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 for 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 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 afterward, 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 two-pence 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 toward 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.