difference. The book should come in +without paying duty. Perhaps it came by another port." +</p> + +<p> +"No, through this. All Fields' things come here. We are told to +always hurry his through. He's got lots of pull, and we like to oblige +him." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, of course." +</p> + +<p> +"But Fields, too, has to obey the letter of the law. I want to look +this thing up." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Girard was gone for over half an hour. He returned. "Here's the +thing. Look at this consular invoice." +</p> + +<p> +"Bacon's Essays 1597. £200." +</p> + +<p> +"But what good does it do? The book comes in free, if it's worth a +million!" +</p> + +<p> +"I know. But Fields wanted this cleared the very day it was received. +He or no one else has a right to undervalue, even if the article does +not pay duty. I'm going to find out about this. I'm going to get that +book back and examine it. Fields or no Fields, he must obey the law! +I might get fired for this." +</p> + +<p> +The owner of the Bacon was much disturbed. Mr. Fields did not like the +publicity that followed the newspaper revelations. He was much annoyed +at one newspaper which said that if he undervalued non-dutiable things, +how about those that carried a high impost? +</p> + +<p> +Of course, the whole matter was nothing. And yet he was vexed. He did +not like the notice that a Treasury official was to call for the sacred +package that reposed within the solid walls of his safe. +</p> + +<p> +The next day, a gentleman with an order from the Treasury Department of +the United States paid him a visit. It was an official messenger in a +blue suit with a conspicuous nickel badge. The great steel doors were +opened and closed; the book was then removed; an instant later the +click of the lock was heard. The other treasures in the vault were +safe against the machinations of men! +</p> + +<p> +Twenty minutes later another official called. Mr. Fields thought at +first it was the same gentleman returning. He came for a book that had +been under-valued at the Custom House. +</p> + +<p> +"What! I've just given it to one of your men!" +</p> + +<p> +"Impossible, Mr. Fields. This order was issued to me!" +</p> + +<p> +"Why, that's a fake. Why, the one just presented to me had a big red +government seal on it. It was signed by the head of the Treasury." +</p> + +<p> +"Must have been a forgery. This is merely an order signed by Mr. Bond, +the representative at New York. But it's genuine!" +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +The various theories of the robbery that were advanced would have +filled many volumes. Even the British Museum was suspected! +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Girard, the appraiser, felt in his inmost soul that Robert Hooker +knew something about it. He told his story to the greatest detective +in the world, who was in charge of the case for the Government. He did +not want to issue a warrant for Hooker's arrest without any evidence +whatever. He could not take into custody an honorable gentleman merely +on suspicion. He had to have tangible proof. +</p> + +<p> +The great detective accordingly employed three able assistants to +examine every nook and corner of Hooker's house, including his library. +</p> + +<p> +All this was done during the absence of the owner. The police even +employed pickpockets to jostle him on the streets to make sure the book +was not upon his person. Hooker had been under surveillance three +hours after the robbery; it was either in the house, or he was not +guilty. +</p> + +<p> +Every book in his large library was examined. The police authorities +finally had a complete catalogue of his collection, which some day will +make interesting reading. The detectives took pen and pencil and noted +the titles of every volume with the year of publication; they admitted +that bibliography and literary work was not to their liking. It lacked +excitement and they all agreed it was only fit for poets, professors, +and other inferior persons. +</p> + +<p> +The detectives found it much easier at first to look for a volume bound +in red levant morocco with "Bacon's Essayes" in gold letters on the +back. This was the description given them of the original. +</p> + +<p> +Fearing some error, and being naturally suspicious, they were compelled +to be scholarly and open the volumes, but they did not find one dated +1597, or which answered in any way to the form and matter of the +missing volume. +</p> + +<p> +After a month of search, the detectives came to the conclusion that the +book was not in his possession. Robert Hooker was guiltless! +</p> + +<p> +When he is not going out of an evening, Hooker will often remain by the +fireside in his library, reading his favorite authors. When no one is +about, he will go to the largest book-case, and in a conspicuous place +in the centre of the third shelf, he will take down a small thick +volume, which he handles tenderly. He will often touch it fondly with +his lips. It is bound in shabby old black calf and is labelled on the +back "Johnson's Lives." Opening the volume you will see the curious +title-page, which reads: "The History of the Lives and Actions of the +most famous Highwaymen and Robbers. By Charles Johnson. London. +Printed in the year 1738." +</p> + +<p> +Sewed in the centre, and uniform in size, is another book which a short +time before was one of the glories of the British Museum. It had been +bereft of its red morocco covering. +</p> + +<p> +It is destined to be the chief article of interest in another museum, +to be founded for the use and instruction of the public for all time. +</p> + +<p> +For Shakespeare and Bacon are immortal! +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE COLONIAL SECRETARY +</h3> + +<p> +One of the most eccentric characters in the book-world was Doctor +Morton. He knew a great deal of the lore of books and made a splendid +living by stealing them. Old volumes were meat and drink to him. He +lived quietly and respectably in a small New England town where he was +honored for his learning and piety. +</p> + +<p> +Although Dr. Morton was a thief, a pilferer of libraries and +collectors, he committed a far greater crime, for which it is +impossible to forgive him. Murder, assassination, arson and treason +were naught to this unspeakable thing. It was worse than the Seven +Deadly Sins. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Morton was unlike the celebrated Spanish bibliophile, who, not +being able to obtain it in any other way, killed a fellow-collector in +order to secure a unique volume of early Castilian laws. He died upon +the scaffold unrepentant, maintaining that the prize was worth it. All +honor to poor Don Vincente of Aragon! His name shall always be +tenderly cherished by lovers of books! +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Morton <i>sold</i> the books he stole! This, in the calendar of +bookish misdemeanors, is the crime of crimes. +</p> + +<p> +Now this respectable citizen of Connecticut was a man of parts. There +was no gainsaying his knowledge. His home was beautifully furnished, +for he was a person of excellent taste. He would point to an old +Italian cabinet in his living-room, and say to himself: "I paid for +that with the first edition of Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and, as to the +Chinese Chippendale table: that was bought from the proceeds of the +Elzevir 'Cĉsar.'" +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes his friends would be astounded at his unintelligible speech. +He would say in an unconscious moment: "Bring in the Vanity Fair in +Parts!" meaning nothing else but an antique astral lamp, that he had +exchanged for the first edition of Thackeray's immortal novel, or he +would exclaim to his maid at tea-time: "Sarah, use to-day the uncut +'Endymion' from the Sterling Collection," pointing at the same time to +a beautiful old silver tray. All the furnishings in his home +represented a book "borrowed" from some famous library, and then +shamelessly sold and the money expended on household gods. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Morton obtained the books of other men by many devious ways. +For instance, he would write to a collector under the name of a +well-known amateur, and always upon the most exquisite stationery, +requesting the loan for a few days of the third quarto of Hamlet; he +was writing a brochure on the early editions of Shakespeare, and it was +necessary, in the holy cause of scholarship to inspect the volume. +</p> + +<p> +Alas! Poor Yorick! +</p> + +<p> +The collector would send the book, and that was the last he would hear +of it. +</p> + +<p> +Morton would borrow a wonderful old woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, in +pursuit of his investigations in the early history of engraving, and +return in its place in the old frame a modern facsimile, stained to +look like the original, and which the owner might not discover until +years after. +</p> + +<p> +It is not our purpose to chronicle the activities of this New England +worthy, however interesting and instructive they may be. It was Doctor +Morton's well-known coup in connection with the Welford library that +brings him into this story. +</p> + +<p> +Thomas Pennington Welford was growing old. He was a Quaker, a +descendant of the Penningtons that came over with William Penn. He +lived in an old house on Arch Street in Philadelphia, just a stone's +throw from Benjamin Franklin's grave. +</p> + +<p> +He was a Quaker of the old school; was known as conservative by members +of the Meeting-House; by others, as "close" and "tight-fisted." +</p> + +<p> +Welford gloried in this saving habit. He was considered quite wealthy +by his heirs, who were the only ones who approved of his penurious ways. +</p> + +<p> +When he arrived at the age of seventy, he determined to put his house +in order. He would sell his curiosities and his useless household +furnishings to the highest bidder. +</p> + +<p> +When Doctor Morton called one hot day in summer, Welford was in the act +of examining his books, before an old mahogany case that looked as if +it had come over with the first Pennington. +</p> + +<p> +"Good-morning, Mr. Welford, you seem pleasantly engaged." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, sir. I'm looking over some old things. I want to get rid of +everything that I can do without." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm Doctor Morton. I'm interested in anything old or curious. Let me +see what you've got. Ah! here's an old copy of Barclay's 'Apology.' +That's very valuable." +</p> + +<p> +"How much is it worth?" +</p> + +<p> +"Seventy-five dollars." +</p> + +<p> +"That much? You surprise me." +</p> + +<p> +"It's worth probably more. Oh, look! Here's another gem. It's bound +in full morocco. Sewell's 'History of the Quakers,' 1770. That's +easily worth a hundred!" +</p> + +<p> +The two book investigators pursued their investigations. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Welford was astonished when he learned that these old religious and +controversial writings were worth so much money. He did not know that +the modern collector was purchasing for fabulous sums the old sermons +of eminent divines. +</p> + +<p> +According to the learned Doctor Morton, these were just the things that +the rich bibliophile demanded! +</p> + +<p> +In going over these dusty books and pamphlets, Doctor Morton laid the +dingiest and shabbiest in a little pile. These were of no value he +said, and worth only the price of waste-paper. +</p> + +<p> +In the lot was a mutilated almanac, printed by Benjamin Franklin in +1733. +</p> + +<p> +"Look at that dirty old almanac! A modern one is a hundred times more +valuable!" Doctor Morton would exclaim; knowing at the same time that +this first issue of Poor Richard was worth its weight in gold. +</p> + +<p> +"That ought to be destroyed! It's a filthy attack on William Penn and +the Quakers. If I were you I'd put that in the fire!" said the +virtuous doctor, pointing to a little quarto pamphlet published in +London in 1682, and one of two copies extant, the other being priced at +$600.00 by a well-known book-seller. In it is the curious statement +that Penn was fond of certain ladies of the wicked court of Charles II. +And it was not in Lowndes, or in any bibliography! +</p> + +<p> +When the last volume on the last shelf had been valued by the doctor, +Mr. Welford stated that he did not care to sell immediately. He wanted +to "look around a little." The books were really worth more than he +thought. +</p> + +<p> +"Then, sir, why have you put me to all this trouble! I've lost a whole +morning going over your things and telling you about them. When you +make up your mind to sell, let me know. This pile of trash you can +burn, or you can sell it to the old-paper man. You might get +twenty-five cents for the lot. Perhaps you might give a few of those +worthless pamphlets to me. You've taken up enough of my time." +</p> + +<p> +"The lot will cost thee two dollars, Doctor." +</p> + +<p> +"All right. Give me a receipt. This is the last time I'll give free +advice to anyone! Particularly a Quaker!" +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Welford "looked around" he discovered that the beautifully +bound sermons, eulogies, prayer-books and catechisms were worth next to +nothing. He almost passed away when a kind friend told him that Poor +Richard's Almanac was worth a thousand dollars. +</p> + +<p> +Another amiable acquaintance cheerfully imparted the information that +the scandalous pamphlet about the First Proprietor of Pennsylvania was +valued at ten shares of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. At hearing this +good news, he put on his gray hat and started full of righteous +indignation to interview the lucky purchaser. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't swear, Mr. Welford. That's not becoming one of your persuasion." +</p> + +<p> +"Thou—thou—" +</p> + +<p> +"Don't choke and splutter so. It's bad for the heart." +</p> + +<p> +"Thee told me those big books of sermons were valuable. They're not +worth the paper they're written on!" +</p> + +<p> +"Now, you're becoming sacrilegious!" +</p> + +<p> +"Thee knows that rotten old thing about Penn was worth all those +catechisms and sermons combined." +</p> + +<p> +"I naturally thought that a religious book was worth more than a +scandalous one. That stands to reason." +</p> + +<p> +"There's no arguing with thee. I'll expose thee, if it takes—" +</p> + +<p> +"Oh, no, you won't. I have your receipt in full." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Welford thought a minute. A grim smile overspread his features. +</p> + +<p> +"I congratulate thee, Doctor. If thee can get the better of a +Philadelphia Quaker, thou art welcome to the profit!" +</p> + +<p> +Now this has nothing to do with Robert Hooker. It appears upon further +investigation, however, that the candle-stick made by Paul Revere, +silversmith and patriot, that stood upon the mantel-piece of the +Doctor's home in Connecticut, was known under the outrageous name of +"Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy in Old Calf." +</p> + +<p> +Why this candle-stick was catalogued in this mysterious way was known +only to Doctor Morton. +</p> + +<p> +Three years ago the first edition of Burton's great book, published in +Oxford in 1621, and in its original calf binding, was borrowed by the +Doctor, who said he was writing an article for the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, +on "Old Burton and the Anatomy." +</p> + +<p> +The owner of the book could not resist the gentle demands of the true +scholar, and sent the volume. He ought to have known better, for his +name was Robert Hooker! +</p> + +<p> +It was not soothing to the imaginations of book-lovers when it became +known that the two gems from Welford's library had gone into the +rapacious hands of Doctor Morton, to be turned into an old mahogany +sofa or a colonial high-boy. +</p> + +<p> +It was criminal, and must be prevented at all costs. And Robert +Hooker, smarting under the recollection of the loss of the "Anatomy" +thought he would like to add wicked "Penn" and "Poor Richard" to his +household. They would prove a considerable addition to his "museum of +the imagination." +</p> + +<p> +How to secure them was a problem! Ordinary methods could not be +applied to the extraordinary Doctor Morton! The wisdom of the serpent +was as nothing to the vivid intellectuality of the Connecticut Sage! +It must be confessed that only New England could have produced him; +only the rarified bookish atmosphere of three hundred years could have +engendered a creature of such genius! +</p> + +<p> +Hooker never despaired. A remedy was close at hand. +</p> + +<p> +He was walking one day, on Thirty-ninth Street, and just off Broadway, +he noticed a very handsome mahogany secretary in an antique store. He +entered the establishment, and asked its price. +</p> + +<p> +"A hundred dollars!" said the proprietor. "This piece is believed to +have been once the property of Thomas Jefferson. I purchased it from +one of his heirs." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll take it," said Hooker simply. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Three weeks later Doctor Morton entered a little shop on Fourth Avenue. +He had received a letter from the head partner, asking him to call the +next time he came to New York, and inspect a piece of colonial +furniture of the greatest historical interest. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor was almost carried away when he beheld the beautiful relic +of revolutionary days. This would grace his home with rare charm! He +asked the price. +</p> + +<p> +"Forty-five hundred dollars!" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't understand. Why is it so valuable?" +</p> + +<p> +"That's Thomas Jefferson's desk. It comes from his heirs; the +Declaration of Independence was written on it!" +</p> + +<p> +"That's a pretty story. Where's your proof? Without documentary +evidence, it's not worth more than a hundred dollars." +</p> + +<p> +"I have the proof, Doctor. Look here." +</p> + +<p> +The proprietor then rolled back the top. He put his finger upon a +secret drawer. He took out a letter and handed it in silence to Doctor +Morton. +</p> + +<p> +He read as follows: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="letter"> +Monticello, June 12, 1821. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +This secretary which is five feet four inches high and three feet wide, +made of Santa Domingo mahogany, was purchased by me in Philadelphia in +November, 1775, of Robert Aitken, the printer. Upon this desk, I wrote +in my home on High Street near Seventh, the celebrated instrument known +as the Declaration of Independence. Thinking that my heirs and others +would value this article for its association with the sacred cause of +liberty, I make this statement. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Witness my hand and seal, this twelfth day of June, 1821, and the year +of American Independence, the forty-fifth. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +THO. JEFFERSON. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Doctor Morton looked carefully at the letter. He examined the red +wafer with "T. J." in faded letters upon it. +</p> + +<p> +Accompanying the letter was another from one of the heirs of the +celebrated statesman. +</p> + +<p> +"The desk is cheap at any—" Doctor Morton blurted. He caught himself +in time. +</p> + +<p> +"I'd like to own it. I'd give your price, but haven't the cash. I +have some old books worth lots of money. Perhaps we can arrange a +trade." +</p> + +<p> +For two hours the two worked over this momentous transaction. At the +end of that time, and in consideration of a rare pamphlet containing +scurrilous remarks on William Penn, an old ephemeris printed by +Benjamin Franklin and seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, the +mahogany colonial secretary was transferred to Doctor Willis Morton—to +have and hold forever. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +One evening, about a month later, the eccentric collector of the little +Connecticut town sat down in his chair to gloat over and hold communion +with his "literary" treasures, for he did not call them articles of +virtu or specimens of bric-a-brac, or furniture of the Jacobean period, +but gave each piece that was dear to him a name that smacked of books +and learning. His mind turned to the evil early life of William Penn, +and the wisdom of Poor Richard, while at the same time his eyes were +riveted upon a beautiful eighteenth century desk. A bell interrupted +his agreeable visions. A telegram had arrived. He opened it +hurriedly, and read: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="letter"> +Please look under red wax wafer on Jefferson's letter. Important +Information. R. H. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Doctor Morton went to the secretary, and taking the letter in his +trembling hands, gingerly lifted the seal of the third President of the +United States. +</p> + +<p> +"Damn!" he cried, as he read in minute letters: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="letter"> +"A forgery,—in pleasant memory of my lost 'Anatomy.' +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +"Robert Hooker, <i>fecit</i>." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> + +<h3> +IN DEFENCE OF HIS NAME +</h3> + +<p> +He was again talking of his ancestors. He was always talking of his +ancestors.... +</p> + +<p> +It was in the library of a Fifth Avenue club, but the gentlemen seated +at a window overlooking the famous thoroughfare were not discussing +books. They were examining with care the beautiful ladies that always +decorated this brilliant highway. +</p> + +<p> +"<i>That</i>—with the blue bonnet and the short blue sleeves, is Mrs. +Wilberforce Andre," said John Stuyvesant DePuyster. "Her husband is a +descendant of Varick who served as aide-de-camp to General Arnold." +</p> + +<p> +"That doesn't make her more attractive," said Robert Hooker. +</p> + +<p> +DePuyster ignored the remark. "My great grandfather—" +</p> + +<p> +"We know all about him," chorused the others. "Let-up, please. Have +mercy on us, it's a hot day." +</p> + +<p> +"My great grandmother, on my father's side—" persisted DePuyster. +</p> + +<p> +"We know all about <i>her</i>!" the others answered, wearily. +</p> + +<p> +"But Mrs. Andre reminds me of an interesting story. And you are always +looking for stories. In January, 1779, my great grandfather was +serving on the staff of Benedict Arnold. As you know, it was he, John +Stuyvesant DePuyster, my namesake, who rescued the colors so gallantly +at Saratoga—who fought at Germantown—who almost starved at Valley +Forge—who rescued General Greene at the risk of his life—who was +wounded with two bullets in his flank at the battle of Trenton—who +served so brilliantly under Mad Anthony Wayne—who—" +</p> + +<p> +The others looked at each other furtively, with misery indicated on +every feature. +</p> + +<p> +One of them, the great autograph collector, Robert Hooker, nervously +twitched his fingers. He seemed in agony, and looked around, evidently +for signs of relief. +</p> + +<p> +—"Who received a medal for gallantry at Monmouth," chronicled the +voice in a perfectly satisfied tone,—"who rebuked Colonel +Tarleton—who was praised even by the British commander Lord Howe—who +sat at the court-martial of Andre—and who—" +</p> + +<p> +"Was a traitor to his country!" said Hooker, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Everyone looked uneasy. They all hated scenes. But at any rate, it +was a fortunate escape. A duel with bloodshed would be better than +DePuyster's stories! +</p> + +<p> +"Sir," he returned hotly, "an accusation such as this has never been +made against our family!" +</p> + +<p> +"Then I shall be the first to make it." +</p> + +<p> +"It is outrageous,—a damnable, lying statement, and you've got to +prove it I I'll force it back into your throat, you slanderer! You've +got to prove it, I say, Sir!" +</p> + +<p> +"I have the proof!" +</p> + +<p> +"Then you've got to show it. I demand it. I have the right to demand +it." +</p> + +<p> +"Two weeks from now, there will be sold at the Amhurst Auction +Galleries, an autograph letter of General Arnold, in which he speaks of +General DePuyster as an accomplice, who was ready to turn over to the +British cause his honor and his sword. The catalogue will be issued in +two weeks' time, and the full text of the letter printed. It might be +well for your precious family that this letter remains unpublished!" +</p> + +<p> +"I'll look it up at once," said DePuyster. "Until you prove your +statement, I'll not notice or speak to you, Sir." +</p> + +<p> +A week later an old autograph letter was shown to him at the +cataloguing rooms of the auction-house. DePuyster had called every +day, but it was a week before he was allowed to see it. It was to be +sold as the "property of a gentleman." +</p> + +<p> +With trembling hands, he examined this tomb of the secrets of the +illustrious DePuyster, this time-stained document with faded writing. +The letter read as follows: +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="letter"> +Robinson's House,<br /> +September 2, 1780.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Sir:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Everything is progressing as agreed. I have secured a pass for Hett +Smith. I suppose the ordnance at West Point is the same as given. +What of the military force? We have not enough to help us <i>on this +side</i>. We need more than two, a third or fourth person is required. +Colonel DePuyster, in charge of the ordnance, has given me his word +that he will be ready when called upon. He has already written me, +giving the number of blackberries in the first field. He is of great +assistance, and his name, which has always stood for honor in America, +will prove a great asset to us. It is a name that is like Cĉsar's +wife, and has never been <i>suspected</i>. I have supplied the third +help-mate; will you furnish our fourth? +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +I am, Sir, with great respect, +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Your most obedient humble servant,<br /> +GUSTAVUS.<br /> +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Maj. John Anderson. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +The descendant of the gallant revolutionary soldier trembled like a +coward. The name of John Anderson and Gustavus were well-known to him +as those assumed by Andre and Arnold in the great conspiracy. The +hand-writing was, undoubtedly, Arnold's; he had letters in his own home +written by the infamous general to Col. DePuyster, his great +grandfather—letters written years before the treason—and the writing +was identical. +</p> + +<p> +"What—what will you take for this letter?" asked DePuyster. +</p> + +<p> +"It will be sold at auction in two weeks' time," the clerk answered, +politely. +</p> + +<p> +"But I would like to purchase it before the sale." +</p> + +<p> +"Sorry, sir, but its owner will sell only at public sale. The +competition will cause it to bring a high price." +</p> + +<p> +"Who is the owner?" +</p> + +<p> +"I don't know." +</p> + +<p> +"Can't you find out?" +</p> + +<p> +"He desires to remain unknown." +</p> + +<p> +"Tell him for me, that I will give any price for it before it is +published in the catalogue." +</p> + +<p> +"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Hooker also came here to examine it. He +wanted to buy it. He is a great expert, you know, and he always +desired a letter of General Arnold's—about the treason. Mr. Sterling +also wants it. He has a letter giving the amount Arnold received for +betraying his country. It is said his letter is worth five thousand +dollars. This is worth almost as much." +</p> + +<p> +"I'll give him five thousand for this one." +</p> + +<p> +"No, sir. You will have to wait until the sale." +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hooker sat at the club window. The feminine decorations of the +Avenue did not interest him. He was thinking of poor DePuyster. +Someone had just told him that DePuyster had remained indoors, not +daring to show his face at the Club. He was at his apartments drinking +Scotch whiskeys to take his mind away from the letter which haunted +him. He could not bear to look into pedigrees and genealogies, which +used to be his constant companions. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker was actually sorry for the descendant of the stalwart +Revolutionary hero, who dared not face his friends—much less his +enemies. He would give the old man a tip! he said to himself. Anyhow +it was delicious to have seen DePuyster's face when the accusation was +made. +</p> + +<p> +"DePuyster made me so nervous that I just <i>had</i> to do it. But I'll +give him a hint. I'll write him, telling him perhaps the letter is a +forgery. That will give him a chance. As a gentleman of honor, I +shall write him. I should wish the proof, like his ancestors, to be +"above suspicion!" +</p> + +<p> +The letter was received by DePuyster, who becoming suddenly brave, +faced the light of day, and made the astounding charge to the president +of the auction-house that the Arnold (Gustavus) letter was nothing but +a forgery! A rank imitation, a fabrication to blackmail a noble family +distinguished for three hundred years in American History! +</p> + +<p> +The president grew angry; the letter had been passed upon by well-known +experts, as well as their own cataloguers of autographs; it was +undoubtedly genuine, and would be sold as such. +</p> + +<p> +"I'll sue you for damages, if you publish that letter before it is +passed upon by the greatest experts in the world." +</p> + +<p> +"Go ahead and sue," said the president, turning away. +</p> + +<p> +DePuyster, however, had among his numerous acquaintances, many famous +lawyers, one of whom secured an injunction, preventing the sale, and +impounding the letter. +</p> + +<p> +It came later before the Court which, with unusual wisdom, stated that +the matter should be decided by three disinterested experts, one to be +selected by the Court, one by the auction-house, and one by DePuyster. +</p> + +<p> +The contestants assembled in the little court-room which was crowded +with friends of the parties to the suit, and eminent autograph and +book-collectors. They came from many cities to hear the wrangle over +the famous letter, and to witness the battle of the experts. +</p> + +<p> +The name of each expert was placed in an envelope, and sealed. +</p> + +<p> +"The appointment of the Court—is Robert Hooker," announced the judge, +tearing to pieces the envelope. +</p> + +<p> +"The expert for the defense," read the judge, tearing open another +envelope, "is Robert Hooker. +</p> + +<p> +"The expert that will represent the plaintiff," continued His Honor, +breaking with his fingers the manila paper, "is Robert Hooker." +</p> + +<p> +All eyes were turned to the corner where Robert Hooker sat unconcerned. +He seemed, in a measure, overwhelmed by this new distinction. +</p> + +<p> +He had been known the world over as a collector of autographs and +manuscripts, but he had never been called upon as an expert. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker arose. He examined the letter but for an instant. +</p> + +<p> +"I have formed an opinion, Your Honor." +</p> + +<p> +"So soon?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"What is your decision?" +</p> + +<p> +"It is a forgery!" +</p> + +<p> +"Are you certain?" +</p> + +<p> +"Without a shadow of a doubt!" +</p> + +<p> +"Why are you so positive," queried the Judge, "when so many other +authorities state that it is genuine?" +</p> + +<p> +"I am positive," said Hooker, "because I wrote it myself!" +</p> + +<p> +There was an uproar in the Court. +</p> + +<p> +"Please explain, sir," said the judge sternly. +</p> + +<p> +"DePuyster had become such a pest, such a terror to his friends by his +family anecdotes and antique stories that I could stand it no longer. +I was literally bored to death. I made the charge in jest. DePuyster +took it so seriously that I was compelled to supply the proof. I +purchased an old sheet of writing paper with the water-mark of the +Revolutionary period. I practised for hours, so I could imitate +General Arnold's handwriting. When I finished the letter I almost +thought it an original myself! The farce was wonderful! The hoax—a +joy! I thought that I had become a Good Samaritan who had saved his +friends from a very tiresome old gentleman with a hobby for family +history. When my name was first called—I hesitated, but when you all +selected me, I was overwhelmed with the distinguished honor. I told +the truth, and spoiled a story." +</p> + +<p> +"You have <i>created</i> a story!" said the judge. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> + +<h3> +"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY" +</h3> + +<p> +The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The +volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of +Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one +of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed +in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of +the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair +Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides +would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of +Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais. +The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of +book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr. +Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over £2000 and +since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved +by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been +knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,—and bibliophiles! +</p> + +<p> +On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had +been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli +Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints, +books, typography, early manuscripts, and money. The volume, after +having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and +gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling +of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his +pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and +inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the gods; and a very +thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of +temerity to read it! +</p> + +<p> +The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a +vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the +Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong space that had been so gloriously +filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The +Boccaccio had vanished! +</p> + +<p> +The news of its loss was flashed over the entire world. Comment on its +strange disappearance was general; articles appeared in the newspapers +on how to safeguard the world's great literary treasures; the <i>London +Times</i> had a leading article in which it was stated that "America did +not deserve to own things of inestimable artistic and intellectual +value if it did not know how to preserve them." +</p> + +<p> +The first thing a gentleman does when he has been robbed is to call in +a detective whose name is always a household word in novels and plays. +Mr. Libro requested John Bunting to aid him with his advice, +notwithstanding the fact that he had been overwhelmed with suggestions +from every newspaper reporter in the United States and Canada. +</p> + +<p> +At noon Bunting called. After asking the usual questions, which +although a great detective, he did not disdain to do, he requested Mr. +Libro to tell him the names of his guests of the night before. +</p> + +<p> +"But, Mr. Bunting, I tell you I myself locked the case, put the key in +my pocket, and retired. They could not possibly have extracted it in +my presence, and I saw the last of them to the door." +</p> + +<p> +"I would like their names." +</p> + +<p> +"But I do not suspect any of them, Mr. Bunting." +</p> + +<p> +"That is not so, Mr. Libro, if I may be permitted to say so. You do +not care to admit it, but you suspect someone of that Literary Club." +</p> + +<p> +"I am suspicious of my best friends, but dare not indicate any one. If +you want their names, I shall tell you—James Blakely, the great +authority on Elizabethan Poetry; Henry Sterling, of Sterling, Petty & +Co.; Robert Rodd, who knows more about the first editions of Paradise +Lost than anyone; Edward Stevens; James Janney—that's five—there were +six,— Oh, yes, Robert Hooker. He is quite a student but does not +possess the bank account to buy all the books he wants. He would spend +a million a year if he had it. He was the underbidder on the +Boccaccio. Yes, Mr. Bunting, Hooker came near owning it once. I sent +an unlimited bid for it at the Sunderland Sale. He tried to buy it +from the bookseller who acted as my agent, when he found his own bid +had not been high enough." +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Libro, that is interesting. It was no ordinary thief, however, +who took it. The ordinary New Yorker does not know the difference +between <i>that</i> book and one by Marie Corelli!" +</p> + +<p> +Bunting began the investigation at once. He followed zealously every +clew. A few notorious criminals, who were seen in the immediate +vicinity of the house, were interviewed without result. One of them, +who had been noticed a block from the house shortly after midnight, was +locked up on suspicion. He was discharged from custody the next +morning as nothing could be proved against him. This individual, who +was known to the police as "Booky" Phillips, had been arrested many +times, but never convicted. The Chief found him quite placid under the +rapid fire of his questions. He had read of the lost Boccaccio in the +<i>Herald</i>, but did not understand why any "self-respecting thief would +stoop to steal a worthless old book!" +</p> + +<p> +As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of +the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found, +much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called +one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit. +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing +from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?" +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not +answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew +angry. +</p> + +<p> +"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing +with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book +will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be +continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day." +</p> + +<p> +The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared +to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would +have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was +nowhere to be seen. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +Two years passed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's +wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw +each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they +avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members +of the Maioli Club—it was a thing never to be spoken of at its +meetings. +</p> + +<p> +It was, however, again to be the subject of talk and gossip. On +December 12, 1912, two years to a day after its strange disappearance, +the volume turned up in all the glory of its illuminated page and +superb morocco binding. Giovanni Boccaccio had added another story to +the Hundred that composed his immortal collection. +</p> + +<p> +And where had it been found? The last place in the entire world. In +the New York Public Library! For almost two years it had reposed +there, with no one to cherish it or dip into its witty contents. In a +book-case, side by side with other great masterpieces of literature, it +had remained neglected by the inhabitants of New York, who in the +newspapers of that great city figure as learned and scholarly! The old +story, "that the best place to <i>hide</i> a book was in a Wall Street +broker's office" was found to be pleasant but fanciful fiction! It was +far safer in the public library: no one would look for it there! +</p> + +<p> +On the morning of the twelfth of December a gentleman came to the +Inquiry Desk. He appeared to Mr. Jones, one of the assistant +librarians, to be interested in books on the subject of Religion, so he +requested the visitor to go with him to the book-stacks, as there were +too many of them to carry to the reading tables. And theological books +were always so heavy! While looking over the collection the man called +Mr. Jones' attention to the label of John Libro in one of them, and +asked why the "Decameron" of Boccaccio was put among the religious +books? Mr. Jones blushed! He gasped, however, when he recognized the +long-lost volume. He would take it at once to the principal librarian. +He first asked the stranger's name,—the fortunate discoverer of the +missing treasure. He gave Mr. Jones his card. Engraved thereon was +"B. Phillips." +</p> + +<p> +The newspapers were full of the curious recovery of the Boccaccio, were +quite facetious about it and went so far as to call the great building +on Fifth Avenue a Literary Mausoleum. Others suggested that the State +should appropriate money for the purchase of modern sex novels,—the +only books that were really read! But despite the jibes and +explanations the real mystery was unsolved. How was the book stolen +and why? +</p> + +<p> +Three days later the following letter appeared in the newspapers. It +is given here because it will make a fitting ending to the Hundred and +First Tale of the Decameron. +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p class="letter"> +New York, December 14, 1912. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Sir: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +I have read with interest the various explanations given in the papers +concerning the disappearance of the book from Mr. Libro's library. I +can supply the key to the whole problem. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Some two years or so ago, I was stone broke. One day I read that Mr. +Libro had purchased at a great price the book which has caused all this +commotion. I thought I would lift it some night when I had nothing +better to do, and sell it back to its owner or some other book crank. +I called one afternoon at the Libro house with some magazines on +pretence of securing subscriptions. The ruse worked. Mr. Libro +ordered the <i>Bookman</i>,—a magazine I had never heard of. He showed me +one or two of his books,—these maniacs always want to show you their +things. I was bored to death, as you can imagine. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +While he was signing the subscription blank I made a wax impression of +the key to the cases. That night I did a second story job. The window +was open. I easily found the library. But where was the confounded +book? I looked everywhere. There seemed to be millions of books. In +one case I noticed a shelf that was uneven. I looked at it. I saw the +name "Boccaccio." I placed the volume underneath my coat and left. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +The evening papers were filled with the news. What could I do with the +volume? I could not keep it in my room, as I feared the police would +find it. I did not dream that it would be missed so soon, and I did +not anticipate all this fuss over a shabby old book. I tried to think +of a place to hide it, but could not. One of the papers said that a +Richard Hooker was the other crank who had bid for it at the auction +sale. If I went to him now he would refuse to buy it and arrest me. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +I tried another and surer course. That night I went to Hooker's +house,—another second story job—and left the cursed book in the most +conspicuous place in the library. The next day I called on him. I +said I was Mr. Scott,—a detective. I accused him of stealing the book +from Mr. Libro. He said I lied. I told him he had the book in his +house now. From the expression on his face I knew I had him. He said +he had found the book in his library, but had not taken it and did not +know how it had got there. I asked him if he thought anyone would +believe him. He said—No! Everyone would think he had stolen it. +Hooker offered me a thousand dollars to take the book and say nothing. +I accepted two thousand dollars in cash. I took the book, but where to +hide it I did not know. It was under my coat when I was passing 42nd +Street and Fifth Avenue. A thought struck me. I would place it where +it would never be found. The people here have no time to read books; +it was the best place of all. In a moment I was in the library; I +threw the cursed old thing on one of the shelves. I left in great glee. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +At the corner of 40th Street and the Avenue I was arrested by one of +Captain Bunting's men. They tried to get something on me, but could +not. I was innocent! +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +I am on my way to London to visit the British Museum, for I find the +study of books profitable. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Yours very truly,<br /> + B. PHILLIPS.<br /> +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE LADY OF THE BREVIARY +</h3> + +<p> +The Abelard Missal was lost to him forever. +</p> + +<p> +When Mr. Richard Blaythwaite was alive, Robert Hooker had a small +chance, one in ten thousand perhaps, of securing it and adding this +beautiful memento of the Renaissance to his "museum of the +imagination." But now that Blaythwaite was dead, all hope of owning it +had vanished. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker would not have hesitated, in the cause of the public, to have +taken it by fair means or foul from Blaythwaite, but he would not rob a +woman. He was singularly squeamish upon this point. +</p> + +<p> +Richard Blaythwaite had left everything to his only daughter, including +the famous Abelard missal. +</p> + +<p> +It was a marvelous manuscript dating from the sixteenth century, and +contained at the end the beautiful and tragic story of those mediĉval +lovers, Abelard and Heloise. +</p> + +<p> +The pictures that decorated the missal, however, were its chief +glory.... They were the work of Giulio Clovio, and executed by the +great miniaturist for Philip the Second of Spain. The full page +illuminations, with the exquisite colors, heightened with gold, were +worth a king's ransom, or a queen's reputation. The binding was in +keeping with the superb quality of the breviary, being in old purple +morocco, the royal arms of Castile impressed in gold upon the sides. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker tried in every way but could not give up the idea of being its +possessor. It haunted him at night, and during the day his mind +constantly reverted to its matchless colors and quaint designs. +</p> + +<p> +He knew Miss Blaythwaite slightly, having met her in former days at her +father's house, when he used to delight in looking over his famous +library. The pity of it all was that the missal was to be in the +keeping of a woman. If it had gone to some collector who would +treasure it as a delectable gift of the gods, it would not be so bad. +But to a woman! The thought almost drove him mad. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, in despair, he resolved to call at the fine old house, and +glance once more at the lovely picture of Abelard imprinting his last +kiss upon the lips of Heloise. +</p> + +<p> +He felt some misgivings, when he was told that Miss Blaythwaite was at +home and would see him. He almost hated her, and he could not forbear +the thought that the Abelard missal was no more to her than her pet +dog, or the bracelet upon her fair wrist. +</p> + +<p> +When she entered the room, he was taken aback. When he saw her some +years ago, she was but a slip of a girl, with long hair down her back. +She was now tall and stately, with beautiful deep blue eyes. She was +dressed simply; and Hooker thought exceedingly well, but he was not a +judge. He knew more about the morocco covering of an old book than a +lady's apparel. +</p> + +<p> +"Good evening, Mr. Hooker. I'm glad you called," she said. +</p> + +<p> +"Thank you, Miss Blaythwaite. It's been a long time since I've had the +pleasure of seeing you." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, you've rather neglected us lately. Are you still interested in +books? Poor father had quite a mania for them." +</p> + +<p> +"That's what first brought me to the house. Do you remember how we +used to spend hours going over his books?" +</p> + +<p> +"Hours? It seemed ages to mother and me. Poor mother, how furious she +used to be when father brought those dusty old books into the house. +She used to say that father threw away his money on them. He'd give a +hundred dollars for a shabby old thing, when he could have bought a +nice, modern edition for five." +</p> + +<p> +At this, Robert Hooker was speechless! +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose you would like to see some of the additions to the library," +Miss Blaythwaite continued, "father bought books until he died. You +know he caught pneumonia by going to an auction-sale, one cold day last +winter. This is the book he bought,—but at what a cost!" +</p> + +<p> +She took from the shelves which lined the walls, a small volume. It +was a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, the first edition; published in +1609. +</p> + +<p> +"And the strange part of it all, Mr. Hooker, I believe in my heart that +papa never regretted its purchase." +</p> + +<p> +Hooker was about to remark that it was worth the risk, but checked +himself in time. +</p> + +<p> +"It was foolish. Your father, however, was a true bibliophile." +</p> + +<p> +Miss Blaythwaite returned this volume of volumes to its position in the +case, and when Hooker saw it, he turned pale. She had put it in upside +down—a terrible thing to do. One would have to stand upon his head to +read the title, and booklovers do not believe in gymnastics. +</p> + +<p> +He immediately placed it in its proper position, carefully, +tenderly—as if it had been a baby, which was precious to him, but not +quite so precious as an old book or manuscript! +</p> + +<p> +"Father could not bear us to put books in upside down, but mother and I +would often forget, and the way father scolded, you would think we had +committed a horrid crime." +</p> + +<p> +At this, they both laughed. +</p> + +<p> +When Hooker was shown the breviary, he lingered for a long time over +its magic pages. He felt the cool vellum leaves with his fingers, for +fear lest the missal would slip through his hand, and disappear forever! +</p> + +<p> +For over two months, Hooker was a constant visitor at the Blaythwaite +home. He became intimately acquainted with every book in the library; +he could tell the exact date of publication of the early printed +volumes; the place where it was printed; the name of the binder, and +other useless information. +</p> + +<p> +Even Miss Blaythwaite caught some of the contagion. She, who had +formerly cared nothing for her father's "playthings," became interested +in them. Sometimes she would take down from a shelf a volume of old +English poetry, and become absorbed in the lyrical sweetness of the +verse. Occasionally, she would read aloud to Hooker some beautiful +poems that she had discovered in Ben Jonson, in Crashaw, or in Herrick; +and he would tell her of his aspirations, and of the Museum that +existed only in his mind. He told her of the wonderful things he +already possessed. +</p> + +<p> +Although Hooker had known Miss Blaythwaite for some time, she was to +him always, the Lady of the Breviary. +</p> + +<p> +When he felt the delicious warmth of her hand, he thought of the +missal; when she was seated near him, poring over some old volume of +forgotten lore, his mind turned to its wonderful binding, or its +miraculous miniatures. Strange as it may seem, Miss Blaythwaite was +nothing more to him than the guardian and sole owner of a book that his +soul desired. Sometimes, when they were reading together some volume +of Elizabethan verse, another caller would be announced; Hooker would +be presented, and then he would retire gracefully to her father's +library, leaving the field clear to his rival. This, of course, was +not flattering to Miss Blaythwaite! +</p> + +<p> +One night, Jack Worthing was there before him. He was a clean-cut, +manly fellow, interested first in sports, and after that in business. +He had known Miss Blaythwaite for years. The talk turned, as it will +always turn, when bibliophiles are present, upon books. +</p> + +<p> +"I don't understand you fellows," said Worthing. "You think more of an +old book than many people of their children!" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course! Children often grow up into ill-mannered youths and +conceited young ladies. Books always remain young and delightful!" +</p> + +<p> +"But, confound it! You never read them. You have thousands around you +all the time, and I bet you don't read ten a year." +</p> + +<p> +"Rare books are meant to be carefully nurtured during our lives, and +passed on after our death to those who will appreciate them. Only +college professors, students, scholars, and such people ever <i>read</i> +books," answered Hooker, contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +"I think book-men the most foolish class of persons on earth," retorted +Worthing. "Give me some good old sport, like boxing, or foot-ball, +that makes your heart tingle, that causes the red blood to shoot +through your veins—that makes life worth living! Man wasn't created +to spend his life roaming around a dusky old library, when he can go +out into God's pure air and enjoy the fields and the streams, the +forests and the lakes!" +</p> + +<p> +At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to smile approvingly. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker said nothing. Bibliophiles are not missionaries. They do not +go into the by-ways of the world to uphold their creeds, for the love +of books is such a wonderful thing that it can never be explained! +</p> + +<p> +When he left Miss Blaythwaite that night, he felt that the breviary was +farther from him than ever. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker, however, came swiftly to a decision. +</p> + +<p> +The only way he could obtain the Abelard Missal, was by marrying Miss +Blaythwaite. The next evening he called, with this firmly fixed in his +mind. This wily, calculating book-worm had slowly crept into her +affections. He knew she liked him, but would she marry him? +</p> + +<p> +He asked her with great fervor, which was assumed, whether she would +become his wife. He waited breathlessly for her answer. +</p> + +<p> +"I want to be frank with you, Robert," she said. "I do not think you +love me." +</p> + +<p> +"How can you say such a thing?" +</p> + +<p> +"Instinctively, I feel it. I like you, but I cannot marry you." +</p> + +<p> +"Why not? Is there someone else?" +</p> + +<p> +Miss Blaythwaite smiled. +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"I never dreamed of it. Of course I might have known." +</p> + +<p> +"You do know, Robert." +</p> + +<p> +"Is it Jack Worthing?" +</p> + +<p> +"No." +</p> + +<p> +"Then, who is it?" +</p> + +<p> +"It's that old missal. You are more in love with <i>that</i>, than you are +with me. I can see it in your eyes, in your talk, in everything. If I +were not its owner, you would never come near me." +</p> + +<p> +"Then you will not marry me?" +</p> + +<p> +"No, I cannot. Do you know, Robert, I've become actually jealous of +that breviary, and intend to present it to some library or museum! It +ought, by right, to go to the Metropolitan." +</p> + +<p> +"For God's sake," Hooker cried in mortal anguish, "do anything but +that!" +</p> + +<p> +For over six months the forlorn bibliophile remained away from the Lady +of the Breviary. Somehow or other, it was not the missal which was +foremost in his thoughts. His books, his autographs, his porcelains, +his engravings had no longer the charm they once had. He no longer +took an interest in the auction-sales, and the catalogues that came to +him would lie neglected upon his desk. +</p> + +<p> +He looked with particular distaste upon the "Three Trees" and the +"Unpublishable Memoirs" and the Shakespeare-Bacon volume. He even +thought of returning them to their owners! The great institute to be +founded and called after his name, was a thing of the past! He had +acted like a cad, he said to himself. To marry a woman for an old book +was almost as bad as marrying for money! +</p> + +<p> +One evening, Hooker came to the conclusion that he could not stand this +loneliness, this desolation, any longer. He intended to leave the +country, to wander in foreign lands! He would call again upon Miss +Blaythwaite for the last time, but would she receive him? +</p> + +<p> +His heart was beating rapidly when the maid told him she was in, and +would see him. +</p> + +<p> +And there was Jack Worthing with her, looking big and manly, and +courageous as ever! +</p> + +<p> +Miss Blaythwaite seemed delighted to see him. A sudden joy seemed to +overspread her features! And Hooker noticed things about her he had +never noticed before. He saw the appealing dimples in her cheeks—the +fine hair blowing near the temples—the exquisite shape of her +ears—the wonderful turquoise-blue of her eyes! +</p> + +<p> +And Jack Worthing was talking of books! A miracle had happened! +Somehow or other, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to take a decided interest in +the library left her by her father, and during the last half of the +year, she was continually speaking to Worthing of first editions and +Caxtons; of Elzevirs and typography; of Americana, incunabula and such +ridiculous things, and all in a jargon that was quite unintelligible to +him. And Worthing determined to study the things she liked, and +borrowed some reference-books from a library that told of the mysteries +of the book-lovers' cult. And when Hooker heard Worthing speak of the +rare first edition of Poe's Tamerlane, he almost fainted with surprise! +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you want to look over father's books, Mr. Hooker," asked Miss +Blaythwaite. "You may go in the library as usual, and make yourself at +home. I have added a few things myself!" +</p> + +<p> +"No, thank you, I'd rather remain here. Which side do you think will +win the polo match to-morrow? Meadowbrook?" +</p> + +<p> +At this, Miss Blaythwaite and Worthing looked at each other in +astonishment. Hooker thought he saw a mysterious understanding between +them. He became at once insanely jealous of the athletic young man who +was discoursing so eloquently of Tamerlane "in boards, uncut." +</p> + +<p> +"Meadowbrook?" persisted Hooker. +</p> + +<p> +"I suppose so," returned Worthing, in an uninterested manner. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, this talk of books had become decidedly distasteful to the once +enthusiastic bibliophile. +</p> + +<p> +"By the way, Mr. Hooker," said Miss Blaythwaite, "I've made up my mind +about the Abelard missal. Jack and I think it would be a good thing to +give it to the Metropolitan Museum." +</p> + +<p> +"I quite agree with you, Miss Blaythwaite," said poor Hooker. "There +it would always be safe from fire, and could be seen by the public. It +is certainly the proper thing to do." +</p> + +<p> +At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed overjoyed. +</p> + +<p> +When Worthing left, after an interminable time, Robert Hooker sat by +her side upon the old Chippendale sofa in her father's library. When +she discoursed of books and learning, he would quietly change the +subject. +</p> + +<p> +He wanted to hear about herself, and what she had been doing since he +saw her last. As for himself—he was going away. He was taking a +steamer next Saturday for Europe. +</p> + +<p> +She asked him quietly if he did not want to take a last look at the +breviary. +</p> + +<p> +"Damn the breviary!" he said to himself. He did not care particularly +about it, but she insisted. +</p> + +<p> +He took the precious volume from its place on the shelf, and together +they looked at the marvelous illustrations that traced so vividly the +history of the two devoted lovers. +</p> + +<p> +They glanced not at the calendar, or the litany that came first in the +breviary, but bent their heads over the lovely miniatures that narrated +so touchingly the tragic story. +</p> + +<p> +When they came to the picture showing the final parting of Abelard from +his beloved Heloise, Hooker looked at Miss Blaythwaite. +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes were filled with tears. +</p> + +<p> +"Robert," she said tenderly, "I'm not going to present it to the +Metropolitan. I'll give it to the Hooker Museum! Then—we <i>both</i> can +always enjoy it." +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE EVASIVE PAMPHLET +</h3> + +<p> +He was disappointed again! +</p> + +<p> +He sat alone in his office thinking of the auction sale of the day +before. A copy of the rare first edition of "The Murders in the Rue +Morgue," the immortal story of Edgar Allan Poe, was lost to him and his +heirs for ever more. +</p> + +<p> +He had gone to the auction with the virtuous intention of buying it; +when the shabby little pamphlet with its brown paper wrappings—printed +in Philadelphia in 1843—was offered, the bidding was remarkably +spirited. It was finally sold to a distinguished collector for +thirty-eight hundred dollars. He had been the underbidder, but what +chance had a poor devil of a bibliophile against the wealthy captains +of industry? At sales of this character the race is not to the swift, +but to the—rich! +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker had once owned a copy of this precious volume. This made +his disappointment the keener. It was a more interesting example than +the one that had just been offered under the hammer of the auctioneer, +for it had been a presentation copy with a simple though beautiful +inscription written in the delicate handwriting of the poet upon the +title-page: +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +"<i>To Virginia from E. A. P.</i>"<br /> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +This was the very copy the greatest of story-tellers had lovingly given +to his wife. Years ago it had mysteriously disappeared from Hooker's +office, where he had kept it in a fire-proof, feeling it was more +secure there than on the shelves of his library. He sought for it +everywhere, offering large rewards for its return, but the evasive +little volume never was heard of again. +</p> + +<p> +Hooker was musing over his "defeat" of yesterday in the salesroom when +his thoughts reverted to the fate of his own copy. Where was it? What +was its history? Its possessor could not seek a purchaser, because the +inscription on the title-page would instantly identify it. Had it been +destroyed? Was it— +</p> + +<p> +"A gentleman to see you, sir, about an old book!" +</p> + +<p> +He instantly awoke from his reverie. It was his secretary who had +spoken. +</p> + +<p> +"Tell him I have no money for such things!" said Hooker. +</p> + +<p> +John Lawrence, his secretary, did not turn away, but waited with the +flicker of a smile upon his face. He knew the foibles of his employer. +He had been with him for many years. And a really good clerk always +knows his master's weaknesses. +</p> + +<p> +"Hold on a minute, John. Perhaps I can give him a few minutes. Tell +him to come in." +</p> + +<p> +"Hello, Colonel! What can I do for you this morning?" said Hooker +cheerily, to a middle-aged man, erect of figure, who had just entered. +He was one of those men who make their living picking up old books, old +guns, old papers, old coins, old pictures, old everything. He also, at +times, had a faculty of picking up old liquors, which was not good for +him. He was known as the "Colonel" because of his military bearing and +his interest in the Civil War. He had really been a soldier serving in +the glorious and extensive regiment known as the home guard. +</p> + +<p> +"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I've a matter I'd like to speak to you +about—but in the strictest confidence. I'm on the track of a really +fine book." +</p> + +<p> +At this Hooker smiled. Although in his long and busy life and in his +strange wanderings the Colonel had secured a few good things his +"finds" generally turned out to be of no value. Hooker had frequently +advanced him money to purchase what the Colonel termed "nuggets," but +when they were brought to him changed, in the twinkling of an eye, into +fool's gold. +</p> + +<p> +"Well, what is it?" said Hooker, rather impatiently, fearing another +tug at his purse-strings. +</p> + +<p> +"You've read this morning's papers? The 'Murders in the Rue Morgue' +brought at the sale yesterday thirty-eight hundred dol—" +</p> + +<p> +"Enough of that!" retorted Hooker, who was becoming angry. "I never +want to hear of that damned book again!" +</p> + +<p> +"But I know where there's another copy," presented the Colonel, weakly. +</p> + +<p> +"So do I. In the British Museum!" +</p> + +<p> +"No, Mr. Hooker. Right here in New York." +</p> + +<p> +"Where?" +</p> + +<p> +"But you're not interested, you just said—" +</p> + +<p> +"Of course I am, you old fool, go on!" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, the book's in an old house down near Washington Square. It'll +be difficult to get. Its owner's in jail." +</p> + +<p> +"In <i>jail</i>!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. He's serving a stretch—twenty years." +</p> + +<p> +"What for?" +</p> + +<p> +"Murder!" +</p> + +<p> +"Now, Colonel, I hope you didn't come here to amuse me with fairy +tales. I'm very busy this morning." +</p> + +<p> +"No. That's straight. He's up for twenty years. He murdered his +sweetheart. The court brought in a verdict of manslaughter, so he got +a light sentence." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, what's that got to do with the book?" +</p> + +<p> +"Have patience, Mr. Hooker. You know of the Tomlinson case?" +</p> + +<p> +"Never heard of it." +</p> + +<p> +"Impossible, sir! The newspapers were filled with it at the time. +Seven years ago every one was talking about it and surely you +remember—" +</p> + +<p> +"No, Colonel, seven years ago I was in Europe. Tell me about it." +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel went into details— +</p> + +<p> +In June of 1907 a family by the name of Clarke moved into two rooms in +a large, old fashioned residence on Eighth Street, near Fifth Avenue. +They were there for less than a month when they gave the landlord +notice. They could not remain in the house on account of ghosts! Now +<i>everyone</i> believes in ghosts but landlords. It injures their business. +</p> + +<p> +The Clarkes contended that every night in the front room the most +mysterious noises were heard; they called in the janitor, but he knew +nothing. The strange sounds continued; they were uncanny, +inexplicable. The Clarkes moved out and they were succeeded by other +nervous and hysterical persons. The landlord in desperation reduced +the rent, but still the tenants would not remain. +</p> + +<p> +At last even he, who was sceptical and would not believe in hobgoblins, +or ghosts, or spirits, or any of those fantastic creatures that exist +outside the material mind, resolved to investigate for himself. He +literally camped in the rooms for months and heard not a sound! Every +night he determined would be his last and that he would not waste any +more of his valuable time over the mystical phantoms of his foolish +tenants. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, which he resolved was to be the final one, while he was +playing solitaire to pass the tedium of the vigil, he heard a noise in +the wall. He turned pale with fear. A cold chill ran up and down his +back. A moment later the sound of a falling coin reached his ears and +there rolled toward him from the old Georgian fire-place a shining +object. +</p> + +<p> +It was a few minutes before he had the courage to pick it up. It was a +small gold ring. He examined it carefully and engraved therein were +the initials "M. P. from J. L." He put the ring in his pocket, removed +the fire dogs, the tongs, the coal-scuttle and the whole paraphernalia +of fire-places and looked up the flue. He could see nothing. Although +it was a clear night he could not see the stars. Something was in the +way.... +</p> + +<p> +The finding next day of the poor, bruised body of little Marie Perrin +up the chimney of "No. 8" was the sensation of the hour. A horrible +crime had been committed, and in an unknown and terrible way. It was +Edgar Allan Poe in a new guise and his wonderful stories immediately +became popular and new editions of the "Tales" were called for by a new +set of readers. Some critics of crime suggested that the "Murders in +the Rue Morgue" had been repeated at No. Eight East Eighth Street. The +hiding-place of the body was identical with that in the famous story +and it was said that the police were on the look-out for apes, +gorillas, and other animals, which alone were capable of committing +such hideous crimes. +</p> + +<p> +The whole life of poor little Marie was laid bare. Her picture was in +every newspaper and her history was given from the day of her birth +with remarkable ingenuity. The reporters, with uncontrolled +imaginations, turned out from the scanty material at their hands an +excellent biographical sketch, that seemed and rang true, which is +sufficient for the reading public. +</p> + +<p> +Marie Perrin had disappeared without paying her rent from No. Eight +over a year ago. When the agent came to collect the arrears, he found +the tenant had departed with all her chattels. This was a libel, for +she was in the room but not visible. The detectives, when they +investigated into the tragedy and after asking ten thousand questions +in a thousand and one places, found out that Marie had a sweetheart and +that his name was Richard Tomlinson. He refused to admit his guilt, +but after being prodded with the iron-fork of the law, technically +known as the "third degree" he broke down and confessed. In a fit of +anger he struck her over the head with the brass fire-tongs. He had no +intention of killing her, or even harming her, but he had become +insanely jealous of another who was paying her attentions. In fact he +said he must have been mad at the time, as he did not remember having +struck her until she lay before him, quiet and cold upon the floor. +After a trial lasting over two weeks, and full of sensational +incidents, Tomlinson was sentenced to spend twenty years of his life in +prison. +</p> + +<p> +"That's an interesting tale," said Robert Hooker, when the Colonel had +stopped speaking, "but what has all this to do with the first edition +of Poe's story?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, you see, Tomlinson was a friend of mine. He told me that, after +he had accidentally killed the girl, he was terribly frightened. He +did not know what to do with the body. He had a mind to go to the +police and confess all, but did not have the courage to do so. He +remained in a trance, he thought, for hours, thinking of his fearful +crime and the dreadful consequences. While he was in this deep, +agonizing study and not knowing what he was doing, he picked up a small +book on her reading table. It was 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' It +was the title that attracted him, and some compelling force, what it +was he knew not, caused him to read it. He told me that never in his +whole life had anything so interested him as that story on that +frightful occasion; although pursued by terrible fears he read every +word, every syllable of it. The rest you know." +</p> + +<p> +"But, Colonel," said Hooker, with one thought uppermost in his mind, +"it might be any edition, not necessarily the first. There have been +hundreds of editions published. How do you know what edition it was?" +</p> + +<p> +"It was the first, Mr. Hooker. Tomlinson told me the girl had borrowed +it to read and that it belonged to some one who had a mania for old +books and who had kept it always under lock and key." +</p> + +<p> +"Do you know where it is?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes." +</p> + +<p> +"Can you get it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps." +</p> + +<p> +"I shall make it worth your while. How much do you want?" +</p> + +<p> +"All I can get. I'll have to steal it!" +</p> + +<p> +"What!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, I'll have to steal it. It cannot be had in any other way. Why +do you start?" +</p> + +<p> +"I didn't think you'd have to do that!" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes. You see Tomlinson, when he moved from those furnished rooms, +took everything he could carry to his brother's lodgings near +Washington Square. The book is in a sealed trunk on the third floor. +Tomlinson made his brother promise that this trunk was not to be +disturbed under any circumstances until he came out of jail a free man. +I've tried in every way—by bribery and everything—but his brother +will not touch it. He seems afraid of that old trunk. I'll get it, +however, at all costs. Are you with me?" +</p> + +<p> +Hooker was, above everything, a true bibliophile. He instantly +answered: +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, Colonel! Go the limit. I'll back you." +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel without another word picked up his hat and left the office. +</p> + +<p> +For three tedious weeks Hooker heard no more of the book or of his +curious friend, the Colonel. The whole thing seemed like a tale woven +by Poe himself. +</p> + +<p> +Would the book, if it ever was secured, turn out to be a second edition +and worthless? Booklovers, after the strange manner of their kind, +only cherish the first, the earliest issue, in the same state as it +came from the master's hand, unrevised and with all the errors +uncorrected. They do not care for new and more elegant editions. +Hooker grew restless as the weeks rolled by, and still no Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, as he was looking over his mail, a gentleman was +announced. Then, tottering into the office, with his arm in a sling +and a patch over his left eye, came the gallant Colonel. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, Colonel, what's the matter?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing at all, sir." +</p> + +<p> +"But your arm and your—" +</p> + +<p> +"That's my affair, Mr. Hooker. I've come to secure the reward of my +labors. I've got the book," he said in triumph,—"I told you I'd get +it." +</p> + +<p> +"Where is it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Here in my pocket. Look at it. It's a superb copy!" +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel laid before the astonished eyes of Richard Hooker the +priceless first edition of Poe's marvelous story. It was in the +original brown printed wrappers, just as it was published. With +trembling hands he grasped the book; he turned the first page and +gasped. A startled cry broke from his lips. The Colonel at once +noticed his pallor. He did not dream that an old book would affect +even the most ardent bibliophile in this manner. In all his experience +of forty years he had never seen anyone so overcome at the sight of a +dingy pamphlet. +</p> + +<p> +There, upon the title-page, Hooker read the tender inscription written +many generations ago, with which the most imaginative of American poets +had presented his greatest story to his loving wife. It was his own +copy, returned like bread upon the waters. Hooker was speechless. He +went over to his check book and handed the Colonel the equivalent of +three thousand dollars. The Colonel retired, murmuring his thanks. +</p> + +<p> +The book lay upon Hooker's desk. Here was a new problem, worthy of M. +Dupin himself. Question after question came into his excited mind to +depart unanswered. Who had stolen it? and how? Why had it been taken? +How had Tomlinson secured it? and what, above all, had it to do with +Marie Perrin? +</p> + +<p> +Hooker remained there, gazing at the pamphlet for hours. It fascinated +him horribly. The luncheon hour went by and still he sat staring +intently at its faded covers. Would he ever solve the riddle? +</p> + +<p> +His mind was still at work on the problem when he was interrupted by +his secretary. +</p> + +<p> +"It's closing time, sir. Is there anything you want before I go?" +</p> + +<p> +"Nothing, John, thank you." +</p> + +<p> +The secretary turned to depart. He drew back suddenly! +</p> + +<p> +"The book! Mr. Hooker, the book! Where did you get <i>that</i>!" +</p> + +<p> +Robert Hooker looked at his confidential assistant. His face was the +color of the whitest parchment. His breath came in gasps and cold +drops of perspiration were visible upon his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +"I bought it to-day," said Hooker, quietly. "It once belonged to +me—and Marie Perrin." +</p> + +<p> +"She was my—" +</p> + +<p> +John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and +he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement. +</p> + +<p> +"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know +something of it." +</p> + +<p> +"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do +anything wrong." +</p> + +<p> +"Why, what do you mean?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about +that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the +combination. I told you I knew nothing about it—that perhaps it had +been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken +it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was +particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with +no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by +it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head." +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?" +</p> + +<p> +"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from +Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of +the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned +it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never +saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She +had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of +her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see +me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the +questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had +fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her +affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same +since. I think of her every night of my life—I've now told you all +and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of +me." +</p> + +<p> +"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home—and +come down to-morrow, as usual." +</p> + +<p> +The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to +keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely +it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in +existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its +wanderings, all the pages were intact—"collating" it, as bibliophiles +love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect—just as +when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,—what +were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not +have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin. +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE GREAT DISCOVERY +</h3> + +<p> +He was considered by all his friends thrice a fool. First, he was +engaged to be married; second, he was a speculator in stocks; and +third, he was a book-lover. Some condoned the first offence, others +pardoned the second, which was considered a weakness, and all +universally condemned the last! +</p> + +<p> +John Libro had money on July 28th, 1914. On July 29 he did not possess +a cent. The War caused it all. When New Haven dropped to fifty and +Reading to seventy, John Libro's fortune shrank with them and he was +left high and dry with nothing but the advice of his friends, a little +jewelry, some clothing, and a few old books! +</p> + +<p> +Libro went home, made an inventory, and counted the change in his +pocket He was thirty-five years old, big, healthy, good-natured, and +irrepressible. Here he was face to face with starvation. He grimly +smiled, for it was at any rate a new experience. He sat down by the +little bookcase, forgot his cares and his creditors, and took out his +beloved friends. He tenderly fondled the first edition of Elia, dipped +into Beaumont and Fletcher, and took solace from the "Pleasures of +Memory." When he looked at his watch, it was eight o'clock. Two hours +had glided away in the company of his morocco-clad companions. +</p> + +<p> +It was then that he thought of Ethel. He would go to her at once and +unfold his story. He told her in a few words that he was ruined and +could not marry her. This made her more than ever determined to marry +him. She loved him and could not allow such a small thing as money to +interfere with their plans. The more he insisted, the more determined +she became. At last they reached a compromise—he would put the matter +squarely up to her father. Mr. Edwards was called from his study. +</p> + +<p> +"Mr. Edwards," he began, "I suppose you read of what happened to-day in +the stock-market—" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Edwards replied quickly, "what of it?" +</p> + +<p> +"Well, I was long on New Haven and Reading—" +</p> + +<p> +"Speculating again, have you?" +</p> + +<p> +"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the +engagement until I spoke to you." +</p> + +<p> +"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing +for my daughter." +</p> + +<p> +"Perhaps some day when I go to work—" poor Libro pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker +who <i>worked</i>!" +</p> + +<p> +Without another word they parted—and Libro returned to the +drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most +terrible thing in the world—it destroyed in a moment love and +happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool—for he was not +engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease +to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect +of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a +beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a +quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident +appealed to him. +</p> + +<p> +The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends, +who could do nothing "on account of the war." +</p> + +<p> +He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the +theatres—everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker. +Mr. Edwards was right! +</p> + +<p> +But he must live—the situation had become not so fantastic. He would +sell everything—his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing, +everything but his books. Those he would not part with. +</p> + +<p> +On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop—he had +passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half +of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry +had a huge white card on which ran some such legend—"Former price +$1,000—now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real +"business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their +patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times +and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper +covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a +first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of +heaven—he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but, +nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep. +</p> + +<p> +Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality +of this American Mont de Piété. But he was again afraid to enter. He +seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they +smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to +contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of +the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps +half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious +possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice. +This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up +to the door and enter before anyone would notice him. +</p> + +<p> +He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed +acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met <i>friends</i>! +All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of +the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The +Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter +was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and +their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the +legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in +the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were +putting up "more margin!" +</p> + +<p> +John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He +laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that +cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well +known Broadway habitué objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a +gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn. +He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold +voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to +this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king +among his brethren of this old and honorable profession. +</p> + +<p> +"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro. +</p> + +<p> +"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you +fifteen dollars, and not a cent more." +</p> + +<p> +"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!" +</p> + +<p> +"Fifteen dollars—my time is valuable." +</p> + +<p> +It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed. +He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman +who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering +windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob, +his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the +tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or +implored him, Steinman remained the same—heartless, brusque, cutting, +satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness," +gasped Libro—"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!" +</p> + +<p> +This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If +I could only get even"—he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance +in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a +dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he +had pledged everything. +</p> + +<p> +Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages +to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went +to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all, +quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the +little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the +"Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He, +however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and +blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to +mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his +condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus. +</p> + +<p> +Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when +a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once +sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him! +He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his +soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh +of his own. +</p> + +<p> +But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the +precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was +he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He +gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume, +awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its +appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers. +</p> + +<p> +"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice +before. Not one cent!" +</p> + +<p> +"You,—you—" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He +would have killed him had he a weapon near. +</p> + +<p> +"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at +auction," exclaimed Libro. +</p> + +<p> +"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and +crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him. +</p> + +<p> +"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would +like to see this." +</p> + +<p> +Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist. +An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming +him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy +the book. He opened it. +</p> + +<p> +"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then +stopped suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +The proprietor was looking at him narrowly. Libro's heart had almost +stopped beating. There was the long lost quarto of "Titus Andronicus," +1594, and a perfect first edition of "Hamlet"! There were others in +the volume, a veritable treasure trove. It was, in truth, a great +discovery! +</p> + +<p> +"What's it worth?" said Steinman. +</p> + +<p> +"Something to a collector," replied Libro, honestly: "nothing to you." +</p> + +<p> +"Well, if you know anyone who wants the old thing he can have it for +ten dollars. I once advanced that amount on it. Since then I say, No +Books!" +</p> + +<p> +John Libro by a superhuman effort controlled himself. +</p> + +<p> +"Steinman, I need money for food. You already have everything valuable +I possess,—but this." +</p> + +<p> +He took from his finger a ring. It had been his mother's wedding ring. +It was the last that remained to him of his parents' legacy. +</p> + +<p> +"How much will you give me on this?" he said, trembling. His very life +depended upon Steinman's answer. He held his breath. +</p> + +<p> +"A little less than gold-value," said Steinman. He threw it carelessly +on the scales. +</p> + +<p> +"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents." +</p> + +<p> +Without further ado Steinman counted out the money and Libro departed. +He, however, went out one door and came in by another. It was the +first time that he had entered the half of the establishment where the +unredeemed merchandise is sold. On this side he was a patron and not +to be patronized. +</p> + +<p> +"How much for that old book?" said Libro boldly. +</p> + +<p> +"Ten dollars," answered Steinman in a surprised tone. This was a new +dodge, a customer pledging one article to obtain money to purchase +another! +</p> + +<p> +It was Libro's turn now; but he was not used to the game. "I shall +give you five dollars. Not a cent more." +</p> + +<p> +"No. Ten dollars or nothing." +</p> + +<p> +"All right. I'll take it; wrap it up." +</p> + +<p> +He counted out the money and left. Steinman felt uneasy. He thought +he saw the flicker of an unholy smile on Libro's face, as he passed +through the swinging doors. +</p> + +<p> +It is almost unnecessary to state that Libro sold the book—the only +book he ever parted with—for a fabulous sum—more than its weight in +gold,—and for many thousands of dollars. A noted collector purchased +it immediately, and it is now the chief attraction of his wonderful +library. +</p> + +<p> +With the money jingling in his pocket he returned to the scene of his +former misery. He was to redeem his pledges with the broker's own +money. +</p> + +<p> +"Steinman," he said, "collect all my things. I shall pay what I owe +and take them with me." +</p> + +<p> +"I congratulate you, Mr. Libro, on your return to fortune," replied +Steinman affably. +</p> + +<p> +"I want to thank you, Steinman." +</p> + +<p> +"Thank me! Why?" +</p> + +<p> +"Because of the old book," said Libro, politely. "I sold it to-day for +thirty thousand dollars!" +</p> + +<p><br /></p> + +<p> +In a joyous mood John Libro called upon Ethel Edwards. The story of +"the Shakespeare Find" was in the evening's papers. No one was more +glad to see him than Ethel's father, who welcomed him like an old +friend. That night he mused as he walked home: "I am no longer a +stock-broker, I am engaged to Ethel, and I can still collect books. I +<i>am</i> a fool; and I glory in it!" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /></p> + +<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> + +<h3> +THE FIFTEEN JOYS OF MARRIAGE +</h3> + +<p> +He was showing the distinguished guest through his magnificent library. +He exhibited with pride his treasures, telling an interesting tale +about this volume, and his merry adventures about that. In +glass-covered exhibition cases were displayed some of his greater +rarities and the colors of their morocco coverings gleamed and glowed +in the light. At one end of the spacious room was a case with bronze +mountings, and within reposed a volume bound in old olive levant, +powdered with the bees and other devices so often used by Nicolas Eve, +binder to his Majesty Francis the First. The visitor asked about the +volume that was so superbly housed, and begged Mr. Henry Stirling to +give its history. +</p> + +<p> +"Pray examine it," he replied, taking the volume with the greatest care +from the case. On its back, in letters of gold, mellowed by age, was +its title: "Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage." "Ah, that is indeed rare!" +exclaimed the visitor, "and its binding is marvelous. But hold, it is +rubbed in one corner. Some vandal did that! It is a shame such a +treasure should have been used so damnably!" +</p> + +<p> +"It is for that reason, sir," Stirling replied, "that it is my most +beloved volume. I value it above all the books in my library. This is +its history:— +</p> + +<p> +"Some fifteen years ago I met at a house party a lady to whom I was +instantly attracted. She was handsome, with high coloring, and the +most glorious hair. We met often thereafter, and a year later she +became my wife. We lived for some time most happily together. +Occasionally we had petty disputes that always ended in a victory for +both of us! +</p> + +<p> +"About twelve years ago, attracted by a great book sale, I started to +form this library, which has been the passion of my life. I read all +the catalogues, became skilled in bibliography, lived in the bookshops; +spent all my time collating and going over my precious volumes. In the +evenings, instead of talking to my wife about the Ives' coming ball, or +a problem in bridge, or the newest shades of silk, I pored over the +catalogues which came to me from all parts of the world. My wife said +nothing at first, but when one bookcase was added to another, crowding +out the little Sheraton writing tables, and the bijou cabinets, she +objected mildly, 'Why bring all this trash into the house? And besides +you never read them. I suppose they don't cost you much. I loaned a +few to one of my friends yesterday.' +</p> + +<p> +"I winced; but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +"Gradually I became absorbed in the pursuit. Other collectors—men +after my own heart—rich, and always wearing the oddest clothes—so my +good wife said—came to visit me. We would stay up far into the night +relating our experiences, telling wonderful stories of how we secured +our rarest volumes, and remarking about the prices, which seemed always +soaring! My wife knew at last that these old books cost a great deal +of money; that I would spend a hundred dollars for an old almanac or an +Aldus, while I objected to the forty dollars she paid for a hat. She +said she would stand it no longer. I remonstrated, but in vain. She +remarked that I had changed—that I no longer loved her. This was not +true; I loved her as I always did—but I would not allow anyone to +dictate to me. +</p> + +<p> +"However, I displayed no longer the little morocco things that I had +bought, but brought them home surreptitiously, placing them in the +corners of the bookcase. I concealed them in my newspaper of an +evening, or had them sent home when my wife was out shopping, or +visiting her friends. Sometimes she would catch me <i>flagrante +delicto</i>, as I would stealthily remove my beloved from its brown +wrapping-paper; or catch me napping with a first edition that she was +sure she had not seen before. +</p> + +<p> +"The situation grew intolerable. I could not bear to have some one who +had promised to obey me, taunting me at every turn, remorselessly +dropping an Elzevir on the floor, or shattering my nerves by insolently +showing me a receipted bill for a presentation copy of 'Endymion.' I +tried to be gentle with her, to reason with her, to tell her what a +scholarly thing I was doing,—but it was of no avail. She became +actually jealous of my books. She looked with distrust at every parcel +that arrived; she was suspicious of everything that had the +<i>appearance</i> of a book. +</p> + +<p> +"At first she was only mildly oppressive; she now became severe, +scolding continually, making my life a burden. She said my love of +books was unnatural, wicked, unspeakable. I could stand it no longer; +I could not live with a woman who treated me in so cruel a way. When I +told her this she was docile at first, but the fire broke out anew at +some new victory of mine in the auction rooms, which one of my spiteful +friends told her about. Matthews was always jealous of me, because I +had more courage than he and snatched the uncut 'Comus' from him when +it was almost within his grasp. +</p> + +<p> +"I tried no longer to bear with my wife—she was a vixen, a mad woman, +a very devil. I resolved to divorce her—but on what grounds? I could +not think of a single charge that could be placed before a +jury,—American juries generally consisted of the most stupid and +unimaginative men. My wife said she ought to secure the action on the +grounds of infidelity,—that I loved my first folio of Shakespeare more +than I did her! +</p> + +<p> +"Things came to a climax at last. The famous library of Richard +Appleton was to be sold at auction. I was intensely excited, as you +can imagine. I read the catalogue item by item, word by word. I +marked with ink the things I most <i>needed</i> and determined to buy a few +exquisite volumes even at the risk of bankruptcy. And there was 'Les +Quinze Joyes de Mariage,' the first edition in the superb binding made +by Nicolas Eve for Diane de Poitiers. I had resolved to purchase it +many years ago when Appleton wrested it from me at the Amherst sale. I +had even waited for his death knowing it would again come upon the +market. I resolved to have it at all costs. The eventful day arrived. +I went to the rooms in person. The little volume started at one +hundred dollars and rose to three thousand. It was already beyond my +means. I just had to have it. I nodded. There was no other bid. +</p> + +<p> +"I drew my check for the amount and carried it home. I was reading it +in the library when my wife entered. I casually, in an unconcerned +way, although my heart was trembling, placed it on the table. I looked +at my wife. Her eyes were flashing. She held the evening paper on +which I could read the headlines.—'Rare Book brings $3010.' +</p> + +<p> +"I knew the storm was coming. She said I was an ingrate, a dissipater +of her fortune, a fool, a heartless villain, a— +</p> + +<p> +"She went no further. +</p> + +<p> +"I grabbed the first thing at hand,—it was 'The Fifteen Joys of +Marriage,'—and threw it at her head. It struck her arm and fell upon +the floor. When I stooped to pick it up, noticing the poor, bruised, +broken corner, I looked about. My wife was gone. +</p> + +<p> +"The next day she served me with the papers for the divorce which is +now a <i>cause célèbre</i>. +</p> + +<p> +"At last I was free!" +</p> + +<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Unpublishable Memoirs, by A. S. W. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Unpublishable Memoirs + +Author: A. S. W. Rosenbach + +Illustrator: Oliver Herford + +Release Date: February 1, 2012 [EBook #38746] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: THE BIBLIOFIENDS. DRAWN BY OLIVER HERFORD] + + + + + +THE + +UNPUBLISHABLE + +MEMOIRS + + +BY A. S. W. ROSENBACH + + + + +NEW YORK + +MITCHELL KENNERLEY + +MCMXVII + + + + +COPYRIGHT 1917 BY + +MITCHELL KENNERLEY + + + + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES + +BY THE VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY + +BINGHAMTON - - NEW YORK + + + + +TO + +R. R. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + The Unpublishable Memoirs + The Three Trees + The Purple Hawthorn + The Disappearance of Shakespeare + The Colonial Secretary + In Defence of His Name + "The Hundred and First Story" + The Lady of the Breviary + The Evasive Pamphlet + The Great Discovery + The Fifteen Joys of Marriage + + + + +THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS + +It was very cruel. + +He was dickering for one of the things he had desired for a life-time. + +It was in New York at one of the famous book-stores of the metropolis. +The proprietor had offered to him for one hundred and sixty +dollars--exactly the amount he had in bank--the first and only edition +of the "Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel, a little volume issued +in London in 1790, and one of two copies known, the other being in the +famous "hidden library" of the British Museum. + +It was a scandalous chronicle of fashionable life in the eighteenth +century, and many brilliant names were implicated therein; +distinguished and reputable families, that had long been honored in the +history of England, were ruthlessly depicted with a black and venomous +pen. He had coveted this book for years, and here it was within his +grasp! He had just told the proprietor that he would take it. + +Robert Hooker was a book-collector. With not a great deal of money, he +had acquired a few of the world's most sought-after treasures. He had +laboriously saved his pennies, and had, with the magic of the +bibliophile, turned them into rare volumes! He was about to put the +evil little book into his pocket when he was interrupted. + +A large, portly man, known to book-lovers the world over, had entered +the shop and asked Mr. Rodd if he might examine the Beau Brummel +Memoirs. He had looked at it before, he said, but on that occasion had +merely remarked that he would call again. He saw the volume on the +table in front of Hooker, picked it up without ceremony, and told the +owner of the shop that he would purchase it. + +"Excuse me," exclaimed Hooker, "but I have just bought it." + +"What!" said the opulent John Fenn, "I came especially to get it." + +"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenn," returned the proprietor, "Mr. Hooker, here, has +just said that he would take it." + +"Now, look here, Rodd, I've always been a good customer of yours. I've +spent thousands in this very shop during the last few years. I'll give +you two hundred dollars for it." + +"No," said Rodd. + +"Three hundred!" said Fenn. + +"No." + +"Four hundred!" + +"No." + +"I'll give you five hundred dollars for it, and if you do not take it, +I shall never enter this place again!" + +Without another word Rodd nodded, and Fenn quickly grasped the little +book, and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. Hooker became +angry and threatened to take it by bodily force. A scuffle ensued. +Two clerks came to the rescue, and Fenn departed triumphantly with the +secrets of the noble families of Great Britain securely in his +possession. + +Rodd, in an ingratiating manner, declared to Hooker that no money had +passed between them, and consequently there had been no sale. Hooker, +disappointed, angry, and beaten, could do nothing but retire. + +At home, among his books, his anger increased. It was the old, old +case of the rich collector gobbling up the small one. It was +outrageous! He would get even--if it cost him everything. He dwelt +long and bitterly upon his experience. A thought struck him. Why not +prey upon the fancies of the wealthy! He would enter the lists with +them; he would match his skill against their money, his knowledge +against their purse. + +Hooker was brought up in the mystic lore of books, for he was the son +of a collector's son. He had always been a student, and half his time +had been spent in the bookseller's shops, dreaming of the wonderful +editions of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of rare Ben Jonson, that some day +he might call his own. He would now secure the priceless things +dearest to the hearts of men, at no cost to himself! + +He would not limit his choice to books, which were his first love, but +he would help himself to the fair things that have always delighted the +soul,--pictures, like those of Raphael and da Vinci; jewels, like +Cellini's; little bronzes, like Donatello's; etchings of Rembrandt; the +porcelains (True Ming!) of old China; the rugs of Persia the +magnificent! + +The idea struck him at first as ludicrous and impossible. The more he +thought of it, the more feasible it became. He had always been a good +mimic, a fair amateur actor, a linguist, and a man of parts. He +possessed scholarly attainments of a high order. He would use all of +his resources in the game he was about to play. For nothing deceives +like education! + +And it had another side--a brighter, more fantastic side. Think of the +fun he would get out of it! This appealed to him. Not only could he +add to his collections the most beautiful treasures of the world, but +he would now taste the keenest of joys--he would laugh and grow fat at +the other man's expense. It was always intensely humorous to observe +the discomfiture of others. + +With particular pleasure Hooker read that evening in the _Post_ this +insignificant paragraph: + +"John Fenn, President of the Tenth National Bank of Chicago, departs +for home to-night." + +He laid the paper down immediately, telephoned to the railroad office +for a reservation in the sleeping-car leaving at midnight, and prepared +for his first "banquet." Hooker shaved off his moustache, changed his +clothes and his accent, and took the train for Chicago. + +As luck would have it, John Fenn was seated next to him in the +smoking-car, reading the evening papers. Hooker took from his pocket a +book catalogue, issued by one of the great English auction houses. He +knew that was the best bait! No book-lover that ever lived could +resist dipping into a sale catalogue. + +Hooker waited an hour--it seemed like five. Fenn read every word in +the papers, even the advertisements. He dwelt long and lovingly over +the financial pages, running his eyes up and down the columns of +"to-day's transactions." He at last finished the perusal, and glanced +at Hooker. He said nothing for awhile, and appeared restless, like a +man with money weighing on his mind. This, of course, is a very +distracting and unpleasant feeling. Several times he seemed on the +verge of addressing his fellow-traveller, but desisted from the +attempt. Finally he said: + +"I see, friend, that you're reading one of Sotheby's catalogues." + +"Yes," answered Hooker, shortly. + +"You must be interested in books," pursued Fenn. + +"Yes," was the brief response. + +"Do you collect them?" + +"Yes." + +Fenn said nothing for five minutes. The stranger did not appear to be +very communicative. + +"Pardon me, Mr.----, I am also a book-collector. I have quite a fine +library of my own." + +"Really?" + +"Yes, I always visit the shops when I go to New York. Here is a rarity +I picked up to-day." + +The stranger expressed little interest until Fenn took from his pocket +the "Unpublishable Memoirs." It was wrapped neatly in paper, and Fenn +carefully removed the little volume from the wrappings. He handed it +to the man who perused so assiduously the auction catalogue. + +"How extraordinary!" he cried, "the lost book of old Brummel. My +people were acquainted with the Beau. I suppose they are grilled right +merrily in it! Of all places, how did you come to purchase it in the +States?" + +"That's quite a story. A queer thing how I bought it. I saw it the +other day at Rodd's on Fifth Avenue. I did not buy it at first--the +price was too high. Thought I would be able to buy it later for less. +This morning, I went to see Rodd to make an offer on it, when I found +that Rodd had just sold it to some young student. The confounded +simpleton said it belonged to him! What did that trifler know about +rare books? Now _I_ know how to appreciate them." + +"Naturally!" said the stranger. + +"I've the finest collection in the West. I had to pay a stiff advance +before the proprietor would let me have it. It was a narrow +squeak,--by about a minute. The young jackass tried to make a scene, +but I taught him a thing or two. He'll not be so perky next time. How +my friends will enjoy this story of the killing. I can't wait until I +get home." + +The stranger with the freshly-shaven face, the English clothes, and the +austere eyes did not seem particularly pleased. + +"How extraordinary!" he said, coldly, and returned to his reading. + +Fenn placed the book in his pocket, a pleased expression on his face, +as if he were still gloating over his conquest. He was well satisfied +with his day, so intellectually spent among the banks and bookshops of +New York! + +"By the way, I am acquainted with this Rodd," said the Englishman, +after a pause. "He told me a rather interesting story the other day, +but it was in a way a boomerang. I don't like that man's methods. +I'll never buy a book from him." + +"Why not?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Fenn. + +"Well, you'd better hear the tale. It appears he has a wealthy client +in Chicago and he occasionally goes out to sell him some of his +plunder. He did not tell me the name of his customer, but, according +to Rodd, he is an ignoramus and knows nothing at all about books. +Thinks it improves his social position. You know the type. Last +winter Rodd picked up for fifty dollars a beautifully illuminated copy +of Magna Charta issued about a hundred years ago. It's a fine volume, +printed on vellum, the kind that Dibdin raved about, but always +considered a 'plug' in England. Worth about forty guineas at the most. +You know the book?" + +Fenn nodded. + +"Well, it worried Mr. Rodd how much he could ask his Western patron for +it. He left for Chicago via Philadelphia and while he was waiting in +the train there he thought he could ask two hundred dollars for it. +The matter was on his mind until he arrived at Harrisburg, where he +determined that three hundred would be about right. At Pittsburgh he +raised the price to five hundred, and at Canton, Ohio, it was seven +hundred and fifty! The more Rodd thought of the exquisite beauty of +the volume, of its glowing colors and its lovely old binding, the more +the price soared. At Fort Wayne, Indiana, it was a thousand dollars. +When he arrived at Chicago the next morning, his imagination having had +full swing, he resolved he would not under any circumstances part with +it for less than two thousand dollars!" + +"The old thief!" exclaimed Fenn, with feeling. + +"It was a lucky thing," continued the stranger, "that his client did +not live in San Francisco!" + +At this Fenn broke forth into profanity. + +"I always said that Rodd was an unprincipled, unholy, unmitigated--" + +"Wait until you hear the end, sir," said the Englishman. + +"That afternoon he called on the Western collector. He had an +appointment with him at two o'clock. He left Rodd waiting in an +outside office for hours. Rodd told me he was simply boiling. Went +all the way to Chicago by special request and the brute made him cool +his heels until four o'clock before he condescended to see him. He +would pay dearly for it. When Rodd showed him the blooming book he +asked three thousand five hundred for it--would not take a penny +less--and he told me, sir, that he actually sold it for that price!" + +"Don't you believe it," said Fenn, hotly. "Old Rodd is an unqualified +liar. He sold it for five thousand dollars. That's what he did, the +damn pirate!" + +"How do you know, sir?" + +"How do I know, _know, know_!" he repeated, excitedly. "I _ought_ to +know! I'm the fool that bought it!" + +Without another word Fenn retired to his stateroom. + +The next morning when Fenn arrived at his office in the Fenn Building, +he called to one of his business associates, who, like his partner, was +interested in the acquisition of rare and unusual books. + +"I say, Ogden, I have something great to show you. Picked it up +yesterday. In this package is the wickedest little book ever written!" + +"Let me see it!" said Mr. Ogden, eagerly. + +Fenn gingerly removed the paper in which it was wrapped, as he did not +wish to injure the precious contents. He turned suddenly pale. Ogden +glanced quickly at the title-page for fear he would be seen with the +naughty little thing in his hands. + +It was a very ordinary volume, entitled, "A Sermon on Covetousness, a +Critical Exposition of the Tenth Commandment by the Rev. Charles +Wesley." + +"The devil!" exclaimed John Fenn. + +"How the old dodge works," said Robert Hooker to himself on his way +back to New York. "The duplicate package, known since the days of +Adam! And how easy it was to substitute it under his very eyes! I +shall call Beau Brummel's 'Unpublishable Memoirs' number _one_ in my +new library." + + + + +THE THREE TREES + +In the famous cabinet of John Bull Stevens was a superb impression of +Rembrandt's celebrated etching, "The Three Trees." It was the only +copy known in what print collectors chose to term "the first state." +This exquisite work of art had only recently been discovered in +Amsterdam by a world-renowned critic, and promptly sold at a fabulous +price to the American enthusiast. It had several lines from right to +left in the middle tree that had never been noticed in any other copy; +the etching, according to the earlier authorities, had existed in but +one state. + +To the uninitiated all this disturbance about a few lines on the trunk +of a tree seemed unintelligible and ridiculous, but to the print +collectors it was considered a magnificent "find," ranking with the +discovery of electricity or the Roentgen rays. Periodicals devoted to +the fine arts published many profound articles about the unique "Three +Trees," and one of them suggested that such an extraordinary treasure +should repose in a museum, where the