Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: THE BIBLIOFIENDS. DRAWN BY OLIVER HERFORD]
THE
UNPUBLISHABLE
MEMOIRS
BY A. S. W. ROSENBACH
NEW YORK
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
MCMXVII
COPYRIGHT 1917 BY
MITCHELL KENNERLEY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
BINGHAMTON - - NEW YORK
TO
R. R.
CONTENTS
The Unpublishable Memoirs
The Three Trees
The Purple Hawthorn
The Disappearance of Shakespeare
The Colonial Secretary
In Defence of His Name
"The Hundred and First Story"
The Lady of the Breviary
The Evasive Pamphlet
The Great Discovery
The Fifteen Joys of Marriage
THE UNPUBLISHABLE MEMOIRS
It was very cruel.
He was dickering for one of the things he had desired for a life-time.
It was in New York at one of the famous book-stores of the metropolis.
The proprietor had offered to him for one hundred and sixty
dollars--exactly the amount he had in bank--the first and only edition
of the "Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel, a little volume issued
in London in 1790, and one of two copies known, the other being in the
famous "hidden library" of the British Museum.
It was a scandalous chronicle of fashionable life in the eighteenth
century, and many brilliant names were implicated therein;
distinguished and reputable families, that had long been honored in the
history of England, were ruthlessly depicted with a black and venomous
pen. He had coveted this book for years, and here it was within his
grasp! He had just told the proprietor that he would take it.
Robert Hooker was a book-collector. With not a great deal of money, he
had acquired a few of the world's most sought-after treasures. He had
laboriously saved his pennies, and had, with the magic of the
bibliophile, turned them into rare volumes! He was about to put the
evil little book into his pocket when he was interrupted.
A large, portly man, known to book-lovers the world over, had entered
the shop and asked Mr. Rodd if he might examine the Beau Brummel
Memoirs. He had looked at it before, he said, but on that occasion had
merely remarked that he would call again. He saw the volume on the
table in front of Hooker, picked it up without ceremony, and told the
owner of the shop that he would purchase it.
"Excuse me," exclaimed Hooker, "but I have just bought it."
"What!" said the opulent John Fenn, "I came especially to get it."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenn," returned the proprietor, "Mr. Hooker, here, has
just said that he would take it."
"Now, look here, Rodd, I've always been a good customer of yours. I've
spent thousands in this very shop during the last few years. I'll give
you two hundred dollars for it."
"No," said Rodd.
"Three hundred!" said Fenn.
"No."
"Four hundred!"
"No."
"I'll give you five hundred dollars for it, and if you do not take it,
I shall never enter this place again!"
Without another word Rodd nodded, and Fenn quickly grasped the little
book, and placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. Hooker became
angry and threatened to take it by bodily force. A scuffle ensued.
Two clerks came to the rescue, and Fenn departed triumphantly with the
secrets of the noble families of Great Britain securely in his
possession.
Rodd, in an ingratiating manner, declared to Hooker that no money had
passed between them, and consequently there had been no sale. Hooker,
disappointed, angry, and beaten, could do nothing but retire.
At home, among his books, his anger increased. It was the old, old
case of the rich collector gobbling up the small one. It was
outrageous! He would get even--if it cost him everything. He dwelt
long and bitterly upon his experience. A thought struck him. Why not
prey upon the fancies of the wealthy! He would enter the lists with
them; he would match his skill against their money, his knowledge
against their purse.
Hooker was brought up in the mystic lore of books, for he was the son
of a collector's son. He had always been a student, and half his time
had been spent in the bookseller's shops, dreaming of the wonderful
editions of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of rare Ben Jonson, that some day
he might call his own. He would now secure the priceless things
dearest to the hearts of men, at no cost to himself!
He would not limit his choice to books, which were his first love, but
he would help himself to the fair things that have always delighted the
soul,--pictures, like those of Raphael and da Vinci; jewels, like
Cellini's; little bronzes, like Donatello's; etchings of Rembrandt; the
porcelains (True Ming!) of old China; the rugs of Persia the
magnificent!
The idea struck him at first as ludicrous and impossible. The more he
thought of it, the more feasible it became. He had always been a good
mimic, a fair amateur actor, a linguist, and a man of parts. He
possessed scholarly attainments of a high order. He would use all of
his resources in the game he was about to play. For nothing deceives
like education!
And it had another side--a brighter, more fantastic side. Think of the
fun he would get out of it! This appealed to him. Not only could he
add to his collections the most beautiful treasures of the world, but
he would now taste the keenest of joys--he would laugh and grow fat at
the other man's expense. It was always intensely humorous to observe
the discomfiture of others.
With particular pleasure Hooker read that evening in the _Post_ this
insignificant paragraph:
"John Fenn, President of the Tenth National Bank of Chicago, departs
for home to-night."
He laid the paper down immediately, telephoned to the railroad office
for a reservation in the sleeping-car leaving at midnight, and prepared
for his first "banquet." Hooker shaved off his moustache, changed his
clothes and his accent, and took the train for Chicago.
As luck would have it, John Fenn was seated next to him in the
smoking-car, reading the evening papers. Hooker took from his pocket a
book catalogue, issued by one of the great English auction houses. He
knew that was the best bait! No book-lover that ever lived could
resist dipping into a sale catalogue.
