One day three persons were standing before an old book-stall in a passage
leading from Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road. Two were gentlemen;
the third, of the class and appearance of those who more habitually halt at
old book-stalls.
"Look," said one of the gentlemen to the other, "I have discovered here
what I have searched for in vain the last ten years--the Horace of 1580,
the Horace of the Forty Commentators--a perfect treasury of learning, and
marked only fourteen shillings!"
"Hush, Norreys," said the other, "and observe what is yet more worth your
study;" and he pointed to the third bystander, whose face, sharp and
attenuated, was bent with an absorbed, and as it were with a hungering
attention over an old worm-eaten volume.
"What is the book, my Lord?" whispered Mr. Norreys.
His companion smiled, and replied by another question, "What is the man who
reads the book?"
Mr. Norreys moved a few paces, and looked over the student's shoulder.
"Preston's translation of BOETHIUS, _The Consolations of Philosophy_," he
said, coming back to his friend.
"He looks as if he wanted all the consolations Philosophy can give him,
poor boy."
At this moment a fourth passenger paused at the book-stall, and,
recognizing the pale student, placed his hand on his shoulder and said,
"Aha, young sir, we meet again. So poor Prickett is dead. But you are still
haunted by associations. Books--books--magnets to which all iron minds move
insensibly. What is this? BOETHIUS! Ah, a book written in prison, but a
little time before the advent of the only philosopher who solves to the
simplest understanding every mystery of life----"
"And that philosopher----"
"Is Death!" said Mr. Burley. "How can you be dull enough to ask? Poor
Boethius, rich, nobly born, a consul, his sons consuls--the world one smile
to the Last Philosopher of Rome. Then suddenly, against this type of the
old world's departing WISDOM, stands frowning the new world's grim genius,
FORCE--Theodoric the Ostrogoth condemning Boethius the Schoolman; and
Boethius, in his Pavian dungeon, holding a dialogue with the shade of
Athenian Philosophy. It is the finest picture upon which lingers the
glimmering of the Western golden day, before night rushes over time."
"And," said Mr. Norreys abruptly, "Boethius comes back to us with the faint
gleam of returning light, translated by Alfred the Great. And, again, as
the sun of knowledge bursts forth in all its splendor, by Queen Elizabeth.
Boethius influences us as we stand in this passage; and that is the best of
all the Consolations of Philosophy--eh, Mr. Burley?"
Mr. Burley turned and bowed.
The two men looked at each other; you could not see a greater contrast. Mr.
Burley, his gay green dress already shabby and soiled, with a rent in the
skirts, and his face speaking of habitual night-cups. Mr. Norreys, neat and
somewhat precise in dress, with firm lean figure, and quiet, collected,
vigorous energy in his eyes and aspect.
"If," replied Mr. Burley, "a poor devil like me may argue with a gentleman
who may command his own price with the booksellers, I should say it is no
consolation at all, Mr. Norreys. And I should like to see any man of sense
accept the condition of Boethius in his prison, with some strangler or
headsman waiting behind the door, upon the promised proviso that he should
be translated, centuries afterwards, by Kings and by Queens, and help
indirectly to influence the minds of Northern barbarians, babbling about
him in an alley, jostled by passers-by who never heard the name of
Boethius, and who don't care a fig for philosophy. Your servant,
sir,--young man, come and talk."
Burley hooked his arm within Leonard's, and led the boy passively away.
"That is a clever young man," said Harley L'Estrange. "But I am sorry to
see yon young student, with his bright earnest eyes, and his lip that has
the quiver of passion and enthusiasm, leaning on the arm of a guide who
seems disenchanted of all that gives purpose to learning and links
philosophy with use to the world. Who, and what is this clever man whom you
call Burley?"
"A man who might have been famous, if he had condescended to be
respectable! The boy listening to us both so attentively interested _me_
too--I should like to have the making of him. But I must buy this Horace."
The shopman, lurking within his hole like a spider for flies, was now
called out. And when Mr. Norreys had bought the Horace, and given an
address where to send it, Harley asked the shopman if he knew the young man
who had been reading Boethius.
"Only by sight. He has come here every day the last week, and spends hours
at the stall. When once he fastens on a book, he reads it through."
"And never buys?" said Mr. Norreys.
"Sir," said the shopman, with a good-natured smile, "they who buy seldom
read. The poor boy pays me twopence a-day to read as long as he pleases. I
would not take it, but he is proud."
"I have known men amass great learning in that way," said Mr. Norreys.
"Yes, I should like to have that boy in my hands. And now, my lord, I am at
your service, and we shall go to the studio of your artist."
The two gentlemen walked on towards one of the streets out of Fitzroy
Square.
In a few minutes more Harley L'Estrange was in his element, seated
carelessly on a deal table, smoking his cigar, and discussing art with the
gusto of a man who honestly loved, and the taste of a man who thoroughly
understood it. The young artist, in his dressing robe, adding slow touch
upon touch, paused often to listen the better. And Henry Norreys, enjoying
the brief respite from a life of great labor, was gladly reminded of idle
hours under rosy skies; for these three men had formed their friendship in
Italy, where the bands of friendship are woven by the hands of the Graces.