_Life is too short for reading inferior books._
_Bryce._
In 1878 a letter of introduction to Mr. S---- of Detroit was
instrumental in securing for me the close friendship of a man some
twenty years my senior--a man of unusual poise of mind and of such
superb character that I have ever looked upon him as a perfect type of
Newman's ideal gentleman.
My new friend was fond of all that is best in art and literature. His
pet possession, however, was an old book long out of print--"Aguecheek."
He spoke to me of its classic charm and of the recurring pleasure he
found in reading and rereading the delightful pages of its unknown
author, who saw in travel, in art, in literature, in life and humanity,
much that other travellers and other writers and scholars had failed to
observe--seeing all with a purity of vision, a clearness of intellect,
and recording it with a grace and ease of phrase that suggest that he
himself had perhaps been taught by the Angelic Doctor referred to in the
closing lines of his last essay.
A proffered loan of the book was eagerly accepted. Though still in my
teens, I soon became a convert to all that my cultured friend had said
in its praise.
With the aid of a Murray Street dealer in old books, I was fortunate
enough to get a copy for myself. I read it again and again. Obliged to
travel much, I was rarely without its companionship; for I knew that if
other reading-matter proved uninteresting, I could always find some new
conversational charm in the views and words of the World-Conversant
Author.
Fearing that I weighed the merits of the work with a mental scale
wanting in balance, I asked others what they thought of it. Much to my
surprise, they had never even heard of it. In fact, in these thirty-four
years I have found but three persons who knew the book at all. Recently
at The Players I asked Mr. Evert Jansen Wendell if he knew "Aguecheek."
"Why," said he, "it was in my hands only yesterday. It is in my
library--my dramatic library." The late John E. Grote Higgens, President
of the St. George Society, knew its interesting pages well; and it is, I
am assured, a "prized unit" in the library of His Eminence Cardinal
Farley.
I lent my copy to young and old, to men and women of various professions
and to friends in the world of commerce. The opinion of all might be
summed up in the appreciation of a well-known Monsignor--himself an
observant traveller and an ardent lover of "real" literature. Returning
the book, he said, "I have read it with the greatest of pleasure, and
have turned to it often. I could read it a hundred times. It is a great
book. Its fine humor, its depth, its simplicity and high ideals, commend
it to all, especially the highly educated--the scholar."
Charles B. Fairbanks is the reputed author, but the records show that he
died in 1859, when but thirty-two years old--an age that the text
repeatedly discredits. Whether written by Mr. Fairbanks or not, the
modest author hid his identity in an obscure pen-name that he might thus
be free to make his book "his heart in other men's hands."
Some necessary changes have been made in the text. In offering the book
to the public and in reluctantly changing the title, I am but following
the insistent advice of friends--critics and scholars--whose judgment is
superior to my own. No one seemed to know the meaning of "Aguecheek"
(taken, no doubt, from a character in "Twelfth Night"), and few could
even spell or pronounce the word; moreover, there is not the remotest
connection between title and text. The old book has been the best of
comrades, "the joy of my youth, the consolation of my riper years." If
the new name lacks dignity as well as euphony, the reader will, I am
sure, understand and appreciate the spirit of affection that inspired
"My Unknown Chum."
_Henry Garrity._