Hooker waited an hour--it seemed like five. Fenn read every word in
the papers, even the advertisements. He dwelt long and lovingly over
the financial pages, running his eyes up and down the columns of
"to-day's transactions." He at last finished the perusal, and glanced
at Hooker. He said nothing for awhile, and appeared restless, like a
man with money weighing on his mind. This, of course, is a very
distracting and unpleasant feeling. Several times he seemed on the
verge of addressing his fellow-traveller, but desisted from the
attempt. Finally he said:
"I see, friend, that you're reading one of Sotheby's catalogues."
"Yes," answered Hooker, shortly.
"You must be interested in books," pursued Fenn.
"Yes," was the brief response.
"Do you collect them?"
"Yes."
Fenn said nothing for five minutes. The stranger did not appear to be
very communicative.
"Pardon me, Mr.----, I am also a book-collector. I have quite a fine
library of my own."
"Really?"
"Yes, I always visit the shops when I go to New York. Here is a rarity
I picked up to-day."
The stranger expressed little interest until Fenn took from his pocket
the "Unpublishable Memoirs." It was wrapped neatly in paper, and Fenn
carefully removed the little volume from the wrappings. He handed it
to the man who perused so assiduously the auction catalogue.
"How extraordinary!" he cried, "the lost book of old Brummel. My
people were acquainted with the Beau. I suppose they are grilled right
merrily in it! Of all places, how did you come to purchase it in the
States?"
"That's quite a story. A queer thing how I bought it. I saw it the
other day at Rodd's on Fifth Avenue. I did not buy it at first--the
price was too high. Thought I would be able to buy it later for less.
This morning, I went to see Rodd to make an offer on it, when I found
that Rodd had just sold it to some young student. The confounded
simpleton said it belonged to him! What did that trifler know about
rare books? Now _I_ know how to appreciate them."
"Naturally!" said the stranger.
"I've the finest collection in the West. I had to pay a stiff advance
before the proprietor would let me have it. It was a narrow
squeak,--by about a minute. The young jackass tried to make a scene,
but I taught him a thing or two. He'll not be so perky next time. How
my friends will enjoy this story of the killing. I can't wait until I
get home."
The stranger with the freshly-shaven face, the English clothes, and the
austere eyes did not seem particularly pleased.
"How extraordinary!" he said, coldly, and returned to his reading.
Fenn placed the book in his pocket, a pleased expression on his face,
as if he were still gloating over his conquest. He was well satisfied
with his day, so intellectually spent among the banks and bookshops of
New York!
"By the way, I am acquainted with this Rodd," said the Englishman,
after a pause. "He told me a rather interesting story the other day,
but it was in a way a boomerang. I don't like that man's methods.
I'll never buy a book from him."
"Why not?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Fenn.
"Well, you'd better hear the tale. It appears he has a wealthy client
in Chicago and he occasionally goes out to sell him some of his
plunder. He did not tell me the name of his customer, but, according
to Rodd, he is an ignoramus and knows nothing at all about books.
Thinks it improves his social position. You know the type. Last
winter Rodd picked up for fifty dollars a beautifully illuminated copy
of Magna Charta issued about a hundred years ago. It's a fine volume,
printed on vellum, the kind that Dibdin raved about, but always
considered a 'plug' in England. Worth about forty guineas at the most.
You know the book?"
Fenn nodded.
"Well, it worried Mr. Rodd how much he could ask his Western patron for
it. He left for Chicago via Philadelphia and while he was waiting in
the train there he thought he could ask two hundred dollars for it.
The matter was on his mind until he arrived at Harrisburg, where he
determined that three hundred would be about right. At Pittsburgh he
raised the price to five hundred, and at Canton, Ohio, it was seven
hundred and fifty! The more Rodd thought of the exquisite beauty of
the volume, of its glowing colors and its lovely old binding, the more
the price soared. At Fort Wayne, Indiana, it was a thousand dollars.
When he arrived at Chicago the next morning, his imagination having had
full swing, he resolved he would not under any circumstances part with
it for less than two thousand dollars!"
"The old thief!" exclaimed Fenn, with feeling.
"It was a lucky thing," continued the stranger, "that his client did
not live in San Francisco!"
At this Fenn broke forth into profanity.
"I always said that Rodd was an unprincipled, unholy, unmitigated--"
"Wait until you hear the end, sir," said the Englishman.
"That afternoon he called on the Western collector. He had an
appointment with him at two o'clock. He left Rodd waiting in an
outside office for hours. Rodd told me he was simply boiling. Went
all the way to Chicago by special request and the brute made him cool
his heels until four o'clock before he condescended to see him. He
would pay dearly for it. When Rodd showed him the blooming book he
asked three thousand five hundred for it--would not take a penny
less--and he told me, sir, that he actually sold it for that price!"
"Don't you believe it," said Fenn, hotly. "Old Rodd is an unqualified
liar. He sold it for five thousand dollars. That's what he did, the
damn pirate!"
"How do you know, sir?"
"How do I know, _know, know_!" he repeated, excitedly. "I _ought_ to
know! I'm the fool that bought it!"
Without another word Fenn retired to his stateroom.
The next morning when Fenn arrived at his office in the Fenn Building,
he called to one of his business associates, who, like his partner, was
interested in the acquisition of rare and unusual books.