art-loving public would have an +opportunity to enjoy its marvelous beauty; it was a crime that it +should be locked away forever in a private residence. + +Robert Hooker was reading this one evening in the "Art Journal" when a +thought came to him. Why not add this immortal work of Rembrandt's to +his museum, which at that time existed only in his mind? Why not +appropriate this etching and place it securely under lock and key, +awaiting the time when it would be freely offered to the gaze of the +public in an institution to be proudly called after his name? + +He had already some tangible things to put therein,--the famous +"Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel from the Fenn collection; the +"Kann" rug; and a few other wonderful curiosities that he had +"borrowed" from celebrated amateurs as the nucleus of a loan collection +in his mythical museum. The "Three Trees" should, by right, bloom in +his own fair garden. + +John Bull Stevens was unapproachable. He did not show his things. He +gloated over them alone, in the most selfish, wicked manner, in his +dark old mansion on lower Fifth Avenue. Admission was denied to +everyone, except a few intimate friends; no one could see the originals +of some of the world's masterpieces. + +Art institutes pestered him with requests to examine this or that; +celebrated students everywhere clamored for a view of Whistler's +portrait of John Bull himself, or Gilbert Stuart's more celebrated +portrait of John Bull's grandfather. When curtly refused admission to +his galleries, extraordinary letters were written him, full of caustic +and delightful epithets, which had not the slightest effect upon him. +It was said he had no conception of the universality of art, which +includes kings and paupers,--wicked, rich collectors and virtuous, poor +students! + +To make himself appear more human, John Bull Stevens at last determined +to publish a catalogue raisonne of his pictures, his drawings, his +etchings and his engravings. He thought a beautiful reproduction or +facsimile would be as satisfying to the critics as a view of the +original. + +Robert Hooker, for one, did not agree with him. + +The catalogue was duly announced, to be published within the year and +presented to the museums and libraries of this country and Europe. +Photographers and printers, art writers and reviewers were employed to +get up the sumptuous work. + +Hooker suddenly became imbued with a passion for photography; he became +intimate with the distinguished artist who was to take the pictures of +the Stevens collection. + +Hooker became so much interested in his new work that he offered his +services as an assistant, without pay of course. It was just for the +experience. Nothing more.... Hooker spent one whole morning in the +Stevens' residence helping the celebrated photographer. They were to +take negatives that day of the portfolio of seventeenth century +etchings. John Bull was there of course, suspicious and watchful. The +photograph of the "Three Trees" was made the exact size of the superb +original. + +When this had been successfully accomplished, Hooker, the careless +assistant, seemingly nervous in the presence of the great collector, +let fall the frame that held the great etching; the glass was shattered +and Stevens swore as many picturesque and artistic curses as there were +fragments upon the floor. The assistant was properly rebuked and as +quickly dismissed; the unfortunate Hooker offered sixty cents to pay +for the shattered glass,--which was promptly accepted! He departed, +covered with ignominy under the glances of the angry Stevens. + +That evening a plate was made from the negative by a new intaglio +process. All that night on the top floor of a dingy building on +Thirty-ninth Street engravers worked on the copper, bringing out the +excellencies of a famous etching; old paper with the watermark of 1631 +had been procured and all that remained to be done was the printing. +By noon the next day a facsimile had been made, beautiful as the +original itself, as poetic and as glorious as the veritable "Three +Trees." + +But what was to be done with it, now that it had been created, a true +brother of the original? The fertile brain of Robert Hooker had long +before conceived the answer. The clumsy photographer's assistant had +deftly dropped the frame with practiced skill, leaving the etching +untouched, the glass alone being injured. There is even an art in +_dropping_ a picture! + +But before the disgraced apprentice departed he had heard Stevens give +directions to a faithful servant: "Take _that_ carefully to Kemble's. +See that a new glass is put on it and returned to me to-morrow, without +fail!" + +The next morning Hooker happened to stroll into the picture galleries, +known everywhere as "Kemble's," and actually purchased something, +paying for it with real money. It came hard with him, for he no longer +liked to buy things in what he termed "the ordinary way." + +He purchased for sixty dollars a little etching by D. Y. Cameron, and, +strange to say, not a frame in that great establishment suited him. +One was too brown or too "antique," or not the right width; the +salesman, who was a good fellow, became irritated. A whole hour wasted +over a three dollar frame. He gave vent to his pent-up feelings by +being excruciatingly polite, which is rude. He suggested that as Mr. +Hooker did not see anything to suit his fastidious taste among the +thousands of mouldings already shown, perhaps he would like to look +through the samples in the workshop? Hooker reluctantly consented, and +there among the old and new frames, in the company of gilders, fitters +and mat-makers he carefully made a suitable selection. + +Of course the "Three Trees" was there. Its light could not be +concealed--its beauty spoke to Hooker from a far corner. This +masterpiece of the etcher's art was lying on a table awaiting the glass +that was to guard and watch over it. The substitution was quickly and +quietly made. The little Rembrandt was carefully, nay tenderly, placed +in a commodious side-pocket of Hooker's coat; the treacherous younger +brother was left upon the work-table, where it would shine by a false +light--the light of the faithless, the reflected brilliancy of the +wicked. + +When the great museum was founded some years later, when it was +acclaimed as one of the art institutes of the world, when great +scholars extolled it, and poets sang of it, a list of its treasures was +published which amazed the critics of two continents. Collectors in +England, in France, in New York, were astounded! + +Mr. Stevens read with envy that it contained the only copy known of the +first state of Rembrandt's "Three Trees." "Another newspaper canard! +An infernal lie! A senseless fabrication!" he exclaimed. _His_ was +the only one; he did not believe another would ever come to light. + +He would examine his own again. He took the etching carefully from the +wall. What was the faint blur--was it a line at the bottom? It seemed +strange, for he had not noticed it before. He would get his magnifying +glass. He read, in microscopic letters: "Facsimile from the unique +original in the Hooker Museum." + + + + +THE PURPLE HAWTHORN + +When the Appleton collection of Chinese porcelains was purchased _en +bloc_ by a well-known house doing business on Fifth Avenue, the +celebrated purple hawthorn vase was considered the most precious of all. + +It was a large vase dating from the seventeenth century, and according +to eminent authorities, it was of the great Ch'ing Dynasty with the +curious marks of the period known as K'ang-hsi. + +The vase itself was very lovely; it was oviform with a graceful, +flaring neck. The exquisite design showed a dwarfed mei tree with the +most beautiful purple blossoms, with rare foliage and gorgeous birds +painted by a great, although unknown, artist. The glazing was superb, +being transparent and of unusual brilliancy. + +This noble work of art was valued at two hundred thousand dollars. + +Three men of vast wealth competed for the prize, and the lucky +purchaser was the eminent banker, John T. Sterling. Two financiers, +known the world over, grew purple with jealousy when they first +discovered that it was to go into the Sterling collection. Their faces +resembled the color of the wonderful blossoms on the hawthorn vase. + +Robert Hooker wanted to add to his museum this precious gift of the old +Chinese gods. At the various places where the vase had been exhibited, +he had often been seen gazing covetously at it. When it was offered +for sale, he knew it was useless to ask the price--which was utterly +beyond him. + +One day, Hooker read in the society columns of the _Herald_ that Jasper +Foster was going to take up his residence in Italy on account of the +illness of his only daughter. He intended to sell his fine old house +on 17th Street, and all the furniture that it contained. + +Now Jasper Foster was celebrated for one thing only. His name was +known to fame but for a single object. He was the owner of the mate of +the celebrated purple hawthorn vase in the Appleton collection. + +Foster was an extremely modest, unworldly, retiring gentleman. In the +last fifteen years there had been many inquiries about the vase, and +numerous offers to purchase it, but he had always declined to part with +it. It had been the property of his father and his grandfather, who +had bought it from a sea-captain about the year 1820. + +But now Foster was in dire straits. His house was mortgaged, and his +daughter was ill with a malady that required a milder climate than New +York. It was on this account that he was going to take up his +residence in sunny Italy. + +As soon as Hooker read the brief paragraph in the newspaper, he hurried +to the rather imposing house on lower 17th Street. With fear and +trembling, he rang the old-fashioned bell-pull. + +Yes, Mr. Foster was at home. + +The maid showed Mr. Hooker into the first parlor. He heard voices in +an adjoining room. Mr. Foster then had other visitors. + +To pass away the time, he picked up a magazine but put it down +instantly. He had heard the magic words "purple hawthorn." Some one +else was before him. He would find out. + +Going behind an old Spanish leather screen, he listened. He looked +through the aperture, and beheld two men, well-known in the world of +finance. One was John T. Sterling; the other was James Thatcher, the +celebrated collector. + +Mr. Foster was not there. It was early in the morning, and perhaps he +had not completed his toilet. + +"Hello!--You here?" said one voice. + +"Check-mated!" exclaimed the other. + +"Damn it! I never expected to see you." + +"Of course not. I know your mission. We had better see Foster +together." + +"No, I came first. I claim the privilege of the first interview!" + +"No! I shall speak out. There is no use for us to bid against each +other. It would spoil the market! I'm sure we can come to some +agreement." + +"No! I own the Appleton vase, and by right I should possess the other. +It would make the finest pair of vases in the world! It will look +magnificent in my house on Fifth Avenue." + +"Don't be a hog--Foster does not know its value. He was offered five +thousand dollars for it after the Mary J. Morgan sale in 1886. If we +offer him fifteen thousand he will think it a gold mine. You know he +needs the money. If you offer more he will become suspicious." + +"I suppose we both can't have it. We'll toss for it! that is when the +business details are over. You make an offer of ten--and then fifteen, +or more, if necessary. Your hand upon it! Play fair--this is not the +stock-market!" + +The two eminent financiers grasped hands. An instant later Mr. Foster +entered. + +"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen." + +"Not at all, Mr. Foster," replied Sterling. "We read in the papers you +were going to Italy, and thought you would like to dispose of some of +your curiosities. May we look around?" + +"Certainly. I would like to sell some of the things. I hate to do it. +But to be frank with you the illness of my daughter has proved a great +expense. I'm forced to sell out." + +The two gentlemen looked around. One purchased a satsuma vase for a +hundred dollars--seventy-five more than it was worth! The other, after +much consideration, bought an East Indian brass bowl for fifty +dollars--an extravagant price. They seemed to ignore the beautiful +vase in a glass cabinet in the corner. They were unconscious of its +existence! + +"I have something really fine, gentlemen--the hawthorn vase purchased +by my grandfather. You know about it?" + +"I heard something of it once--but I've forgotten all about it. I +would be glad to look at the vase." + +They bent their heads. A thrill ran through them as they beheld the +wonderful purple and the perfect glaze. + +"That's not bad. Of course, its shape might be better. People, +nowadays, want the green or black. I have a beautiful famille rose. +What do you want for it?" + +"I've never looked at it in that way. What's it worth to you? Some +years ago I had a good offer on it. But I didn't need the money then." + +"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I don't want to be small about it. +I'll give you ten thousand cash." + +Mr. Foster was visibly affected. + +"That is a good price. But I need more than that to see me settled in +my little villa in Tuscany. What is your very best offer?" + +"I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars, and not a cent more. And +that's a mighty liberal offer." + +"Well, that's all right. I'll let you know to-morrow." + +"Why not now?" + +"I want to consult my daughter, Caroline." + +"Well, I'll not hold my offer open another day. I'll be here to-morrow +morning at this time. Please don't keep me waiting. You know I'm a +very busy man." + +They paid Mr. Foster for their wares, and passed out; one with an old +vase, and the other with a brass bowl in his hands. + +"I think we've got him!" Hooker overheard one of them say, as the two +passed by him in the dimly-lighted room. + +Yes. Worse luck. Hooker knew it was useless to make other offers. He +had not the bank account to compete with the famous connoisseurs that +had just left. And he knew Mr. Foster was a gentleman of the old +school, and would not use one offer to secure a better one. + +"Good morning, Mr. Foster." + +"Why have I the honor of this visit?" + +"Well, to tell the truth, I read in the _Herald_ that you were going to +move. I would like to know at what price you hold this house and lot?" + +"Well, I'd sell cheap. Properties in this section are not worth what +they once were. It is assessed at seventy thousand dollars. There is +a mortgage on it of sixty. I'd take seventy-five for it. This section +is too antiquated for residences, and business is moving uptown. + +"But I want it for a residence. May I look through it?" + +"Of course!" + +Hooker examined all the rooms, noted the old-fashioned plumbing, and +said that the whole house needed a thorough going-over. + +"Well--I think I'll take it," he said at last. "Do you want the old +furniture? I would sooner buy it furnished, that is, if I could buy it +at a price!" + +This was a golden opportunity for poor Foster. To sell his house with +its worn furniture and the vase, in a single day was an achievement! + +"I would sell the house and contents entire for eighty-five thousand +dollars. I must exempt one vase, however. I've just been offered +fifteen thousand dollars for it." + +"Not for a single vase?" + +"Yes, would you like to see it?" + +"It's not much use. But I'm naturally curious." + +Mr. Foster, with great dignity, showed the beautiful hawthorn vase. It +gleamed silently in the glass case. + +"What! Fifteen thousand for _that_! Perhaps, if it is really worth +anything like that, I can afford to speculate. I might obtain a better +offer on it. I'll give you ninety-five thousand dollars for the house +and its entire furnishings." + +"No. The lowest is one hundred thousand." + +"Done! I'll take a chance. Give me an agreement of sale, and the +matter's ended!" + +Robert Hooker had a white elephant on his hands. The house was really +worth but the value of the mortgage, and the furniture scarcely five +thousand dollars. + +What was he to do? Thirty-five thousand dollars was a great deal for a +poor man to give for a vase.... + +He removed the vase that afternoon to his own modest apartment and +requested Mr. Foster to refer any one interested in its purchase to him. + +At ten o'clock next morning, he had an unusual visitor at his flat in +West Eighty-ninth Street. John T. Sterling had called to see him. +Hooker went into the living-room, visibly embarrassed in the presence +of the great man. + +"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I'll state my business quickly. Mr. Foster +tells me you purchased yesterday his house and furniture. Now I'd like +to buy it, if it's in the market. I think I could turn it into a +garage. I need one in that neighborhood. I'll give you ten percent +more than it cost you." + +"No--not at all. I'll tell you what I'll do. If you give me one +hundred and fifteen thousand for the house and its contents, _as it is +now_, I shall call it a bargain. It'll be a quick turn." + +"All right. We'll go down to my attorney's at once and draw up a bill +of sale. The entire contents of the house as it is this moment, mind +you. Come right along. You know I'm a very busy man!" + +"That's known everywhere!" said Hooker, with a flattering smile. + + +On Fifth Avenue, that afternoon: + +"Done! by God! and by a mere kid!" + + +On Eighty-ninth Street, that evening: + +"_That_ will make the Hooker Museum famous!" + + + + +THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SHAKESPEARE + +Booklovers have considered the little volume presented by Francis Bacon +to William Shakespeare the most glorious book in the world. It +remained for many years in the British Museum, and many a pilgrimage +has been made to worship at its shrine. + +It was deposited in the Museum in 1838 by the Hedley family of Crawford +Manor, and had been in the National Library for so long a time that it +was considered the property of the nation. + +The book itself was of great rarity as it was no other than the first +edition of Bacon's "Essayes" published in London in 1597. It bore the +following inscription written upon one of the fly-leaves: + + +To my perfect Friend Mr. Wylliam Shakespeare I give this booke as an +eternall Witnesse of my love. + +FRA. BACON. + + +In 1908 the Hedley family were in financial straits. It was discovered +that the copy of Bacon's Essays had not been presented to the British +Museum but merely deposited as a loan. The Museum tried its best to +retain the precious volume, but the records were clear upon the point. + +In December, 1909, the Hedleys stated that they would sell it to the +Museum for L40,000 or fifty thousand dollars less than had been offered +for it. + +An unknown collector would give two hundred and fifty thousand dollars +for it! + +The newspapers inaugurated a public subscription to keep the volume in +England, claiming that its loss could never be estimated as it was the +most precious memorial in existence of the golden age of English +literature. + +It was suspected, of course, that it would go to America. + +After six months, it was found impossible to collect the money +required. There was, apparently, but little interest in things of a +literary and artistic nature. If it had been for a new battleship +costing twenty times this amount, the money would have been forthcoming +instantly. + +It was finally announced in the London papers that the celebrated +collector, William S. Fields of New York, was the fortunate purchaser +of the world-famed volume. The news was heralded the world over. + +When it arrived, Robert Hooker, an intelligent, but by no means +wealthy, bibliophile, made a request to see it; to hold within his +mortal hands this magnificent relic of the two great Elizabethans. + +"No!" was Fields' curt response. + +It had been rumored that Robert Hooker was founding a museum in some +unknown spot--but where the money was to come from was a mystery. + +It appeared that the Bacon-Shakespeare volume was locked up in a steel +vault in the Fields' residence, guarded by an approved time-lock and +other interesting features. The book was never to be removed from the +safe, unless in the presence of the owner and a trusted servant. + +Robert Hooker was extremely desirous of adding this treasure to his +mythical museum! He said it was an outrage that one man, on account of +the accident of great wealth, should become the sole possessor of it. +It was a shock to public decency! It should repose, as it had for more +than seventy years, in a library or an institution, where it could be +freely seen. He therefore resolved to add it to his own. + +But how? The book was constantly under guard in a guaranteed +burglar-proof vault. To employ the most experienced crackmen to +undertake the job would be almost insane. He could not try to +substitute a facsimile as in the "Three Trees." To bribe the guard was +foolhardy because the guard did not know the combination of the +safety-lock. He was at his wit's end! Not a single practical idea +entered his head. For once he was at the end of his resources! + +Robert Hooker was a great lover of books. Like other kinds of love, +the more he was denied, the greater the love grew; and time added fuel +to the flames. + +One evening in his library he was thinking what a pity it was that he +could not see with his own eyes this evasive little book, when an idea +flashed through his brain. + +That night he did not sleep. + +The following day Hooker paid a visit to an old building in lower New +York. It was the United States Custom House. He asked to see an +appraiser whom he had known from boyhood days, and he talked with him +for an hour about the weather, the base-ball score and other absorbing +questions. + +"By the way, Girard, that was a nice purchase Fields made last month--I +mean the Bacon volume. I suppose you saw it when it came through the +Customs!" + +"No, I don't remember it. That's curious." + +"Well, at any rate, it was free of duty by age!" + +"I know that, Hooker. But even so, everything worth over ten thousand +dollars, I personally examine." + +"Well, it doesn't make much difference. The book should come in +without paying duty. Perhaps it came by another port." + +"No, through this. All Fields' things come here. We are told to +always hurry his through. He's got lots of pull, and we like to oblige +him." + +"Yes, of course." + +"But Fields, too, has to obey the letter of the law. I want to look +this thing up." + +Mr. Girard was gone for over half an hour. He returned. "Here's the +thing. Look at this consular invoice." + +"Bacon's Essays 1597. L200." + +"But what good does it do? The book comes in free, if it's worth a +million!" + +"I know. But Fields wanted this cleared the very day it was received. +He or no one else has a right to undervalue, even if the article does +not pay duty. I'm going to find out about this. I'm going to get that +book back and examine it. Fields or no Fields, he must obey the law! +I might get fired for this." + +The owner of the Bacon was much disturbed. Mr. Fields did not like the +publicity that followed the newspaper revelations. He was much annoyed +at one newspaper which said that if he undervalued non-dutiable things, +how about those that carried a high impost? + +Of course, the whole matter was nothing. And yet he was vexed. He did +not like the notice that a Treasury official was to call for the sacred +package that reposed within the solid walls of his safe. + +The next day, a gentleman with an order from the Treasury Department of +the United States paid him a visit. It was an official messenger in a +blue suit with a conspicuous nickel badge. The great steel doors were +opened and closed; the book was then removed; an instant later the +click of the lock was heard. The other treasures in the vault were +safe against the machinations of men! + +Twenty minutes later another official called. Mr. Fields thought at +first it was the same gentleman returning. He came for a book that had +been under-valued at the Custom House. + +"What! I've just given it to one of your men!" + +"Impossible, Mr. Fields. This order was issued to me!" + +"Why, that's a fake. Why, the one just presented to me had a big red +government seal on it. It was signed by the head of the Treasury." + +"Must have been a forgery. This is merely an order signed by Mr. Bond, +the representative at New York. But it's genuine!" + + +The various theories of the robbery that were advanced would have +filled many volumes. Even the British Museum was suspected! + +Mr. Girard, the appraiser, felt in his inmost soul that Robert Hooker +knew something about it. He told his story to the greatest detective +in the world, who was in charge of the case for the Government. He did +not want to issue a warrant for Hooker's arrest without any evidence +whatever. He could not take into custody an honorable gentleman merely +on suspicion. He had to have tangible proof. + +The great detective accordingly employed three able assistants to +examine every nook and corner of Hooker's house, including his library. + +All this was done during the absence of the owner. The police even +employed pickpockets to jostle him on the streets to make sure the book +was not upon his person. Hooker had been under surveillance three +hours after the robbery; it was either in the house, or he was not +guilty. + +Every book in his large library was examined. The police authorities +finally had a complete catalogue of his collection, which some day will +make interesting reading. The detectives took pen and pencil and noted +the titles of every volume with the year of publication; they admitted +that bibliography and literary work was not to their liking. It lacked +excitement and they all agreed it was only fit for poets, professors, +and other inferior persons. + +The detectives found it much easier at first to look for a volume bound +in red levant morocco with "Bacon's Essayes" in gold letters on the +back. This was the description given them of the original. + +Fearing some error, and being naturally suspicious, they were compelled +to be scholarly and open the volumes, but they did not find one dated +1597, or which answered in any way to the form and matter of the +missing volume. + +After a month of search, the detectives came to the conclusion that the +book was not in his possession. Robert Hooker was guiltless! + +When he is not going out of an evening, Hooker will often remain by the +fireside in his library, reading his favorite authors. When no one is +about, he will go to the largest book-case, and in a conspicuous place +in the centre of the third shelf, he will take down a small thick +volume, which he handles tenderly. He will often touch it fondly with +his lips. It is bound in shabby old black calf and is labelled on the +back "Johnson's Lives." Opening the volume you will see the curious +title-page, which reads: "The History of the Lives and Actions of the +most famous Highwaymen and Robbers. By Charles Johnson. London. +Printed in the year 1738." + +Sewed in the centre, and uniform in size, is another book which a short +time before was one of the glories of the British Museum. It had been +bereft of its red morocco covering. + +It is destined to be the chief article of interest in another museum, +to be founded for the use and instruction of the public for all time. + +For Shakespeare and Bacon are immortal! + + + + +THE COLONIAL SECRETARY + +One of the most eccentric characters in the book-world was Doctor +Morton. He knew a great deal of the lore of books and made a splendid +living by stealing them. Old volumes were meat and drink to him. He +lived quietly and respectably in a small New England town where he was +honored for his learning and piety. + +Although Dr. Morton was a thief, a pilferer of libraries and +collectors, he committed a far greater crime, for which it is +impossible to forgive him. Murder, assassination, arson and treason +were naught to this unspeakable thing. It was worse than the Seven +Deadly Sins. + +Doctor Morton was unlike the celebrated Spanish bibliophile, who, not +being able to obtain it in any other way, killed a fellow-collector in +order to secure a unique volume of early Castilian laws. He died upon +the scaffold unrepentant, maintaining that the prize was worth it. All +honor to poor Don Vincente of Aragon! His name shall always be +tenderly cherished by lovers of books! + +Doctor Morton _sold_ the books he stole! This, in the calendar of +bookish misdemeanors, is the crime of crimes. + +Now this respectable citizen of Connecticut was a man of parts. There +was no gainsaying his knowledge. His home was beautifully furnished, +for he was a person of excellent taste. He would point to an old +Italian cabinet in his living-room, and say to himself: "I paid for +that with the first edition of Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and, as to the +Chinese Chippendale table: that was bought from the proceeds of the +Elzevir 'Caesar.'" + +Sometimes his friends would be astounded at his unintelligible speech. +He would say in an unconscious moment: "Bring in the Vanity Fair in +Parts!" meaning nothing else but an antique astral lamp, that he had +exchanged for the first edition of Thackeray's immortal novel, or he +would exclaim to his maid at tea-time: "Sarah, use to-day the uncut +'Endymion' from the Sterling Collection," pointing at the same time to +a beautiful old silver tray. All the furnishings in his home +represented a book "borrowed" from some famous library, and then +shamelessly sold and the money expended on household gods. + +Doctor Morton obtained the books of other men by many devious ways. +For instance, he would write to a collector under the name of a +well-known amateur, and always upon the most exquisite stationery, +requesting the loan for a few days of the third quarto of Hamlet; he +was writing a brochure on the early editions of Shakespeare, and it was +necessary, in the holy cause of scholarship to inspect the volume. + +Alas! Poor Yorick! + +The collector would send the book, and that was the last he would hear +of it. + +Morton would borrow a wonderful old woodcut by Albrecht Duerer, in +pursuit of his investigations in the early history of engraving, and +return in its place in the old frame a modern facsimile, stained to +look like the original, and which the owner might not discover until +years after. + +It is not our purpose to chronicle the activities of this New England +worthy, however interesting and instructive they may be. It was Doctor +Morton's well-known coup in connection with the Welford library that +brings him into this story. + +Thomas Pennington Welford was growing old. He was a Quaker, a +descendant of the Penningtons that came over with William Penn. He +lived in an old house on Arch Street in Philadelphia, just a stone's +throw from Benjamin Franklin's grave. + +He was a Quaker of the old school; was known as conservative by members +of the Meeting-House; by others, as "close" and "tight-fisted." + +Welford gloried in this saving habit. He was considered quite wealthy +by his heirs, who were the only ones who approved of his penurious ways. + +When he arrived at the age of seventy, he determined to put his house +in order. He would sell his curiosities and his useless household +furnishings to the highest bidder. + +When Doctor Morton called one hot day in summer, Welford was in the act +of examining his books, before an old mahogany case that looked as if +it had come over with the first Pennington. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Welford, you seem pleasantly engaged." + +"Yes, sir. I'm looking over some old things. I want to get rid of +everything that I can do without." + +"I'm Doctor Morton. I'm interested in anything old or curious. Let me +see what you've got. Ah! here's an old copy of Barclay's 'Apology.' +That's very valuable." + +"How much is it worth?" + +"Seventy-five dollars." + +"That much? You surprise me." + +"It's worth probably more. Oh, look! Here's another gem. It's bound +in full morocco. Sewell's 'History of the Quakers,' 1770. That's +easily worth a hundred!" + +The two book investigators pursued their investigations. + +Mr. Welford was astonished when he learned that these old religious and +controversial writings were worth so much money. He did not know that +the modern collector was purchasing for fabulous sums the old sermons +of eminent divines. + +According to the learned Doctor Morton, these were just the things that +the rich bibliophile demanded! + +In going over these dusty books and pamphlets, Doctor Morton laid the +dingiest and shabbiest in a little pile. These were of no value he +said, and worth only the price of waste-paper. + +In the lot was a mutilated almanac, printed by Benjamin Franklin in +1733. + +"Look at that dirty old almanac! A modern one is a hundred times more +valuable!" Doctor Morton would exclaim; knowing at the same time that +this first issue of Poor Richard was worth its weight in gold. + +"That ought to be destroyed! It's a filthy attack on William Penn and +the Quakers. If I were you I'd put that in the fire!" said the +virtuous doctor, pointing to a little quarto pamphlet published in +London in 1682, and one of two copies extant, the other being priced at +$600.00 by a well-known book-seller. In it is the curious statement +that Penn was fond of certain ladies of the wicked court of Charles II. +And it was not in Lowndes, or in any bibliography! + +When the last volume on the last shelf had been valued by the doctor, +Mr. Welford stated that he did not care to sell immediately. He wanted +to "look around a little." The books were really worth more than he +thought. + +"Then, sir, why have you put me to all this trouble! I've lost a whole +morning going over your things and telling you about them. When you +make up your mind to sell, let me know. This pile of trash you can +burn, or you can sell it to the old-paper man. You might get +twenty-five cents for the lot. Perhaps you might give a few of those +worthless pamphlets to me. You've taken up enough of my time." + +"The lot will cost thee two dollars, Doctor." + +"All right. Give me a receipt. This is the last time I'll give free +advice to anyone! Particularly a Quaker!" + +When Mr. Welford "looked around" he discovered that the beautifully +bound sermons, eulogies, prayer-books and catechisms were worth next to +nothing. He almost passed away when a kind friend told him that Poor +Richard's Almanac was worth a thousand dollars. + +Another amiable acquaintance cheerfully imparted the information that +the scandalous pamphlet about the First Proprietor of Pennsylvania was +valued at ten shares of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. At hearing this +good news, he put on his gray hat and started full of righteous +indignation to interview the lucky purchaser. + +"Don't swear, Mr. Welford. That's not becoming one of your persuasion." + +"Thou--thou--" + +"Don't choke and splutter so. It's bad for the heart." + +"Thee told me those big books of sermons were valuable. They're not +worth the paper they're written on!" + +"Now, you're becoming sacrilegious!" + +"Thee knows that rotten old thing about Penn was worth all those +catechisms and sermons combined." + +"I naturally thought that a religious book was worth more than a +scandalous one. That stands to reason." + +"There's no arguing with thee. I'll expose thee, if it takes--" + +"Oh, no, you won't. I have your receipt in full." + +Mr. Welford thought a minute. A grim smile overspread his features. + +"I congratulate thee, Doctor. If thee can get the better of a +Philadelphia Quaker, thou art welcome to the profit!" + +Now this has nothing to do with Robert Hooker. It appears upon further +investigation, however, that the candle-stick made by Paul Revere, +silversmith and patriot, that stood upon the mantel-piece of the +Doctor's home in Connecticut, was known under the outrageous name of +"Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy in Old Calf." + +Why this candle-stick was catalogued in this mysterious way was known +only to Doctor Morton. + +Three years ago the first edition of Burton's great book, published in +Oxford in 1621, and in its original calf binding, was borrowed by the +Doctor, who said he was writing an article for the _Atlantic Monthly_, +on "Old Burton and the Anatomy." + +The owner of the book could not resist the gentle demands of the true +scholar, and sent the volume. He ought to have known better, for his +name was Robert Hooker! + +It was not soothing to the imaginations of book-lovers when it became +known that the two gems from Welford's library had gone into the +rapacious hands of Doctor Morton, to be turned into an old mahogany +sofa or a colonial high-boy. + +It was criminal, and must be prevented at all costs. And Robert +Hooker, smarting under the recollection of the loss of the "Anatomy" +thought he would like to add wicked "Penn" and "Poor Richard" to his +household. They would prove a considerable addition to his "museum of +the imagination." + +How to secure them was a problem! Ordinary methods could not be +applied to the extraordinary Doctor Morton! The wisdom of the serpent +was as nothing to the vivid intellectuality of the Connecticut Sage! +It must be confessed that only New England could have produced him; +only the rarified bookish atmosphere of three hundred years could have +engendered a creature of such genius! + +Hooker never despaired. A remedy was close at hand. + +He was walking one day, on Thirty-ninth Street, and just off Broadway, +he noticed a very handsome mahogany secretary in an antique store. He +entered the establishment, and asked its price. + +"A hundred dollars!" said the proprietor. "This piece is believed to +have been once the property of Thomas Jefferson. I purchased it from +one of his heirs." + +"I'll take it," said Hooker simply. + + +Three weeks later Doctor Morton entered a little shop on Fourth Avenue. +He had received a letter from the head partner, asking him to call the +next time he came to New York, and inspect a piece of colonial +furniture of the greatest historical interest. + +The doctor was almost carried away when he beheld the beautiful relic +of revolutionary days. This would grace his home with rare charm! He +asked the price. + +"Forty-five hundred dollars!" + +"I don't understand. Why is it so valuable?" + +"That's Thomas Jefferson's desk. It comes from his heirs; the +Declaration of Independence was written on it!" + +"That's a pretty story. Where's your proof? Without documentary +evidence, it's not worth more than a hundred dollars." + +"I have the proof, Doctor. Look here." + +The proprietor then rolled back the top. He put his finger upon a +secret drawer. He took out a letter and handed it in silence to Doctor +Morton. + +He read as follows: + + +Monticello, June 12, 1821. + +This secretary which is five feet four inches high and three feet wide, +made of Santa Domingo mahogany, was purchased by me in Philadelphia in +November, 1775, of Robert Aitken, the printer. Upon this desk, I wrote +in my home on High Street near Seventh, the celebrated instrument known +as the Declaration of Independence. Thinking that my heirs and others +would value this article for its association with the sacred cause of +liberty, I make this statement. + +Witness my hand and seal, this twelfth day of June, 1821, and the year +of American Independence, the forty-fifth. + +THO. JEFFERSON. + + +Doctor Morton looked carefully at the letter. He examined the red +wafer with "T. J." in faded letters upon it. + +Accompanying the letter was another from one of the heirs of the +celebrated statesman. + +"The desk is cheap at any--" Doctor Morton blurted. He caught himself +in time. + +"I'd like to own it. I'd give your price, but haven't the cash. I +have some old books worth lots of money. Perhaps we can arrange a +trade." + +For two hours the two worked over this momentous transaction. At the +end of that time, and in consideration of a rare pamphlet containing +scurrilous remarks on William Penn, an old ephemeris printed by +Benjamin Franklin and seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, the +mahogany colonial secretary was transferred to Doctor Willis Morton--to +have and hold forever. + + +One evening, about a month later, the eccentric collector of the little +Connecticut town sat down in his chair to gloat over and hold communion +with his "literary" treasures, for he did not call them articles of +virtu or specimens of bric-a-brac, or furniture of the Jacobean period, +but gave each piece that was dear to him a name that smacked of books +and learning. His mind turned to the evil early life of William Penn, +and the wisdom of Poor Richard, while at the same time his eyes were +riveted upon a beautiful eighteenth century desk. A bell interrupted +his agreeable visions. A telegram had arrived. He opened it +hurriedly, and read: + + +Please look under red wax wafer on Jefferson's letter. Important +Information. R. H. + + +Doctor Morton went to the secretary, and taking the letter in his +trembling hands, gingerly lifted the seal of the third President of the +United States. + +"Damn!" he cried, as he read in minute letters: + + +"A forgery,--in pleasant memory of my lost 'Anatomy.' + +"Robert Hooker, _fecit_." + + + + +IN DEFENCE OF HIS NAME + +He was again talking of his ancestors. He was always talking of his +ancestors.... + +It was in the library of a Fifth Avenue club, but the gentlemen seated +at a window overlooking the famous thoroughfare were not discussing +books. They were examining with care the beautiful ladies that always +decorated this brilliant highway. + +"_That_--with the blue bonnet and the short blue sleeves, is Mrs. +Wilberforce Andre," said John Stuyvesant DePuyster. "Her husband is a +descendant of Varick who served as aide-de-camp to General Arnold." + +"That doesn't make her more attractive," said Robert Hooker. + +DePuyster ignored the remark. "My great grandfather--" + +"We know all about him," chorused the others. "Let-up, please. Have +mercy on us, it's a hot day." + +"My great grandmother, on my father's side--" persisted DePuyster. + +"We know all about _her_!" the others answered, wearily. + +"But Mrs. Andre reminds me of an interesting story. And you are always +looking for stories. In January, 1779, my great grandfather was +serving on the staff of Benedict Arnold. As you know, it was he, John +Stuyvesant DePuyster, my namesake, who rescued the colors so gallantly +at Saratoga--who fought at Germantown--who almost starved at Valley +Forge--who rescued General Greene at the risk of his life--who was +wounded with two bullets in his flank at the battle of Trenton--who +served so brilliantly under Mad Anthony Wayne--who--" + +The others looked at each other furtively, with misery indicated on +every feature. + +One of them, the great autograph collector, Robert Hooker, nervously +twitched his fingers. He seemed in agony, and looked around, evidently +for signs of relief. + +--"Who received a medal for gallantry at Monmouth," chronicled the +voice in a perfectly satisfied tone,--"who rebuked Colonel +Tarleton--who was praised even by the British commander Lord Howe--who +sat at the court-martial of Andre--and who--" + +"Was a traitor to his country!" said Hooker, quietly. + +Everyone looked uneasy. They all hated scenes. But at any rate, it +was a fortunate escape. A duel with bloodshed would be better than +DePuyster's stories! + +"Sir," he returned hotly, "an accusation such as this has never been +made against our family!" + +"Then I shall be the first to make it." + +"It is outrageous,--a damnable, lying statement, and you've got to +prove it I I'll force it back into your throat, you slanderer! You've +got to prove it, I say, Sir!" + +"I have the proof!" + +"Then you've got to show it. I demand it. I have the right to demand +it." + +"Two weeks from now, there will be sold at the Amhurst Auction +Galleries, an autograph letter of General Arnold, in which he speaks of +General DePuyster as an accomplice, who was ready to turn over to the +British cause his honor and his sword. The catalogue will be issued in +two weeks' time, and the full text of the letter printed. It might be +well for your precious family that this letter remains unpublished!" + +"I'll look it up at once," said DePuyster. "Until you prove your +statement, I'll not notice or speak to you, Sir." + +A week later an old autograph letter was shown to him at the +cataloguing rooms of the auction-house. DePuyster had called every +day, but it was a week before he was allowed to see it. It was to be +sold as the "property of a gentleman." + +With trembling hands, he examined this tomb of the secrets of the +illustrious DePuyster, this time-stained document with faded writing. +The letter read as follows: + + +Robinson's House, + September 2, 1780. + +Sir:-- + +Everything is progressing as agreed. I have secured a pass for Hett +Smith. I suppose the ordnance at West Point is the same as given. +What of the military force? We have not enough to help us _on this +side_. We need more than two, a third or fourth person is required. +Colonel DePuyster, in charge of the ordnance, has given me his word +that he will be ready when called upon. He has already written me, +giving the number of blackberries in the first field. He is of great +assistance, and his name, which has always stood for honor in America, +will prove a great asset to us. It is a name that is like Caesar's +wife, and has never been _suspected_. I have supplied the third +help-mate; will you furnish our fourth? + +I am, Sir, with great respect, + +Your most obedient humble servant, + GUSTAVUS. + +Maj. John Anderson. + + +The descendant of the gallant revolutionary soldier trembled like a +coward. The name of John Anderson and Gustavus were well-known to him +as those assumed by Andre and Arnold in the great conspiracy. The +hand-writing was, undoubtedly, Arnold's; he had letters in his own home +written by the infamous general to Col. DePuyster, his great +grandfather--letters written years before the treason--and the writing +was identical. + +"What--what will you take for this letter?" asked DePuyster. + +"It will be sold at auction in two weeks' time," the clerk answered, +politely. + +"But I would like to purchase it before the sale." + +"Sorry, sir, but its owner will sell only at public sale. The +competition will cause it to bring a high price." + +"Who is the owner?" + +"I don't know." + +"Can't you find out?" + +"He desires to remain unknown." + +"Tell him for me, that I will give any price for it before it is +published in the catalogue." + +"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Hooker also came here to examine it. He +wanted to buy it. He is a great expert, you know, and he always +desired a letter of General Arnold's--about the treason. Mr. Sterling +also wants it. He has a letter giving the amount Arnold received for +betraying his country. It is said his letter is worth five thousand +dollars. This is worth almost as much." + +"I'll give him five thousand for this one." + +"No, sir. You will have to wait until the sale." + +Mr. Hooker sat at the club window. The feminine decorations of the +Avenue did not interest him. He was thinking of poor DePuyster. +Someone had just told him that DePuyster had remained indoors, not +daring to show his face at the Club. He was at his apartments drinking +Scotch whiskeys to take his mind away from the letter which haunted +him. He could not bear to look into pedigrees and genealogies, which +used to be his constant companions. + +Hooker was actually sorry for the descendant of the stalwart +Revolutionary hero, who dared not face his friends--much less his +enemies. He would give the old man a tip! he said to himself. Anyhow +it was delicious to have seen DePuyster's face when the accusation was +made. + +"DePuyster made me so nervous that I just _had_ to do it. But I'll +give him a hint. I'll write him, telling him perhaps the letter is a +forgery. That will give him a chance. As a gentleman of honor, I +shall write him. I should wish the proof, like his ancestors, to be +"above suspicion!" + +The letter was received by DePuyster, who becoming suddenly brave, +faced the light of day, and made the astounding charge to the president +of the auction-house that the Arnold (Gustavus) letter was nothing but +a forgery! A rank imitation, a fabrication to blackmail a noble family +distinguished for three hundred years in American History! + +The president grew angry; the letter had been passed upon by well-known +experts, as well as their own cataloguers of autographs; it was +undoubtedly genuine, and would be sold as such. + +"I'll sue you for damages, if you publish that letter before it is +passed upon by the greatest experts in the world." + +"Go ahead and sue," said the president, turning away. + +DePuyster, however, had among his numerous acquaintances, many famous +lawyers, one of whom secured an injunction, preventing the sale, and +impounding the letter. + +It came later before the Court which, with unusual wisdom, stated that +the matter should be decided by three disinterested experts, one to be +selected by the Court, one by the auction-house, and one by DePuyster. + +The contestants assembled in the little court-room which was crowded +with friends of the parties to the suit, and eminent autograph and +book-collectors. They came from many cities to hear the wrangle over +the famous letter, and to witness the battle of the experts. + +The name of each expert was placed in an envelope, and sealed. + +"The appointment of the Court--is Robert Hooker," announced the judge, +tearing to pieces the envelope. + +"The expert for the defense," read the judge, tearing open another +envelope, "is Robert Hooker. + +"The expert that will represent the plaintiff," continued His Honor, +breaking with his fingers the manila paper, "is Robert Hooker." + +All eyes were turned to the corner where Robert Hooker sat unconcerned. +He seemed, in a measure, overwhelmed by this new distinction. + +He had been known the world over as a collector of autographs and +manuscripts, but he had never been called upon as an expert. + +Hooker arose. He examined the letter but for an instant. + +"I have formed an opinion, Your Honor." + +"So soon?" + +"Yes." + +"What is your decision?" + +"It is a forgery!" + +"Are you certain?" + +"Without a shadow of a doubt!" + +"Why are you so positive," queried the Judge, "when so many other +authorities state that it is genuine?" + +"I am positive," said Hooker, "because I wrote it myself!" + +There was an uproar in the Court. + +"Please explain, sir," said the judge sternly. + +"DePuyster had become such a pest, such a terror to his friends by his +family anecdotes and antique stories that I could stand it no longer. +I was literally bored to death. I made the charge in jest. DePuyster +took it so seriously that I was compelled to supply the proof. I +purchased an old sheet of writing paper with the water-mark of the +Revolutionary period. I practised for hours, so I could imitate +General Arnold's handwriting. When I finished the letter I almost +thought it an original myself! The farce was wonderful! The hoax--a +joy! I thought that I had become a Good Samaritan who had saved his +friends from a very tiresome old gentleman with a hobby for family +history. When my name was first called--I hesitated, but when you all +selected me, I was overwhelmed with the distinguished honor. I told +the truth, and spoiled a story." + +"You have _created_ a story!" said the judge. + + + + +"THE HUNDRED AND FIRST STORY" + +The owner did not at the time of the robbery suspect anyone. The +volume had disappeared; that was all. Yesterday the famous copy of +Boccaccio printed by Valdarfer in the year of grace 1471 had been one +of the talked-of things in John Libro's famous library. It had reposed +in its case along with its ancient companions, who in the silence of +the night would relate to one another the right merry tales of Fair +Jehan, of Patient Grissel, of Launcelot du Lac; and their morocco sides +would shake with laughter at the quips of Giovanni Boccaccio, of +Certaldo, and the rude, trenchant jests of Master Francis Rabelais. +The fine old volume, which had been the envy and despair of +book-lovers, had only recently been added to the collection of Mr. +Libro. In 1812 it had the proud record of selling for over L2000 and +since then it had a most splendid career, having been fondled and loved +by only the elite of the bibliomaniac world. Its owners had been +knights, viscounts, dukes, kings, emperors,--and bibliophiles! + +On the night of December 12, 1910, the "Valdarfer Boccaccio," as it had +been termed, had been shown to a number of members of the "Maioli +Club," a club consisting only of those interested in rare prints, +books, typography, early manuscripts, and money. The volume, after +having been sufficiently admired, handled, looked into, collated and +gossiped over, was locked in its case by Mr. Libro, who felt a feeling +of relief when the doors were shut and the key stored safely in his +pocket. He did not like the rude way some of the younger and +inexperienced members handled the precious gift of the gods; and a very +thoughtful and scholarly collector had the audacity and unheard of +temerity to read it! + +The next morning on going into the library all Mr. Libro saw was a +vacancy in his favorite bookcase. Between the Dante of 1481 and the +Aldine "Poliphilus" was an oblong space that had been so gloriously +filled by the distinguished production of the press of Italy. The +Boccaccio had vanished! + +The news of its loss was flashed over the entire world. Comment on its +strange disappearance was general; articles appeared in the newspapers +on how to safeguard the world's great literary treasures; the _London +Times_ had a leading article in which it was stated that "America did +not deserve to own things of inestimable artistic and intellectual +value if it did not know how to preserve them." + +The first thing a gentleman does when he has been robbed is to call in +a detective whose name is always a household word in novels and plays. +Mr. Libro requested John Bunting to aid him with his advice, +notwithstanding the fact that he had been overwhelmed with suggestions +from every newspaper reporter in the United States and Canada. + +At noon Bunting called. After asking the usual questions, which +although a great detective, he did not disdain to do, he requested Mr. +Libro to tell him the names of his guests of the night before. + +"But, Mr. Bunting, I tell you I myself locked the case, put the key in +my pocket, and retired. They could not possibly have extracted it in +my presence, and I saw the last of them to the door." + +"I would like their names." + +"But I do not suspect any of them, Mr. Bunting." + +"That is not so, Mr. Libro, if I may be permitted to say so. You do +not care to admit it, but you suspect someone of that Literary Club." + +"I am suspicious of my best friends, but dare not indicate any one. If +you want their names, I shall tell you--James Blakely, the great +authority on Elizabethan Poetry; Henry Sterling, of Sterling, Petty & +Co.; Robert Rodd, who knows more about the first editions of Paradise +Lost than anyone; Edward Stevens; James Janney--that's five--there were +six,-- Oh, yes, Robert Hooker. He is quite a student but does not +possess the bank account to buy all the books he wants. He would spend +a million a year if he had it. He was the underbidder on the +Boccaccio. Yes, Mr. Bunting, Hooker came near owning it once. I sent +an unlimited bid for it at the Sunderland Sale. He tried to buy it +from the bookseller who acted as my agent, when he found his own bid +had not been high enough." + +"Mr. Libro, that is interesting. It was no ordinary thief, however, +who took it. The ordinary New Yorker does not know the difference +between _that_ book and one by Marie Corelli!" + +Bunting began the investigation at once. He followed zealously every +clew. A few notorious criminals, who were seen in the immediate +vicinity of the house, were interviewed without result. One of them, +who had been noticed a block from the house shortly after midnight, was +locked up on suspicion. He was discharged from custody the next +morning as nothing could be proved against him. This individual, who +was known to the police as "Booky" Phillips, had been arrested many +times, but never convicted. The Chief found him quite placid under the +rapid fire of his questions. He had read of the lost Boccaccio in the +_Herald_, but did not understand why any "self-respecting thief would +stoop to steal a worthless old book!" + +As a last resort Bunting was compelled to investigate the members of +the Maioli Club. Although they were book-lovers the detective found, +much to his surprise, that they were respectable citizens. He called +one day upon Mr. Hooker without giving notice of his visit. + +"Mr. Hooker," he said, "I would like to know about the book missing +from the Libro collection. Do you know where it is?" + +Mr. Hooker seemed to be choking. His face grew red and he could not +answer for the moment. Bunting repeated the question and Hooker grew +angry. + +"How dare you ask me such a thing? You are so accustomed to dealing +with thieves that you try your crude methods on everyone. The book +will turn up sometime; meanwhile myself and all my friends will