

















[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 'Cæsar.'"

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 Cæsar'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 mediæval
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!"