"I say, Ogden, I have something great to show you. Picked it up
yesterday. In this package is the wickedest little book ever written!"
"Let me see it!" said Mr. Ogden, eagerly.
Fenn gingerly removed the paper in which it was wrapped, as he did not
wish to injure the precious contents. He turned suddenly pale. Ogden
glanced quickly at the title-page for fear he would be seen with the
naughty little thing in his hands.
It was a very ordinary volume, entitled, "A Sermon on Covetousness, a
Critical Exposition of the Tenth Commandment by the Rev. Charles
Wesley."
"The devil!" exclaimed John Fenn.
"How the old dodge works," said Robert Hooker to himself on his way
back to New York. "The duplicate package, known since the days of
Adam! And how easy it was to substitute it under his very eyes! I
shall call Beau Brummel's 'Unpublishable Memoirs' number _one_ in my
new library."
THE THREE TREES
In the famous cabinet of John Bull Stevens was a superb impression of
Rembrandt's celebrated etching, "The Three Trees." It was the only
copy known in what print collectors chose to term "the first state."
This exquisite work of art had only recently been discovered in
Amsterdam by a world-renowned critic, and promptly sold at a fabulous
price to the American enthusiast. It had several lines from right to
left in the middle tree that had never been noticed in any other copy;
the etching, according to the earlier authorities, had existed in but
one state.
To the uninitiated all this disturbance about a few lines on the trunk
of a tree seemed unintelligible and ridiculous, but to the print
collectors it was considered a magnificent "find," ranking with the
discovery of electricity or the Roentgen rays. Periodicals devoted to
the fine arts published many profound articles about the unique "Three
Trees," and one of them suggested that such an extraordinary treasure
should repose in a museum, where the art-loving public would have an
opportunity to enjoy its marvelous beauty; it was a crime that it
should be locked away forever in a private residence.
Robert Hooker was reading this one evening in the "Art Journal" when a
thought came to him. Why not add this immortal work of Rembrandt's to
his museum, which at that time existed only in his mind? Why not
appropriate this etching and place it securely under lock and key,
awaiting the time when it would be freely offered to the gaze of the
public in an institution to be proudly called after his name?
He had already some tangible things to put therein,--the famous
"Unpublishable Memoirs" of Beau Brummel from the Fenn collection; the
"Kann" rug; and a few other wonderful curiosities that he had
"borrowed" from celebrated amateurs as the nucleus of a loan collection
in his mythical museum. The "Three Trees" should, by right, bloom in
his own fair garden.
John Bull Stevens was unapproachable. He did not show his things. He
gloated over them alone, in the most selfish, wicked manner, in his
dark old mansion on lower Fifth Avenue. Admission was denied to
everyone, except a few intimate friends; no one could see the originals
of some of the world's masterpieces.
Art institutes pestered him with requests to examine this or that;
celebrated students everywhere clamored for a view of Whistler's
portrait of John Bull himself, or Gilbert Stuart's more celebrated
portrait of John Bull's grandfather. When curtly refused admission to
his galleries, extraordinary letters were written him, full of caustic
and delightful epithets, which had not the slightest effect upon him.
It was said he had no conception of the universality of art, which
includes kings and paupers,--wicked, rich collectors and virtuous, poor
students!
To make himself appear more human, John Bull Stevens at last determined
to publish a catalogue raisonne of his pictures, his drawings, his
etchings and his engravings. He thought a beautiful reproduction or
facsimile would be as satisfying to the critics as a view of the
original.
Robert Hooker, for one, did not agree with him.
The catalogue was duly announced, to be published within the year and
presented to the museums and libraries of this country and Europe.
Photographers and printers, art writers and reviewers were employed to
get up the sumptuous work.
Hooker suddenly became imbued with a passion for photography; he became
intimate with the distinguished artist who was to take the pictures of
the Stevens collection.
Hooker became so much interested in his new work that he offered his
services as an assistant, without pay of course. It was just for the
experience. Nothing more.... Hooker spent one whole morning in the
Stevens' residence helping the celebrated photographer. They were to
take negatives that day of the portfolio of seventeenth century
etchings. John Bull was there of course, suspicious and watchful. The
photograph of the "Three Trees" was made the exact size of the superb
original.
When this had been successfully accomplished, Hooker, the careless
assistant, seemingly nervous in the presence of the great collector,
let fall the frame that held the great etching; the glass was shattered
and Stevens swore as many picturesque and artistic curses as there were
fragments upon the floor. The assistant was properly rebuked and as
quickly dismissed; the unfortunate Hooker offered sixty cents to pay
for the shattered glass,--which was promptly accepted! He departed,
covered with ignominy under the glances of the angry Stevens.
That evening a plate was made from the negative by a new intaglio
process. All that night on the top floor of a dingy building on
Thirty-ninth Street engravers worked on the copper, bringing out the
excellencies of a famous etching; old paper with the watermark of 1631
had been procured and all that remained to be done was the printing.
By noon the next day a facsimile had been made, beautiful as the
original itself, as poetic and as glorious as the veritable "Three
Trees."