be +continually annoyed by your insults and threats. Good-day." + +The detective left. He felt sure that Hooker knew more than he cared +to admit. Perhaps the book was even now upon his shelves. He would +have his house and office searched. This was done. The Boccaccio was +nowhere to be seen. + + +Two years passed. The Valdarfer Boccaccio, which had been a day's +wonder, was forgotten by all except Mr. Libro and Mr. Hooker. They saw +each other rarely after the loss of the unlucky volume; in fact they +avoided each other. The incident was never mentioned among the members +of the Maioli Club--it was a thing never to be spoken of at its +meetings. + +It was, however, again to be the subject of talk and gossip. On +December 12, 1912, two years to a day after its strange disappearance, +the volume turned up in all the glory of its illuminated page and +superb morocco binding. Giovanni Boccaccio had added another story to +the Hundred that composed his immortal collection. + +And where had it been found? The last place in the entire world. In +the New York Public Library! For almost two years it had reposed +there, with no one to cherish it or dip into its witty contents. In a +book-case, side by side with other great masterpieces of literature, it +had remained neglected by the inhabitants of New York, who in the +newspapers of that great city figure as learned and scholarly! The old +story, "that the best place to _hide_ a book was in a Wall Street +broker's office" was found to be pleasant but fanciful fiction! It was +far safer in the public library: no one would look for it there! + +On the morning of the twelfth of December a gentleman came to the +Inquiry Desk. He appeared to Mr. Jones, one of the assistant +librarians, to be interested in books on the subject of Religion, so he +requested the visitor to go with him to the book-stacks, as there were +too many of them to carry to the reading tables. And theological books +were always so heavy! While looking over the collection the man called +Mr. Jones' attention to the label of John Libro in one of them, and +asked why the "Decameron" of Boccaccio was put among the religious +books? Mr. Jones blushed! He gasped, however, when he recognized the +long-lost volume. He would take it at once to the principal librarian. +He first asked the stranger's name,--the fortunate discoverer of the +missing treasure. He gave Mr. Jones his card. Engraved thereon was +"B. Phillips." + +The newspapers were full of the curious recovery of the Boccaccio, were +quite facetious about it and went so far as to call the great building +on Fifth Avenue a Literary Mausoleum. Others suggested that the State +should appropriate money for the purchase of modern sex novels,--the +only books that were really read! But despite the jibes and +explanations the real mystery was unsolved. How was the book stolen +and why? + +Three days later the following letter appeared in the newspapers. It +is given here because it will make a fitting ending to the Hundred and +First Tale of the Decameron. + + +New York, December 14, 1912. + +Sir: + +I have read with interest the various explanations given in the papers +concerning the disappearance of the book from Mr. Libro's library. I +can supply the key to the whole problem. + +Some two years or so ago, I was stone broke. One day I read that Mr. +Libro had purchased at a great price the book which has caused all this +commotion. I thought I would lift it some night when I had nothing +better to do, and sell it back to its owner or some other book crank. +I called one afternoon at the Libro house with some magazines on +pretence of securing subscriptions. The ruse worked. Mr. Libro +ordered the _Bookman_,--a magazine I had never heard of. He showed me +one or two of his books,--these maniacs always want to show you their +things. I was bored to death, as you can imagine. + +While he was signing the subscription blank I made a wax impression of +the key to the cases. That night I did a second story job. The window +was open. I easily found the library. But where was the confounded +book? I looked everywhere. There seemed to be millions of books. In +one case I noticed a shelf that was uneven. I looked at it. I saw the +name "Boccaccio." I placed the volume underneath my coat and left. + +The evening papers were filled with the news. What could I do with the +volume? I could not keep it in my room, as I feared the police would +find it. I did not dream that it would be missed so soon, and I did +not anticipate all this fuss over a shabby old book. I tried to think +of a place to hide it, but could not. One of the papers said that a +Richard Hooker was the other crank who had bid for it at the auction +sale. If I went to him now he would refuse to buy it and arrest me. + +I tried another and surer course. That night I went to Hooker's +house,--another second story job--and left the cursed book in the most +conspicuous place in the library. The next day I called on him. I +said I was Mr. Scott,--a detective. I accused him of stealing the book +from Mr. Libro. He said I lied. I told him he had the book in his +house now. From the expression on his face I knew I had him. He said +he had found the book in his library, but had not taken it and did not +know how it had got there. I asked him if he thought anyone would +believe him. He said--No! Everyone would think he had stolen it. +Hooker offered me a thousand dollars to take the book and say nothing. +I accepted two thousand dollars in cash. I took the book, but where to +hide it I did not know. It was under my coat when I was passing 42nd +Street and Fifth Avenue. A thought struck me. I would place it where +it would never be found. The people here have no time to read books; +it was the best place of all. In a moment I was in the library; I +threw the cursed old thing on one of the shelves. I left in great glee. + +At the corner of 40th Street and the Avenue I was arrested by one of +Captain Bunting's men. They tried to get something on me, but could +not. I was innocent! + +I am on my way to London to visit the British Museum, for I find the +study of books profitable. + +Yours very truly, + B. PHILLIPS. + + + + +THE LADY OF THE BREVIARY + +The Abelard Missal was lost to him forever. + +When Mr. Richard Blaythwaite was alive, Robert Hooker had a small +chance, one in ten thousand perhaps, of securing it and adding this +beautiful memento of the Renaissance to his "museum of the +imagination." But now that Blaythwaite was dead, all hope of owning it +had vanished. + +Hooker would not have hesitated, in the cause of the public, to have +taken it by fair means or foul from Blaythwaite, but he would not rob a +woman. He was singularly squeamish upon this point. + +Richard Blaythwaite had left everything to his only daughter, including +the famous Abelard missal. + +It was a marvelous manuscript dating from the sixteenth century, and +contained at the end the beautiful and tragic story of those mediaeval +lovers, Abelard and Heloise. + +The pictures that decorated the missal, however, were its chief +glory.... They were the work of Giulio Clovio, and executed by the +great miniaturist for Philip the Second of Spain. The full page +illuminations, with the exquisite colors, heightened with gold, were +worth a king's ransom, or a queen's reputation. The binding was in +keeping with the superb quality of the breviary, being in old purple +morocco, the royal arms of Castile impressed in gold upon the sides. + +Hooker tried in every way but could not give up the idea of being its +possessor. It haunted him at night, and during the day his mind +constantly reverted to its matchless colors and quaint designs. + +He knew Miss Blaythwaite slightly, having met her in former days at her +father's house, when he used to delight in looking over his famous +library. The pity of it all was that the missal was to be in the +keeping of a woman. If it had gone to some collector who would +treasure it as a delectable gift of the gods, it would not be so bad. +But to a woman! The thought almost drove him mad. + +One evening, in despair, he resolved to call at the fine old house, and +glance once more at the lovely picture of Abelard imprinting his last +kiss upon the lips of Heloise. + +He felt some misgivings, when he was told that Miss Blaythwaite was at +home and would see him. He almost hated her, and he could not forbear +the thought that the Abelard missal was no more to her than her pet +dog, or the bracelet upon her fair wrist. + +When she entered the room, he was taken aback. When he saw her some +years ago, she was but a slip of a girl, with long hair down her back. +She was now tall and stately, with beautiful deep blue eyes. She was +dressed simply; and Hooker thought exceedingly well, but he was not a +judge. He knew more about the morocco covering of an old book than a +lady's apparel. + +"Good evening, Mr. Hooker. I'm glad you called," she said. + +"Thank you, Miss Blaythwaite. It's been a long time since I've had the +pleasure of seeing you." + +"Yes, you've rather neglected us lately. Are you still interested in +books? Poor father had quite a mania for them." + +"That's what first brought me to the house. Do you remember how we +used to spend hours going over his books?" + +"Hours? It seemed ages to mother and me. Poor mother, how furious she +used to be when father brought those dusty old books into the house. +She used to say that father threw away his money on them. He'd give a +hundred dollars for a shabby old thing, when he could have bought a +nice, modern edition for five." + +At this, Robert Hooker was speechless! + +"I suppose you would like to see some of the additions to the library," +Miss Blaythwaite continued, "father bought books until he died. You +know he caught pneumonia by going to an auction-sale, one cold day last +winter. This is the book he bought,--but at what a cost!" + +She took from the shelves which lined the walls, a small volume. It +was a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets, the first edition; published in +1609. + +"And the strange part of it all, Mr. Hooker, I believe in my heart that +papa never regretted its purchase." + +Hooker was about to remark that it was worth the risk, but checked +himself in time. + +"It was foolish. Your father, however, was a true bibliophile." + +Miss Blaythwaite returned this volume of volumes to its position in the +case, and when Hooker saw it, he turned pale. She had put it in upside +down--a terrible thing to do. One would have to stand upon his head to +read the title, and booklovers do not believe in gymnastics. + +He immediately placed it in its proper position, carefully, +tenderly--as if it had been a baby, which was precious to him, but not +quite so precious as an old book or manuscript! + +"Father could not bear us to put books in upside down, but mother and I +would often forget, and the way father scolded, you would think we had +committed a horrid crime." + +At this, they both laughed. + +When Hooker was shown the breviary, he lingered for a long time over +its magic pages. He felt the cool vellum leaves with his fingers, for +fear lest the missal would slip through his hand, and disappear forever! + +For over two months, Hooker was a constant visitor at the Blaythwaite +home. He became intimately acquainted with every book in the library; +he could tell the exact date of publication of the early printed +volumes; the place where it was printed; the name of the binder, and +other useless information. + +Even Miss Blaythwaite caught some of the contagion. She, who had +formerly cared nothing for her father's "playthings," became interested +in them. Sometimes she would take down from a shelf a volume of old +English poetry, and become absorbed in the lyrical sweetness of the +verse. Occasionally, she would read aloud to Hooker some beautiful +poems that she had discovered in Ben Jonson, in Crashaw, or in Herrick; +and he would tell her of his aspirations, and of the Museum that +existed only in his mind. He told her of the wonderful things he +already possessed. + +Although Hooker had known Miss Blaythwaite for some time, she was to +him always, the Lady of the Breviary. + +When he felt the delicious warmth of her hand, he thought of the +missal; when she was seated near him, poring over some old volume of +forgotten lore, his mind turned to its wonderful binding, or its +miraculous miniatures. Strange as it may seem, Miss Blaythwaite was +nothing more to him than the guardian and sole owner of a book that his +soul desired. Sometimes, when they were reading together some volume +of Elizabethan verse, another caller would be announced; Hooker would +be presented, and then he would retire gracefully to her father's +library, leaving the field clear to his rival. This, of course, was +not flattering to Miss Blaythwaite! + +One night, Jack Worthing was there before him. He was a clean-cut, +manly fellow, interested first in sports, and after that in business. +He had known Miss Blaythwaite for years. The talk turned, as it will +always turn, when bibliophiles are present, upon books. + +"I don't understand you fellows," said Worthing. "You think more of an +old book than many people of their children!" + +"Of course! Children often grow up into ill-mannered youths and +conceited young ladies. Books always remain young and delightful!" + +"But, confound it! You never read them. You have thousands around you +all the time, and I bet you don't read ten a year." + +"Rare books are meant to be carefully nurtured during our lives, and +passed on after our death to those who will appreciate them. Only +college professors, students, scholars, and such people ever _read_ +books," answered Hooker, contemptuously. + +"I think book-men the most foolish class of persons on earth," retorted +Worthing. "Give me some good old sport, like boxing, or foot-ball, +that makes your heart tingle, that causes the red blood to shoot +through your veins--that makes life worth living! Man wasn't created +to spend his life roaming around a dusky old library, when he can go +out into God's pure air and enjoy the fields and the streams, the +forests and the lakes!" + +At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to smile approvingly. + +Hooker said nothing. Bibliophiles are not missionaries. They do not +go into the by-ways of the world to uphold their creeds, for the love +of books is such a wonderful thing that it can never be explained! + +When he left Miss Blaythwaite that night, he felt that the breviary was +farther from him than ever. + +Hooker, however, came swiftly to a decision. + +The only way he could obtain the Abelard Missal, was by marrying Miss +Blaythwaite. The next evening he called, with this firmly fixed in his +mind. This wily, calculating book-worm had slowly crept into her +affections. He knew she liked him, but would she marry him? + +He asked her with great fervor, which was assumed, whether she would +become his wife. He waited breathlessly for her answer. + +"I want to be frank with you, Robert," she said. "I do not think you +love me." + +"How can you say such a thing?" + +"Instinctively, I feel it. I like you, but I cannot marry you." + +"Why not? Is there someone else?" + +Miss Blaythwaite smiled. + +"Yes." + +"I never dreamed of it. Of course I might have known." + +"You do know, Robert." + +"Is it Jack Worthing?" + +"No." + +"Then, who is it?" + +"It's that old missal. You are more in love with _that_, than you are +with me. I can see it in your eyes, in your talk, in everything. If I +were not its owner, you would never come near me." + +"Then you will not marry me?" + +"No, I cannot. Do you know, Robert, I've become actually jealous of +that breviary, and intend to present it to some library or museum! It +ought, by right, to go to the Metropolitan." + +"For God's sake," Hooker cried in mortal anguish, "do anything but +that!" + +For over six months the forlorn bibliophile remained away from the Lady +of the Breviary. Somehow or other, it was not the missal which was +foremost in his thoughts. His books, his autographs, his porcelains, +his engravings had no longer the charm they once had. He no longer +took an interest in the auction-sales, and the catalogues that came to +him would lie neglected upon his desk. + +He looked with particular distaste upon the "Three Trees" and the +"Unpublishable Memoirs" and the Shakespeare-Bacon volume. He even +thought of returning them to their owners! The great institute to be +founded and called after his name, was a thing of the past! He had +acted like a cad, he said to himself. To marry a woman for an old book +was almost as bad as marrying for money! + +One evening, Hooker came to the conclusion that he could not stand this +loneliness, this desolation, any longer. He intended to leave the +country, to wander in foreign lands! He would call again upon Miss +Blaythwaite for the last time, but would she receive him? + +His heart was beating rapidly when the maid told him she was in, and +would see him. + +And there was Jack Worthing with her, looking big and manly, and +courageous as ever! + +Miss Blaythwaite seemed delighted to see him. A sudden joy seemed to +overspread her features! And Hooker noticed things about her he had +never noticed before. He saw the appealing dimples in her cheeks--the +fine hair blowing near the temples--the exquisite shape of her +ears--the wonderful turquoise-blue of her eyes! + +And Jack Worthing was talking of books! A miracle had happened! +Somehow or other, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to take a decided interest in +the library left her by her father, and during the last half of the +year, she was continually speaking to Worthing of first editions and +Caxtons; of Elzevirs and typography; of Americana, incunabula and such +ridiculous things, and all in a jargon that was quite unintelligible to +him. And Worthing determined to study the things she liked, and +borrowed some reference-books from a library that told of the mysteries +of the book-lovers' cult. And when Hooker heard Worthing speak of the +rare first edition of Poe's Tamerlane, he almost fainted with surprise! + +"Don't you want to look over father's books, Mr. Hooker," asked Miss +Blaythwaite. "You may go in the library as usual, and make yourself at +home. I have added a few things myself!" + +"No, thank you, I'd rather remain here. Which side do you think will +win the polo match to-morrow? Meadowbrook?" + +At this, Miss Blaythwaite and Worthing looked at each other in +astonishment. Hooker thought he saw a mysterious understanding between +them. He became at once insanely jealous of the athletic young man who +was discoursing so eloquently of Tamerlane "in boards, uncut." + +"Meadowbrook?" persisted Hooker. + +"I suppose so," returned Worthing, in an uninterested manner. + +Yes, this talk of books had become decidedly distasteful to the once +enthusiastic bibliophile. + +"By the way, Mr. Hooker," said Miss Blaythwaite, "I've made up my mind +about the Abelard missal. Jack and I think it would be a good thing to +give it to the Metropolitan Museum." + +"I quite agree with you, Miss Blaythwaite," said poor Hooker. "There +it would always be safe from fire, and could be seen by the public. It +is certainly the proper thing to do." + +At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed overjoyed. + +When Worthing left, after an interminable time, Robert Hooker sat by +her side upon the old Chippendale sofa in her father's library. When +she discoursed of books and learning, he would quietly change the +subject. + +He wanted to hear about herself, and what she had been doing since he +saw her last. As for himself--he was going away. He was taking a +steamer next Saturday for Europe. + +She asked him quietly if he did not want to take a last look at the +breviary. + +"Damn the breviary!" he said to himself. He did not care particularly +about it, but she insisted. + +He took the precious volume from its place on the shelf, and together +they looked at the marvelous illustrations that traced so vividly the +history of the two devoted lovers. + +They glanced not at the calendar, or the litany that came first in the +breviary, but bent their heads over the lovely miniatures that narrated +so touchingly the tragic story. + +When they came to the picture showing the final parting of Abelard from +his beloved Heloise, Hooker looked at Miss Blaythwaite. + +Her eyes were filled with tears. + +"Robert," she said tenderly, "I'm not going to present it to the +Metropolitan. I'll give it to the Hooker Museum! Then--we _both_ can +always enjoy it." + + + + +THE EVASIVE PAMPHLET + +He was disappointed again! + +He sat alone in his office thinking of the auction sale of the day +before. A copy of the rare first edition of "The Murders in the Rue +Morgue," the immortal story of Edgar Allan Poe, was lost to him and his +heirs for ever more. + +He had gone to the auction with the virtuous intention of buying it; +when the shabby little pamphlet with its brown paper wrappings--printed +in Philadelphia in 1843--was offered, the bidding was remarkably +spirited. It was finally sold to a distinguished collector for +thirty-eight hundred dollars. He had been the underbidder, but what +chance had a poor devil of a bibliophile against the wealthy captains +of industry? At sales of this character the race is not to the swift, +but to the--rich! + +Robert Hooker had once owned a copy of this precious volume. This made +his disappointment the keener. It was a more interesting example than +the one that had just been offered under the hammer of the auctioneer, +for it had been a presentation copy with a simple though beautiful +inscription written in the delicate handwriting of the poet upon the +title-page: + + "_To Virginia from E. A. P._" + +This was the very copy the greatest of story-tellers had lovingly given +to his wife. Years ago it had mysteriously disappeared from Hooker's +office, where he had kept it in a fire-proof, feeling it was more +secure there than on the shelves of his library. He sought for it +everywhere, offering large rewards for its return, but the evasive +little volume never was heard of again. + +Hooker was musing over his "defeat" of yesterday in the salesroom when +his thoughts reverted to the fate of his own copy. Where was it? What +was its history? Its possessor could not seek a purchaser, because the +inscription on the title-page would instantly identify it. Had it been +destroyed? Was it-- + +"A gentleman to see you, sir, about an old book!" + +He instantly awoke from his reverie. It was his secretary who had +spoken. + +"Tell him I have no money for such things!" said Hooker. + +John Lawrence, his secretary, did not turn away, but waited with the +flicker of a smile upon his face. He knew the foibles of his employer. +He had been with him for many years. And a really good clerk always +knows his master's weaknesses. + +"Hold on a minute, John. Perhaps I can give him a few minutes. Tell +him to come in." + +"Hello, Colonel! What can I do for you this morning?" said Hooker +cheerily, to a middle-aged man, erect of figure, who had just entered. +He was one of those men who make their living picking up old books, old +guns, old papers, old coins, old pictures, old everything. He also, at +times, had a faculty of picking up old liquors, which was not good for +him. He was known as the "Colonel" because of his military bearing and +his interest in the Civil War. He had really been a soldier serving in +the glorious and extensive regiment known as the home guard. + +"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I've a matter I'd like to speak to you +about--but in the strictest confidence. I'm on the track of a really +fine book." + +At this Hooker smiled. Although in his long and busy life and in his +strange wanderings the Colonel had secured a few good things his +"finds" generally turned out to be of no value. Hooker had frequently +advanced him money to purchase what the Colonel termed "nuggets," but +when they were brought to him changed, in the twinkling of an eye, into +fool's gold. + +"Well, what is it?" said Hooker, rather impatiently, fearing another +tug at his purse-strings. + +"You've read this morning's papers? The 'Murders in the Rue Morgue' +brought at the sale yesterday thirty-eight hundred dol--" + +"Enough of that!" retorted Hooker, who was becoming angry. "I never +want to hear of that damned book again!" + +"But I know where there's another copy," presented the Colonel, weakly. + +"So do I. In the British Museum!" + +"No, Mr. Hooker. Right here in New York." + +"Where?" + +"But you're not interested, you just said--" + +"Of course I am, you old fool, go on!" + +"Well, the book's in an old house down near Washington Square. It'll +be difficult to get. Its owner's in jail." + +"In _jail_!" + +"Yes. He's serving a stretch--twenty years." + +"What for?" + +"Murder!" + +"Now, Colonel, I hope you didn't come here to amuse me with fairy +tales. I'm very busy this morning." + +"No. That's straight. He's up for twenty years. He murdered his +sweetheart. The court brought in a verdict of manslaughter, so he got +a light sentence." + +"Well, what's that got to do with the book?" + +"Have patience, Mr. Hooker. You know of the Tomlinson case?" + +"Never heard of it." + +"Impossible, sir! The newspapers were filled with it at the time. +Seven years ago every one was talking about it and surely you +remember--" + +"No, Colonel, seven years ago I was in Europe. Tell me about it." + +The Colonel went into details-- + +In June of 1907 a family by the name of Clarke moved into two rooms in +a large, old fashioned residence on Eighth Street, near Fifth Avenue. +They were there for less than a month when they gave the landlord +notice. They could not remain in the house on account of ghosts! Now +_everyone_ believes in ghosts but landlords. It injures their business. + +The Clarkes contended that every night in the front room the most +mysterious noises were heard; they called in the janitor, but he knew +nothing. The strange sounds continued; they were uncanny, +inexplicable. The Clarkes moved out and they were succeeded by other +nervous and hysterical persons. The landlord in desperation reduced +the rent, but still the tenants would not remain. + +At last even he, who was sceptical and would not believe in hobgoblins, +or ghosts, or spirits, or any of those fantastic creatures that exist +outside the material mind, resolved to investigate for himself. He +literally camped in the rooms for months and heard not a sound! Every +night he determined would be his last and that he would not waste any +more of his valuable time over the mystical phantoms of his foolish +tenants. + +One evening, which he resolved was to be the final one, while he was +playing solitaire to pass the tedium of the vigil, he heard a noise in +the wall. He turned pale with fear. A cold chill ran up and down his +back. A moment later the sound of a falling coin reached his ears and +there rolled toward him from the old Georgian fire-place a shining +object. + +It was a few minutes before he had the courage to pick it up. It was a +small gold ring. He examined it carefully and engraved therein were +the initials "M. P. from J. L." He put the ring in his pocket, removed +the fire dogs, the tongs, the coal-scuttle and the whole paraphernalia +of fire-places and looked up the flue. He could see nothing. Although +it was a clear night he could not see the stars. Something was in the +way.... + +The finding next day of the poor, bruised body of little Marie Perrin +up the chimney of "No. 8" was the sensation of the hour. A horrible +crime had been committed, and in an unknown and terrible way. It was +Edgar Allan Poe in a new guise and his wonderful stories immediately +became popular and new editions of the "Tales" were called for by a new +set of readers. Some critics of crime suggested that the "Murders in +the Rue Morgue" had been repeated at No. Eight East Eighth Street. The +hiding-place of the body was identical with that in the famous story +and it was said that the police were on the look-out for apes, +gorillas, and other animals, which alone were capable of committing +such hideous crimes. + +The whole life of poor little Marie was laid bare. Her picture was in +every newspaper and her history was given from the day of her birth +with remarkable ingenuity. The reporters, with uncontrolled +imaginations, turned out from the scanty material at their hands an +excellent biographical sketch, that seemed and rang true, which is +sufficient for the reading public. + +Marie Perrin had disappeared without paying her rent from No. Eight +over a year ago. When the agent came to collect the arrears, he found +the tenant had departed with all her chattels. This was a libel, for +she was in the room but not