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,
recognising 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 splendour, 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 eye
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 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 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 will 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 labour, 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.