But what was to be done with it, now that it had been created, a true
brother of the original? The fertile brain of Robert Hooker had long
before conceived the answer. The clumsy photographer's assistant had
deftly dropped the frame with practiced skill, leaving the etching
untouched, the glass alone being injured. There is even an art in
_dropping_ a picture!
But before the disgraced apprentice departed he had heard Stevens give
directions to a faithful servant: "Take _that_ carefully to Kemble's.
See that a new glass is put on it and returned to me to-morrow, without
fail!"
The next morning Hooker happened to stroll into the picture galleries,
known everywhere as "Kemble's," and actually purchased something,
paying for it with real money. It came hard with him, for he no longer
liked to buy things in what he termed "the ordinary way."
He purchased for sixty dollars a little etching by D. Y. Cameron, and,
strange to say, not a frame in that great establishment suited him.
One was too brown or too "antique," or not the right width; the
salesman, who was a good fellow, became irritated. A whole hour wasted
over a three dollar frame. He gave vent to his pent-up feelings by
being excruciatingly polite, which is rude. He suggested that as Mr.
Hooker did not see anything to suit his fastidious taste among the
thousands of mouldings already shown, perhaps he would like to look
through the samples in the workshop? Hooker reluctantly consented, and
there among the old and new frames, in the company of gilders, fitters
and mat-makers he carefully made a suitable selection.
Of course the "Three Trees" was there. Its light could not be
concealed--its beauty spoke to Hooker from a far corner. This
masterpiece of the etcher's art was lying on a table awaiting the glass
that was to guard and watch over it. The substitution was quickly and
quietly made. The little Rembrandt was carefully, nay tenderly, placed
in a commodious side-pocket of Hooker's coat; the treacherous younger
brother was left upon the work-table, where it would shine by a false
light--the light of the faithless, the reflected brilliancy of the
wicked.
When the great museum was founded some years later, when it was
acclaimed as one of the art institutes of the world, when great
scholars extolled it, and poets sang of it, a list of its treasures was
published which amazed the critics of two continents. Collectors in
England, in France, in New York, were astounded!
Mr. Stevens read with envy that it contained the only copy known of the
first state of Rembrandt's "Three Trees." "Another newspaper canard!
An infernal lie! A senseless fabrication!" he exclaimed. _His_ was
the only one; he did not believe another would ever come to light.
He would examine his own again. He took the etching carefully from the
wall. What was the faint blur--was it a line at the bottom? It seemed
strange, for he had not noticed it before. He would get his magnifying
glass. He read, in microscopic letters: "Facsimile from the unique
original in the Hooker Museum."
THE PURPLE HAWTHORN
When the Appleton collection of Chinese porcelains was purchased _en
bloc_ by a well-known house doing business on Fifth Avenue, the
celebrated purple hawthorn vase was considered the most precious of all.
It was a large vase dating from the seventeenth century, and according
to eminent authorities, it was of the great Ch'ing Dynasty with the
curious marks of the period known as K'ang-hsi.
The vase itself was very lovely; it was oviform with a graceful,
flaring neck. The exquisite design showed a dwarfed mei tree with the
most beautiful purple blossoms, with rare foliage and gorgeous birds
painted by a great, although unknown, artist. The glazing was superb,
being transparent and of unusual brilliancy.
This noble work of art was valued at two hundred thousand dollars.
Three men of vast wealth competed for the prize, and the lucky
purchaser was the eminent banker, John T. Sterling. Two financiers,
known the world over, grew purple with jealousy when they first
discovered that it was to go into the Sterling collection. Their faces
resembled the color of the wonderful blossoms on the hawthorn vase.
Robert Hooker wanted to add to his museum this precious gift of the old
Chinese gods. At the various places where the vase had been exhibited,
he had often been seen gazing covetously at it. When it was offered
for sale, he knew it was useless to ask the price--which was utterly
beyond him.
One day, Hooker read in the society columns of the _Herald_ that Jasper
Foster was going to take up his residence in Italy on account of the
illness of his only daughter. He intended to sell his fine old house
on 17th Street, and all the furniture that it contained.
Now Jasper Foster was celebrated for one thing only. His name was
known to fame but for a single object. He was the owner of the mate of
the celebrated purple hawthorn vase in the Appleton collection.
Foster was an extremely modest, unworldly, retiring gentleman. In the
last fifteen years there had been many inquiries about the vase, and
numerous offers to purchase it, but he had always declined to part with
it. It had been the property of his father and his grandfather, who
had bought it from a sea-captain about the year 1820.
But now Foster was in dire straits. His house was mortgaged, and his
daughter was ill with a malady that required a milder climate than New
York. It was on this account that he was going to take up his
residence in sunny Italy.
As soon as Hooker read the brief paragraph in the newspaper, he hurried
to the rather imposing house on lower 17th Street. With fear and
trembling, he rang the old-fashioned bell-pull.
Yes, Mr. Foster was at home.
The maid showed Mr. Hooker into the first parlor. He heard voices in
an adjoining room. Mr. Foster then had other visitors.
To pass away the time, he picked up a magazine but put it down
instantly. He had heard the magic words "purple hawthorn." Some one
else was before him. He would find out.
Going behind an old Spanish leather screen, he listened. He looked
through the aperture, and beheld two men, well-known in the world of
finance. One was John T. Sterling; the other was James Thatcher, the
celebrated collector.