visible. The detectives, when they +investigated into the tragedy and after asking ten thousand questions +in a thousand and one places, found out that Marie had a sweetheart and +that his name was Richard Tomlinson. He refused to admit his guilt, +but after being prodded with the iron-fork of the law, technically +known as the "third degree" he broke down and confessed. In a fit of +anger he struck her over the head with the brass fire-tongs. He had no +intention of killing her, or even harming her, but he had become +insanely jealous of another who was paying her attentions. In fact he +said he must have been mad at the time, as he did not remember having +struck her until she lay before him, quiet and cold upon the floor. +After a trial lasting over two weeks, and full of sensational +incidents, Tomlinson was sentenced to spend twenty years of his life in +prison. + +"That's an interesting tale," said Robert Hooker, when the Colonel had +stopped speaking, "but what has all this to do with the first edition +of Poe's story?" + +"Well, you see, Tomlinson was a friend of mine. He told me that, after +he had accidentally killed the girl, he was terribly frightened. He +did not know what to do with the body. He had a mind to go to the +police and confess all, but did not have the courage to do so. He +remained in a trance, he thought, for hours, thinking of his fearful +crime and the dreadful consequences. While he was in this deep, +agonizing study and not knowing what he was doing, he picked up a small +book on her reading table. It was 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' It +was the title that attracted him, and some compelling force, what it +was he knew not, caused him to read it. He told me that never in his +whole life had anything so interested him as that story on that +frightful occasion; although pursued by terrible fears he read every +word, every syllable of it. The rest you know." + +"But, Colonel," said Hooker, with one thought uppermost in his mind, +"it might be any edition, not necessarily the first. There have been +hundreds of editions published. How do you know what edition it was?" + +"It was the first, Mr. Hooker. Tomlinson told me the girl had borrowed +it to read and that it belonged to some one who had a mania for old +books and who had kept it always under lock and key." + +"Do you know where it is?" + +"Yes." + +"Can you get it?" + +"Perhaps." + +"I shall make it worth your while. How much do you want?" + +"All I can get. I'll have to steal it!" + +"What!" + +"Yes, I'll have to steal it. It cannot be had in any other way. Why +do you start?" + +"I didn't think you'd have to do that!" + +"Yes. You see Tomlinson, when he moved from those furnished rooms, +took everything he could carry to his brother's lodgings near +Washington Square. The book is in a sealed trunk on the third floor. +Tomlinson made his brother promise that this trunk was not to be +disturbed under any circumstances until he came out of jail a free man. +I've tried in every way--by bribery and everything--but his brother +will not touch it. He seems afraid of that old trunk. I'll get it, +however, at all costs. Are you with me?" + +Hooker was, above everything, a true bibliophile. He instantly +answered: + +"Yes, Colonel! Go the limit. I'll back you." + +The Colonel without another word picked up his hat and left the office. + +For three tedious weeks Hooker heard no more of the book or of his +curious friend, the Colonel. The whole thing seemed like a tale woven +by Poe himself. + +Would the book, if it ever was secured, turn out to be a second edition +and worthless? Booklovers, after the strange manner of their kind, +only cherish the first, the earliest issue, in the same state as it +came from the master's hand, unrevised and with all the errors +uncorrected. They do not care for new and more elegant editions. +Hooker grew restless as the weeks rolled by, and still no Colonel. + +One morning, as he was looking over his mail, a gentleman was +announced. Then, tottering into the office, with his arm in a sling +and a patch over his left eye, came the gallant Colonel. + +"Why, Colonel, what's the matter?" + +"Nothing at all, sir." + +"But your arm and your--" + +"That's my affair, Mr. Hooker. I've come to secure the reward of my +labors. I've got the book," he said in triumph,--"I told you I'd get +it." + +"Where is it?" + +"Here in my pocket. Look at it. It's a superb copy!" + +The Colonel laid before the astonished eyes of Richard Hooker the +priceless first edition of Poe's marvelous story. It was in the +original brown printed wrappers, just as it was published. With +trembling hands he grasped the book; he turned the first page and +gasped. A startled cry broke from his lips. The Colonel at once +noticed his pallor. He did not dream that an old book would affect +even the most ardent bibliophile in this manner. In all his experience +of forty years he had never seen anyone so overcome at the sight of a +dingy pamphlet. + +There, upon the title-page, Hooker read the tender inscription written +many generations ago, with which the most imaginative of American poets +had presented his greatest story to his loving wife. It was his own +copy, returned like bread upon the waters. Hooker was speechless. He +went over to his check book and handed the Colonel the equivalent of +three thousand dollars. The Colonel retired, murmuring his thanks. + +The book lay upon Hooker's desk. Here was a new problem, worthy of M. +Dupin himself. Question after question came into his excited mind to +depart unanswered. Who had stolen it? and how? Why had it been taken? +How had Tomlinson secured it? and what, above all, had it to do with +Marie Perrin? + +Hooker remained there, gazing at the pamphlet for hours. It fascinated +him horribly. The luncheon hour went by and still he sat staring +intently at its faded covers. Would he ever solve the riddle? + +His mind was still at work on the problem when he was interrupted by +his secretary. + +"It's closing time, sir. Is there anything you want before I go?" + +"Nothing, John, thank you." + +The secretary turned to depart. He drew back suddenly! + +"The book! Mr. Hooker, the book! Where did you get _that_!" + +Robert Hooker looked at his confidential assistant. His face was the +color of the whitest parchment. His breath came in gasps and cold +drops of perspiration were visible upon his forehead. + +"I bought it to-day," said Hooker, quietly. "It once belonged to +me--and Marie Perrin." + +"She was my--" + +John Lawrence did not finish the sentence; his face was twitching and +he was evidently suffering from the keenest nervous excitement. + +"Tell me about it, John," said Hooker kindly. "You seem to know +something of it." + +"I do, Mr. Hooker. You'll forgive me, won't you? I didn't mean to do +anything wrong." + +"Why, what do you mean?" + +"Well, years ago, on your return from Europe, you questioned me about +that book. I was the only one who had access to the safe and knew the +combination. I told you I knew nothing about it--that perhaps it had +been mislaid before your departure for London. I lied, for I had taken +it. I'd no intention of stealing it; I did not even know it was +particularly valuable. I read the story one day when I was alone, with +no work to do. It was the best tale I'd ever read. I was absorbed by +it. I could not get the horrible plot out of my head." + +"Yes, John, go on. Where does Marie come in?" + +"I was engaged to her. I had known her for years. She came from +Montpelier, Vermont, where we both were born. One day I told her of +the story. She wanted to read it. Not thinking it any harm, I loaned +it to her. She stopped for it one evening on her way home. I never +saw her after that. I tried every way to find her, without avail. She +had disappeared from her rooms on Eighth Street and I never heard of +her again until the frightful news came out. Detectives came to see +me. My name was in the papers once or twice at the time, and the +questions they asked me were terrible. I proved an alibi; they had +fixed the crime on Tomlinson, who, unknown to me, was uppermost in her +affections. It was a bitter awakening. I've never been the same +since. I think of her every night of my life--I've now told you all +and I shall resign and leave you at once. You can have no more need of +me." + +"Stay, John. I forgive you. You've suffered enough. Go home--and +come down to-morrow, as usual." + +The book still lay upon the desk. This time he would take it home to +keep it in his library among his most valuable possessions. For surely +it was the most interesting copy of the "Murders in the Rue Morgue" in +existence! Hooker turned the leaves to see whether, after its +wanderings, all the pages were intact--"collating" it, as bibliophiles +love to term this delightful occupation. Yes, it was perfect--just as +when it had so mysteriously disappeared years ago. But, hold,--what +were the brown, reddish finger-marks on the back cover? Hooker did not +have to be told that it was the life-blood of poor Marie Perrin. + + + + +THE GREAT DISCOVERY + +He was considered by all his friends thrice a fool. First, he was +engaged to be married; second, he was a speculator in stocks; and +third, he was a book-lover. Some condoned the first offence, others +pardoned the second, which was considered a weakness, and all +universally condemned the last! + +John Libro had money on July 28th, 1914. On July 29 he did not possess +a cent. The War caused it all. When New Haven dropped to fifty and +Reading to seventy, John Libro's fortune shrank with them and he was +left high and dry with nothing but the advice of his friends, a little +jewelry, some clothing, and a few old books! + +Libro went home, made an inventory, and counted the change in his +pocket He was thirty-five years old, big, healthy, good-natured, and +irrepressible. Here he was face to face with starvation. He grimly +smiled, for it was at any rate a new experience. He sat down by the +little bookcase, forgot his cares and his creditors, and took out his +beloved friends. He tenderly fondled the first edition of Elia, dipped +into Beaumont and Fletcher, and took solace from the "Pleasures of +Memory." When he looked at his watch, it was eight o'clock. Two hours +had glided away in the company of his morocco-clad companions. + +It was then that he thought of Ethel. He would go to her at once and +unfold his story. He told her in a few words that he was ruined and +could not marry her. This made her more than ever determined to marry +him. She loved him and could not allow such a small thing as money to +interfere with their plans. The more he insisted, the more determined +she became. At last they reached a compromise--he would put the matter +squarely up to her father. Mr. Edwards was called from his study. + +"Mr. Edwards," he began, "I suppose you read of what happened to-day in +the stock-market--" + +"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Edwards replied quickly, "what of it?" + +"Well, I was long on New Haven and Reading--" + +"Speculating again, have you?" + +"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the +engagement until I spoke to you." + +"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing +for my daughter." + +"Perhaps some day when I go to work--" poor Libro pleaded. + +"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker +who _worked_!" + +Without another word they parted--and Libro returned to the +drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel. + +When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most +terrible thing in the world--it destroyed in a moment love and +happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool--for he was not +engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease +to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect +of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a +beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a +quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident +appealed to him. + +The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends, +who could do nothing "on account of the war." + +He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the +theatres--everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker. +Mr. Edwards was right! + +But he must live--the situation had become not so fantastic. He would +sell everything--his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing, +everything but his books. Those he would not part with. + +On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop--he had +passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half +of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry +had a huge white card on which ran some such legend--"Former price +$1,000--now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real +"business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their +patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times +and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper +covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a +first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of +heaven--he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but, +nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep. + +Two days later, with the courage of hunger, Libro visited the locality +of this American Mont de Piete. But he was again afraid to enter. He +seemed to see all his friends near him, watching him. He thought they +smiled when they acknowledged his trembling salute. Broadway seemed to +contain myriads of his acquaintances. He then thought with dread of +the interior of the place, with its poor, degraded, perhaps +half-clothed men and women, forced to pledge their last precious +possession. He walked away, but returned, laughing at his cowardice. +This was also to be a new experience. He resolved to walk quickly up +to the door and enter before anyone would notice him. + +He received a shock when he passed the portals. If he observed +acquaintances on the outside, here on the inside, he met _friends_! +All Wall Street seemed to be gathered. It was more like a meeting of +the Down Town Club. "Hello, Jack! Why, if that's not Libro!" and "The +Baby Member!" greeted him from all sides. Before the well-worn counter +was the flower of New York's financial set, pawning their diamonds and +their good-repute. The wire houses and the bucket shops and the +legitimate offices were all closed, and, by a marvelous change, as in +the twinkling of an eye, the principals, and not their customers, were +putting up "more margin!" + +John Libro entered properly into the spirit of the occasion. He +laughed with the others when one received $50 on a diamond ring that +cost two hundred. He roared in harmony with the crowd when one well +known Broadway habitue objected to the twelve dollars proffered on a +gold watch. It was all too funny for anything! It was now his turn. +He felt sick as he took from his tie an emerald pin, the gift of his +mother. + +"How much do you want on this?" asked the proprietor. It was a cold +voice which went through him like steel. He took an instant dislike to +this man who was the proprietor himself, Geoffrey Steinman, a king +among his brethren of this old and honorable profession. + +"Seventy-five dollars," said Libro. + +"This is no time for jokes," Steinman retorted. "I shall advance you +fifteen dollars, and not a cent more." + +"But it cost a hundred at Tiffany's!" + +"Fifteen dollars--my time is valuable." + +It was the same old story. John Libro received the money and departed. +He was bitter at the world and particularly at the cold, keen gentleman +who presided over the destinies of the shop with the glittering +windows. He grew bitter when his watch (his father's gift), his fob, +his gold card-case, his medals and finally his overcoat went into the +tiger's maw. And every time he remonstrated with him, cursed him, or +implored him, Steinman remained the same--heartless, brusque, cutting, +satirical and, what was worse than all, polite. "Damn his politeness," +gasped Libro--"I can do nothing at all with him when he is polite!" + +This hate ripened and broke out anew when each article was pawned. "If +I could only get even"--he exclaimed hopelessly. He had not a chance +in the world, he thought. For a thousand times he said goodby to a +dear memento of his parents or a remembrance of his youth. At last he +had pledged everything. + +Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages +to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went +to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all, +quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the +little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the +"Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He, +however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and +blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to +mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his +condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus. + +Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when +a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once +sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him! +He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his +soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh +of his own. + +But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the +precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was +he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He +gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume, +awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its +appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers. + +"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice +before. Not one cent!" + +"You,--you--" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He +would have killed him had he a weapon near. + +"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at +auction," exclaimed Libro. + +"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and +crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him. + +"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would +like to see this." + +Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist. +An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming +him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy +the book. He opened it. + +"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then +stopped suddenly. + +The proprietor was looking at him narrowly. Libro's heart had almost +stopped beating. There was the long lost quarto of "Titus Andronicus," +1594, and a perfect first edition of "Hamlet"! There were others in +the volume, a veritable treasure trove. It was, in truth, a great +discovery! + +"What's it worth?" said Steinman. + +"Something to a collector," replied Libro, honestly: "nothing to you." + +"Well, if you know anyone who wants the old thing he can have it for +ten dollars. I once advanced that amount on it. Since then I say, No +Books!" + +John Libro by a superhuman effort controlled himself. + +"Steinman, I need money for food. You already have everything valuable +I possess,--but this." + +He took from his finger a ring. It had been his mother's wedding ring. +It was the last that remained to him of his parents' legacy. + +"How much will you give me on this?" he said, trembling. His very life +depended upon Steinman's answer. He held his breath. + +"A little less than gold-value," said Steinman. He threw it carelessly +on the scales. + +"Ten dollars and thirty-seven cents." + +Without further ado Steinman counted out the money and Libro departed. +He, however, went out one door and came in by another. It was the +first time that he had entered the half of the establishment where the +unredeemed merchandise is sold. On this side he was a patron and not +to be patronized. + +"How much for that old book?" said Libro boldly. + +"Ten dollars," answered Steinman in a surprised tone. This was a new +dodge, a customer pledging one article to obtain money to purchase +another! + +It was Libro's turn now; but he was not used to the game. "I shall +give you five dollars. Not a cent more." + +"No. Ten dollars or nothing." + +"All right. I'll take it; wrap it up." + +He counted out the money and left. Steinman felt uneasy. He thought +he saw the flicker of an unholy smile on Libro's face, as he passed +through the swinging doors. + +It is almost unnecessary to state that Libro sold the book--the only +book he ever parted with--for a fabulous sum--more than its weight in +gold,--and for many thousands of dollars. A noted collector purchased +it immediately, and it is now the chief attraction of his wonderful +library. + +With the money jingling in his pocket he returned to the scene of his +former misery. He was to redeem his pledges with the broker's own +money. + +"Steinman," he said, "collect all my things. I shall pay what I owe +and take them with me." + +"I congratulate you, Mr. Libro, on your return to fortune," replied +Steinman affably. + +"I want to thank you, Steinman." + +"Thank me! Why?" + +"Because of the old book," said Libro, politely. "I sold it to-day for +thirty thousand dollars!" + + +In a joyous mood John Libro called upon Ethel Edwards. The story of +"the Shakespeare Find" was in the evening's papers. No one was more +glad to see him than Ethel's father, who welcomed him like an old +friend. That night he mused as he walked home: "I am no longer a +stock-broker, I am engaged to Ethel, and I can still collect books. I +_am_ a fool; and I glory in it!" + + + + +THE FIFTEEN JOYS OF MARRIAGE + +He was showing the distinguished guest through his magnificent library. +He exhibited with pride his treasures, telling an interesting tale +about this volume, and his merry adventures about that. In +glass-covered exhibition cases were displayed some of his greater +rarities and the colors of their morocco coverings gleamed and glowed +in the light. At one end of the spacious room was a case with bronze +mountings, and within reposed a volume bound in old olive levant, +powdered with the bees and other devices so often used by Nicolas Eve, +binder to his Majesty Francis the First. The visitor asked about the +volume that was so superbly housed, and begged Mr. Henry Stirling to +give its history. + +"Pray examine it," he replied, taking the volume with the greatest care +from the case. On its back, in letters of gold, mellowed by age, was +its title: "Les Quinze Joyes de Mariage." "Ah, that is indeed rare!" +exclaimed the visitor, "and its binding is marvelous. But hold, it is +rubbed in one corner. Some vandal did that! It is a shame such a +treasure should have been used so damnably!" + +"It is for that reason, sir," Stirling replied, "that it is my most +beloved volume. I value it above all the books in my library. This is +its history:-- + +"Some fifteen years ago I met at a house party a lady to whom I was +instantly attracted. She was handsome, with high coloring, and the +most glorious hair. We met often thereafter, and a year later she +became my wife. We lived for some time most happily together. +Occasionally we had petty disputes that always ended in a victory for +both of us! + +"About twelve years ago, attracted by a great book sale, I started to +form this library, which has been the passion of my life. I read all +the catalogues, became skilled in bibliography, lived in the bookshops; +spent all my time collating and going over my precious volumes. In the +evenings, instead of talking to my wife about the Ives' coming ball, or +a problem in bridge, or the newest shades of silk, I pored over the +catalogues which came to me from all parts of the world. My wife said +nothing at first, but when one bookcase was added to another, crowding +out the little Sheraton writing tables, and the bijou cabinets, she +objected mildly, 'Why bring all this trash into the house? And besides +you never read them. I suppose they don't cost you much. I loaned a +few to one of my friends yesterday.' + +"I winced; but said nothing. + +"Gradually I became absorbed in the pursuit. Other collectors--men +after my own heart--rich, and always wearing the oddest clothes--so my +good wife said--came to visit me. We would stay up far into the night +relating our experiences, telling wonderful stories of how we secured +our rarest volumes, and remarking about the prices, which seemed always +soaring! My wife knew at last that these old books cost a great deal +of money; that I would spend a hundred dollars for an old almanac or an +Aldus, while I objected to the forty dollars she paid for a hat. She +said she would stand it no longer. I remonstrated, but in vain. She +remarked that I had changed--that I no longer loved her. This was not +true; I loved her as I always did--but I would not allow anyone to +dictate to me. + +"However, I displayed no longer the little morocco things that I had +bought, but brought them home surreptitiously, placing them in the +corners of the bookcase. I concealed them in my newspaper of an +evening, or had them sent home when my wife was out shopping, or +visiting her friends. Sometimes she would catch me _flagrante +delicto_, as I would stealthily remove my beloved from its brown +wrapping-paper; or catch me napping with a first edition that she was +sure she had not seen before. + +"The situation grew intolerable. I could not bear to have some one who +had promised to obey me, taunting me at every turn, remorselessly +dropping an Elzevir on the floor, or shattering my nerves by insolently +showing me a receipted bill for a presentation copy of 'Endymion.' I +tried to be gentle with her, to reason with her, to tell her what a +scholarly thing I was doing,--but it was of no avail. She became +actually jealous of my books. She looked with distrust at every parcel +that arrived; she was suspicious of everything that had the +_appearance_ of a book. + +"At first she was only mildly oppressive; she now became severe, +scolding continually, making my life a burden. She said my love of +books was unnatural, wicked, unspeakable. I could stand it no longer; +I could not live with a woman who treated me in so cruel a way. When I +told her this she was docile at first, but the fire broke out anew at +some new victory of mine in the auction rooms, which one of my spiteful +friends told her about. Matthews was always jealous of me, because I +had more courage than he and snatched the uncut 'Comus' from him when +it was almost within his grasp. + +"I tried no longer to bear with my wife--she was a vixen, a mad woman, +a very devil. I resolved to divorce her--but on what grounds? I could +not think of a single charge that could be placed before a +jury,--American juries generally consisted of the most stupid and +unimaginative men. My wife said she ought to secure the action on the +grounds of infidelity,--that I loved my first folio of Shakespeare more +than I did her! + +"Things came to a climax at last. The famous library of Richard +Appleton was to be sold at auction. I was intensely excited, as you +can imagine. I read the catalogue item by item, word by word. I +marked with ink the things I most _needed_ and determined to buy a few +exquisite volumes even at the risk of bankruptcy. And there was 'Les +Quinze Joyes de Mariage,' the first edition in the superb binding made +by Nicolas Eve for Diane de Poitiers. I had resolved to purchase it +many years ago when Appleton wrested it from me at the Amherst sale. I +had even waited for his death knowing it would again come upon the +market. I resolved to have it at all costs. The eventful day arrived. +I went to the rooms in person. The little volume started at one +hundred dollars and rose to three thousand. It was already beyond my +means. I just had to have it. I nodded. There was no other bid. + +"I drew my check for the amount and carried it home. I was reading it +in the library when my wife entered. I casually, in an unconcerned +way, although my heart was trembling, placed it on the table. I looked +at my wife. Her eyes were flashing. She held the evening paper on +which I could read the headlines.--'Rare Book brings $3010.' + +"I knew the storm was coming. She said I was an ingrate, a dissipater +of her fortune, a fool, a heartless villain, a-- + +"She went no further. + +"I grabbed the first thing at hand,--it was 'The Fifteen Joys of +Marriage,'--and threw it at her head. It struck her arm and fell upon +the floor. When I stooped to pick it up, noticing the poor, bruised, +broken corner, I looked about. My wife was gone. + +"The next day she served me with the papers for the divorce which is +now a _cause celebre_. + +"At last I was free!" + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Unpublishable Memoirs, by A. S. W. 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