Mr. Foster was not there. It was early in the morning, and perhaps he
had not completed his toilet.
"Hello!--You here?" said one voice.
"Check-mated!" exclaimed the other.
"Damn it! I never expected to see you."
"Of course not. I know your mission. We had better see Foster
together."
"No, I came first. I claim the privilege of the first interview!"
"No! I shall speak out. There is no use for us to bid against each
other. It would spoil the market! I'm sure we can come to some
agreement."
"No! I own the Appleton vase, and by right I should possess the other.
It would make the finest pair of vases in the world! It will look
magnificent in my house on Fifth Avenue."
"Don't be a hog--Foster does not know its value. He was offered five
thousand dollars for it after the Mary J. Morgan sale in 1886. If we
offer him fifteen thousand he will think it a gold mine. You know he
needs the money. If you offer more he will become suspicious."
"I suppose we both can't have it. We'll toss for it! that is when the
business details are over. You make an offer of ten--and then fifteen,
or more, if necessary. Your hand upon it! Play fair--this is not the
stock-market!"
The two eminent financiers grasped hands. An instant later Mr. Foster
entered.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen."
"Not at all, Mr. Foster," replied Sterling. "We read in the papers you
were going to Italy, and thought you would like to dispose of some of
your curiosities. May we look around?"
"Certainly. I would like to sell some of the things. I hate to do it.
But to be frank with you the illness of my daughter has proved a great
expense. I'm forced to sell out."
The two gentlemen looked around. One purchased a satsuma vase for a
hundred dollars--seventy-five more than it was worth! The other, after
much consideration, bought an East Indian brass bowl for fifty
dollars--an extravagant price. They seemed to ignore the beautiful
vase in a glass cabinet in the corner. They were unconscious of its
existence!
"I have something really fine, gentlemen--the hawthorn vase purchased
by my grandfather. You know about it?"
"I heard something of it once--but I've forgotten all about it. I
would be glad to look at the vase."
They bent their heads. A thrill ran through them as they beheld the
wonderful purple and the perfect glaze.
"That's not bad. Of course, its shape might be better. People,
nowadays, want the green or black. I have a beautiful famille rose.
What do you want for it?"
"I've never looked at it in that way. What's it worth to you? Some
years ago I had a good offer on it. But I didn't need the money then."
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I don't want to be small about it.
I'll give you ten thousand cash."
Mr. Foster was visibly affected.
"That is a good price. But I need more than that to see me settled in
my little villa in Tuscany. What is your very best offer?"
"I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars, and not a cent more. And
that's a mighty liberal offer."
"Well, that's all right. I'll let you know to-morrow."
"Why not now?"
"I want to consult my daughter, Caroline."
"Well, I'll not hold my offer open another day. I'll be here to-morrow
morning at this time. Please don't keep me waiting. You know I'm a
very busy man."
They paid Mr. Foster for their wares, and passed out; one with an old
vase, and the other with a brass bowl in his hands.
"I think we've got him!" Hooker overheard one of them say, as the two
passed by him in the dimly-lighted room.
Yes. Worse luck. Hooker knew it was useless to make other offers. He
had not the bank account to compete with the famous connoisseurs that
had just left. And he knew Mr. Foster was a gentleman of the old
school, and would not use one offer to secure a better one.
"Good morning, Mr. Foster."
"Why have I the honor of this visit?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I read in the _Herald_ that you were going to
move. I would like to know at what price you hold this house and lot?"
"Well, I'd sell cheap. Properties in this section are not worth what
they once were. It is assessed at seventy thousand dollars. There is
a mortgage on it of sixty. I'd take seventy-five for it. This section
is too antiquated for residences, and business is moving uptown.
"But I want it for a residence. May I look through it?"
"Of course!"
Hooker examined all the rooms, noted the old-fashioned plumbing, and
said that the whole house needed a thorough going-over.
"Well--I think I'll take it," he said at last. "Do you want the old
furniture? I would sooner buy it furnished, that is, if I could buy it
at a price!"
This was a golden opportunity for poor Foster. To sell his house with
its worn furniture and the vase, in a single day was an achievement!
"I would sell the house and contents entire for eighty-five thousand
dollars. I must exempt one vase, however. I've just been offered
fifteen thousand dollars for it."
"Not for a single vase?"
"Yes, would you like to see it?"
"It's not much use. But I'm naturally curious."
Mr. Foster, with great dignity, showed the beautiful hawthorn vase. It
gleamed silently in the glass case.
"What! Fifteen thousand for _that_! Perhaps, if it is really worth
anything like that, I can afford to speculate. I might obtain a better
offer on it. I'll give you ninety-five thousand dollars for the house
and its entire furnishings."
"No. The lowest is one hundred thousand."
"Done! I'll take a chance. Give me an agreement of sale, and the
matter's ended!"
Robert Hooker had a white elephant on his hands. The house was really
worth but the value of the mortgage, and the furniture scarcely five
thousand dollars.
What was he to do? Thirty-five thousand dollars was a great deal for a
poor man to give for a vase....
He removed the vase that afternoon to his own modest apartment and
requested Mr. Foster to refer any one interested in its purchase to him.
At ten o'clock next morning, he had an unusual visitor at his flat in
West Eighty-ninth Street. John T. Sterling had called to see him.
Hooker went into the living-room, visibly embarrassed in the presence
of the great man.
"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I'll state my business quickly. Mr. Foster
tells me you purchased yesterday his house and furniture. Now I'd like
to buy it, if it's in the market. I think I could turn it into a
garage. I need one in that neighborhood. I'll give you ten percent
more than it cost you."
"No--not at all. I'll tell you what I'll do. If you give me one
hundred and fifteen thousand for the house and its contents, _as it is
now_, I shall call it a bargain. It'll be a quick turn."
"All right. We'll go down to my attorney's at once and draw up a bill
of sale. The entire contents of the house as it is this moment, mind
you. Come right along. You know I'm a very busy man!"
"That's known everywhere!" said Hooker, with a flattering smile.
On Fifth Avenue, that afternoon:
"Done! by God! and by a mere kid!"
On Eighty-ninth Street, that evening:
"_That_ will make the Hooker Museum famous!"
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SHAKESPEARE
Booklovers have considered the little volume presented by Francis Bacon
to William Shakespeare the most glorious book in the world. It
remained for many years in the British Museum, and many a pilgrimage
has been made to worship at its shrine.
It was deposited in the Museum in 1838 by the Hedley family of Crawford
Manor, and had been in the National Library for so long a time that it
was considered the property of the nation.
The book itself was of great rarity as it was no other than the first
edition of Bacon's "Essayes" published in London in 1597. It bore the
following inscription written upon one of the fly-leaves:
To my perfect Friend Mr. Wylliam Shakespeare I give this booke as an
eternall Witnesse of my love.
FRA. BACON.
In 1908 the Hedley family were in financial straits. It was discovered
that the copy of Bacon's Essays had not been presented to the British
Museum but merely deposited as a loan. The Museum tried its best to
retain the precious volume, but the records were clear upon the point.
In December, 1909, the Hedleys stated that they would sell it to the
Museum for L40,000 or fifty thousand dollars less than had been offered
for it.
An unknown collector would give two hundred and fifty thousand dollars
for it!
The newspapers inaugurated a public subscription to keep the volume in
England, claiming that its loss could never be estimated as it was the
most precious memorial in existence of the golden age of English
literature.
It was suspected, of course, that it would go to America.
After six months, it was found impossible to collect the money
required. There was, apparently, but little interest in things of a
literary and artistic nature. If it had been for a new battleship
costing twenty times this amount, the money would have been forthcoming
instantly.
It was finally announced in the London papers that the celebrated
collector, William S. Fields of New York, was the fortunate purchaser
of the world-famed volume. The news was heralded the world over.
When it arrived, Robert Hooker, an intelligent, but by no means
wealthy, bibliophile, made a request to see it; to hold within his
mortal hands this magnificent relic of the two great Elizabethans.
"No!" was Fields' curt response.
It had been rumored that Robert Hooker was founding a museum in some
unknown spot--but where the money was to come from was a mystery.
It appeared that the Bacon-Shakespeare volume was locked up in a steel
vault in the Fields' residence, guarded by an approved time-lock and
other interesting features. The book was never to be removed from the
safe, unless in the presence of the owner and a trusted servant.
Robert Hooker was extremely desirous of adding this treasure to his
mythical museum! He said it was an outrage that one man, on account of
the accident of great wealth, should become the sole possessor of it.
It was a shock to public decency! It should repose, as it had for more
than seventy years, in a library or an institution, where it could be
freely seen. He therefore resolved to add it to his own.
But how? The book was constantly under guard in a guaranteed
burglar-proof vault. To employ the most experienced crackmen to
undertake the job would be almost insane. He could not try to
substitute a facsimile as in the "Three Trees." To bribe the guard was
foolhardy because the guard did not know the combination of the
safety-lock. He was at his wit's end! Not a single practical idea
entered his head. For once he was at the end of his resources!
Robert Hooker was a great lover of books. Like other kinds of love,
the more he was denied, the greater the love grew; and time added fuel
to the flames.
One evening in his library he was thinking what a pity it was that he
could not see with his own eyes this evasive little book, when an idea
flashed through his brain.
That night he did not sleep.
The following day Hooker paid a visit to an old building in lower New
York. It was the United States Custom House. He asked to see an
appraiser whom he had known from boyhood days, and he talked with him
for an hour about the weather, the base-ball score and other absorbing
questions.
"By the way, Girard, that was a nice purchase Fields made last month--I
mean the Bacon volume. I suppose you saw it when it came through the
Customs!"
"No, I don't remember it. That's curious."
"Well, at any rate, it was free of duty by age!"
"I know that, Hooker. But even so, everything worth over ten thousand
dollars, I personally examine."
"Well, it doesn't make much difference. The book should come in
without paying duty. Perhaps it came by another port."
"No, through this. All Fields' things come here. We are told to
always hurry his through. He's got lots of pull, and we like to oblige
him."
"Yes, of course."
"But Fields, too, has to obey the letter of the law. I want to look
this thing up."
Mr. Girard was gone for over half an hour. He returned. "Here's the
thing. Look at this consular invoice."
"Bacon's Essays 1597. L200."
"But what good does it do? The book comes in free, if it's worth a
million!"
"I know. But Fields wanted this cleared the very day it was received.
He or no one else has a right to undervalue, even if the article does
not pay duty. I'm going to find out about this. I'm going to get that
book back and examine it. Fields or no Fields, he must obey the law!
I might get fired for this."
The owner of the Bacon was much disturbed. Mr. Fields did not like the
publicity that followed the newspaper revelations. He was much annoyed
at one newspaper which said that if he undervalued non-dutiable things,
how about those that carried a high impost?
Of course, the whole matter was nothing. And yet he was vexed. He did
not like the notice that a Treasury official was to call for the sacred
package that reposed within the solid walls of his safe.
The next day, a gentleman with an order from the Treasury Department of
the United States paid him a visit. It was an official messenger in a
blue suit with a conspicuous nickel badge. The great steel doors were
opened and closed; the book was then removed; an instant later the
click of the lock was heard. The other treasures in the vault were
safe against the machinations of men!
Twenty minutes later another official called. Mr. Fields thought at
first it was the same gentleman returning. He came for a book that had
been under-valued at the Custom House.
"What! I've just given it to one of your men!"
"Impossible, Mr. Fields. This order was issued to me!"
"Why, that's a fake. Why, the one just presented to me had a big red
government seal on it. It was signed by the head of the Treasury."
"Must have been a forgery. This is merely an order signed by Mr. Bond,
the representative at New York. But it's genuine!"
The various theories of the robbery that were advanced would have
filled many volumes. Even the British Museum was suspected!
Mr. Girard, the appraiser, felt in his inmost soul that Robert Hooker
knew something about it. He told his story to the greatest detective
in the world, who was in charge of the case for the Government. He did
not want to issue a warrant for Hooker's arrest without any evidence
whatever. He could not take into custody an honorable gentleman merely
on suspicion. He had to have tangible proof.
The great detective accordingly employed three able assistants to
examine every nook and corner of Hooker's house, including his library.
All this was done during the absence of the owner. The police even
employed pickpockets to jostle him on the streets to make sure the book
was not upon his person. Hooker had been under surveillance three
hours after the robbery; it was either in the house, or he was not
guilty.
Every book in his large library was examined. The police authorities
finally had a complete catalogue of his collection, which some day will
make interesting reading. The detectives took pen and pencil and noted
the titles of every volume with the year of publication; they admitted
that bibliography and literary work was not to their liking. It lacked
excitement and they all agreed it was only fit for poets, professors,
and other inferior persons.
The detectives found it much easier at first to look for a volume bound
in red levant morocco with "Bacon's Essayes" in gold letters on the
back. This was the description given them of the original.
Fearing some error, and being naturally suspicious, they were compelled
to be scholarly and open the volumes, but they did not find one dated
1597, or which answered in any way to the form and matter of the
missing volume.
After a month of search, the detectives came to the conclusion that the
book was not in his possession. Robert Hooker was guiltless!
When he is not going out of an evening, Hooker will often remain by the
fireside in his library, reading his favorite authors. When no one is
about, he will go to the largest book-case, and in a conspicuous place
in the centre of the third shelf, he will take down a small thick
volume, which he handles tenderly. He will often touch it fondly with
his lips. It is bound in shabby old black calf and is labelled on the
back "Johnson's Lives." Opening the volume you will see the curious
title-page, which reads: "The History of the Lives and Actions of the
most famous Highwaymen and Robbers. By Charles Johnson. London.
Printed in the year 1738."
Sewed in the centre, and uniform in size, is another book which a short
time before was one of the glories of the British Museum. It had been
bereft of its red morocco covering.
It is destined to be the chief article of interest in another museum,
to be founded for the use and instruction of the public for all time.
For Shakespeare and Bacon are immortal!
THE COLONIAL SECRETARY
One of the most eccentric characters in the book-world was Doctor
Morton. He knew a great deal of the lore of books and made a splendid
living by stealing them. Old volumes were meat and drink to him. He
lived quietly and respectably in a small New England town where he was
honored for his learning and piety.
Although Dr. Morton was a thief, a pilferer of libraries and
collectors, he committed a far greater crime, for which it is
impossible to forgive him. Murder, assassination, arson and treason
were naught to this unspeakable thing. It was worse than the Seven
Deadly Sins.
Doctor Morton was unlike the celebrated Spanish bibliophile, who, not
being able to obtain it in any other way, killed a fellow-collector in
order to secure a unique volume of early Castilian laws. He died upon
the scaffold unrepentant, maintaining that the prize was worth it. All
honor to poor Don Vincente of Aragon! His name shall always be
tenderly cherished by lovers of books!
Doctor Morton _sold_ the books he stole! This, in the calendar of
bookish misdemeanors, is the crime of crimes.
Now this respectable citizen of Connecticut was a man of parts. There
was no gainsaying his knowledge. His home was beautifully furnished,
for he was a person of excellent taste. He would point to an old
Italian cabinet in his living-room, and say to himself: "I paid for
that with the first edition of Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and, as to the
Chinese Chippendale table: that was bought from the proceeds of the
Elzevir 'Caesar.'"
Sometimes his friends would be astounded at his unintelligible speech.
He would say in an unconscious moment: "Bring in the Vanity Fair in
Parts!" meaning nothing else but an antique astral lamp, that he had
exchanged for the first edition of Thackeray's immortal novel, or he
would exclaim to his maid at tea-time: "Sarah, use to-day the uncut
'Endymion' from the Sterling Collection," pointing at the same time to
a beautiful old silver tray. All the furnishings in his home
represented a book "borrowed" from some famous library, and then
shamelessly sold and the money expended on household gods.
Doctor Morton obtained the books of other men by many devious ways.
For instance, he would write to a collector under the name of a
well-known amateur, and always upon the most exquisite stationery,
requesting the loan for a few days of the third quarto of Hamlet; he
was writing a brochure on the early editions of Shakespeare, and it was
necessary, in the holy cause of scholarship to inspect the volume.
Alas! Poor Yorick!
The collector would send the book, and that was the last he would hear
of it.
Morton would borrow a wonderful old woodcut by Albrecht Duerer, in
pursuit of his investigations in the early history of engraving, and
return in its place in the old frame a modern facsimile, stained to
look like the original, and which the owner might not discover until
years after.
It is not our purpose to chronicle the activities of this New England
worthy, however interesting and instructive they may be. It was Doctor
Morton's well-known coup in connection with the Welford library that
brings him into this story.
Thomas Pennington Welford was growing old. He was a Quaker, a
descendant of the Penningtons that came over with William Penn. He
lived in an old house on Arch Street in Philadelphia, just a stone's
throw from Benjamin Franklin's grave.
He was a Quaker of the old school; was known as conservative by members
of the Meeting-House; by others, as "close" and "tight-fisted."
Welford gloried in this saving habit. He was considered quite wealthy
by his heirs, who were the only ones who approved of his penurious ways.
When he arrived at the age of seventy, he determined to put his house
in order. He would sell his curiosities and his useless household
furnishings to the highest bidder.
When Doctor Morton called one hot day in summer, Welford was in the act
of examining his books, before an old mahogany case that looked as if
it had come over with the first Pennington.
"Good-morning, Mr. Welford, you seem pleasantly engaged."
"Yes, sir. I'm looking over some old things. I want to get rid of
everything that I can do without."
"I'm Doctor Morton. I'm interested in anything old or curious. Let me
see what you've got. Ah! here's an old copy of Barclay's 'Apology.'
That's very valuable."
"How much is it worth?"
"Seventy-five dollars."
"That much? You surprise me."
"It's worth probably more. Oh, look! Here's another gem. It's bound
in full morocco. Sewell's 'History of the Quakers,' 1770. That's
easily worth a hundred!"
The two book investigators pursued their investigations.
Mr. Welford was astonished when he learned that these old religious and
controversial writings were worth so much money. He did not know that
the modern collector was purchasing for fabulous sums the old sermons
of eminent divines.
According to the learned Doctor Morton, these were just the things that
the rich bibliophile demanded!
In going over these dusty books and pamphlets, Doctor Morton laid the
dingiest and shabbiest in a little pile. These were of no value he
said, and worth only the price of waste-paper.
In the lot was a mutilated almanac, printed by Benjamin Franklin in
1733.
"Look at that dirty old almanac! A modern one is a hundred times more
valuable!" Doctor Morton would exclaim; knowing at the same time that
this first issue of Poor Richard was worth its weight in gold.
"That ought to be destroyed! It's a filthy attack on William Penn and
the Quakers. If I were you I'd put that in the fire!" said the
virtuous doctor, pointing to a little quarto pamphlet published in
London in 1682, and one of two copies extant, the other being priced at
$600.00 by a well-known book-seller. In it is the curious statement
that Penn was fond of certain ladies of the wicked court of Charles II.
And it was not in Lowndes, or in any bibliography!
When the last volume on the last shelf had been valued by the doctor,
Mr. Welford stated that he did not care to sell immediately. He wanted
to "look around a little." The books were really worth more than he
thought.
"Then, sir, why have you put me to all this trouble! I've lost a whole
morning going over your things and telling you about them. When you
make up your mind to sell, let me know. This pile of trash you can
burn, or you can sell it to the old-paper man. You might get
twenty-five cents for the lot. Perhaps you might give a few of those
worthless pamphlets to me. You've taken up enough of my time."
"The lot will cost thee two dollars, Doctor."
"All right. Give me a receipt. This is the last time I'll give free
advice to anyone! Particularly a Quaker!"
When Mr. Welford "looked around" he discovered that the beautifully
bound sermons, eulogies, prayer-books and catechisms were worth next to
nothing. He almost passed away when a kind friend told him that Poor
Richard's Almanac was worth a thousand dollars.
Another amiable acquaintance cheerfully imparted the information that
the scandalous pamphlet about the First Proprietor of Pennsylvania was
valued at ten shares of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. At hearing this
good news, he put on his gray hat and started full of righteous
indignation to interview the lucky purchaser.
"Don't swear, Mr. Welford. That's not becoming one of your persuasion."
"Thou--thou--"
"Don't choke and splutter so. It's bad for the heart."
"Thee told me those big books of sermons were valuable. They're not
worth the paper they're written on!"
"Now, you're becoming sacrilegious!"
"Thee knows that rotten old thing about Penn was worth all those
catechisms and sermons combined."
"I naturally thought that a religious book was worth more than a
scandalous one. That stands to reason."