This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 
 APR 2^1924 
 
 19 1924 
 MAR 2 1925 
 AUG 5 1925 
 
 WAY 1 4 1929 
 DEC 18 
 
 ^ 81 
 JtAY S 1931 
 
 2 7 193* 
 
 
 MAY 51976 
 
 iHAY z z 19; 
 
 DEC 2 1943 
 
 
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 \
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 AND OTHER DIVERSIONS 
 OF A BOOK-COLLECTOR 
 
 BY 
 
 A. EDWARD NEWTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 THE AMENITIES OF BOOK-COLLECTING 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 /i f o f r* 
 4 * -1 * -| 
 
 JL *J .-J> JL tJ 
 
 BOSTON 
 THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY A. EDWARD NEWTON 
 
 First Impression, September, 1921 
 Second Impression, September, 1921
 
 TO 
 WILLIAM MAXWELL SCOTT 
 
 For over twenty-Jive years we have been 
 yoked to the same plough, and if we have 
 kept the furrow straight, it is because we 
 have pulled together.
 
 PURELY PERSONAL 
 
 BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 
 
 IT was inevitable, after the success of "The Amen- 
 ities of Book-Collecting," that its author should 
 attempt to repeat that success, and You, kind 
 or, it may be, suspicious reader, shall fill up that 
 blank. Whatever your verdict may be, I shall accept 
 it unhesitatingly ; for one never knows, one's self, 
 whether a piece of work, or sundry pieces, upon which 
 one has been engaged for a long time, have merit or 
 not. Our little quips and quiddities, once sponta- 
 neous, after having been written in pencil on odd 
 scraps of paper, and typed by one's secretary in her 
 leisure moments, look rather feeble when the galley 
 proof comes in, and positively silly on the printed 
 page. This is a risk we who print books must run. 
 Nothing venture, nothing have. 
 
 Long ago, before years and tobacco had destroyed 
 a voice naturally defective, I was singing cockney 
 songs, to my own delight but to the qualified enjoy- 
 ment of my audience, when someone turning to me 
 remarked : " Why, I had no idea that you sang ! " To 
 which Felix Schelling, not then enjoying an interna- 
 tional reputation as a scholar, rejoined slyly: "I am 
 not sure that he does." And so it may prove to be 
 with my writing. I have never been able to free my 
 mind of the truth of that remark of Gray's : "Any fool 
 may write a valuable book by chance, if he will only
 
 viii PURELY PERSONAL 
 
 tell us what he heard and saw, with veracity." Trol- 
 lope is said to have damaged his reputation by his 
 confession as to the way in which he wrote; at the 
 risk of utterly destroying mine, I want to say that 
 any style I may have acquired is the result of writing 
 advertisements of electrical apparatus for many years. 
 When one is selling a page of writing, one receives, I 
 suppose, as much as five, or even twenty-five dollars 
 a page. When one is buying a page of advertising, 
 one pays anywhere from one hundred to five thou- 
 sand dollars a page ! The discriminating reader will 
 discover upon which page the most time is spent. 
 Those who write with ease, to show their breeding, 
 forget the last line of the couplet, usually attrib- 
 uted to Byron, that "easy writing's damned hard 
 reading." 
 
 When one is the victim of a practical joke, one tries 
 to forget it ; so, when several universities tagged me 
 and gave me the legal right to append certain letters 
 to my name, I said to myself : " Here is a fine oppor- 
 tunity for you to make a fool of yourself ; disappoint 
 your friends by not embracing it." And so it is that 
 I was soon able to break my friends of the habit of 
 giving me a title, all except a certain head waiter and 
 my barber, who seemed to feel that the size of their 
 tips depended upon the loudness or frequency with 
 which they called me "Doctor." 
 
 Only yesterday it happened that, while I was sit- 
 ting in the reading-room of my club, a page entered 
 and called out, "Dr. Newton !" I went on with my 
 newspaper, and he spoke again: "Dr. A. Edward
 
 PURELY PERSONAL k 
 
 Newton!" He would be denied no longer, and, 
 looking at him guiltily, I was told I was wanted on 
 the telephone. Crossing the room, I experienced 
 sundry difficulties. I thought I knew who was call- 
 ing me my friend Hawley McLanahan, the archi- 
 tect, the merits of whose Scotch make one reluctant 
 to break with him ; but this must be stopped at any 
 cost. Entering the telephone booth, I took up the 
 receiver, and without any preliminaries I requested 
 him to go to the devil, and promptly. 
 
 Reader ! have you ever heard a lady go into an 
 apoplexy ? Well, that is the sound I heard from the 
 other end of the wire. Of course I administered 
 what relief I could, and prostrated myself before her 
 a difficult thing to do hi a telephone booth ; and 
 finally, she being somewhat restored, I asked to what 
 I owed the pleasure of this call. 
 
 "Why," replied the lady, "I hoped you would con- 
 sent to make a few remarks at a * Current Events ' 
 luncheon we are having for the benefit of the starv- 
 ing in China. Christopher Morley had promised to 
 come, but he has met with an accident." l 
 
 "Why don't you get TomDaly ?" linquired ; "he 's 
 worth a dozen of us." 
 
 "He's in New England lecturing," was the reply. 
 . "I see," I said, "I'm the last chance. I can't pos- 
 sibly tell a lady to go to the devil a second time. I '11 
 come ; and your Current Eventers will wish that they 
 were starving with the Chinese." 
 
 And so it proved. 
 
 1 Mr. Morley wishes it known that his hoof is broken, not cloven.
 
 x PURELY PERSONAL 
 
 May I relate how the "Amenities" restored to me 
 a long-lost sweetheart ? It came about in this way. 
 I received one day in my mail a letter from a lady, 
 thus conceived : - 
 
 DEAR SIR, I am wondering whether "The 
 Amenities of Book-Collecting and Kindred Affec- 
 tions" would preclude the exchange of our handi- 
 work ! If not, I should be glad to forward copies of 
 ( * The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse " and " Mare 
 Nostrum " in exchange for the " Amenities of Book- 
 Collecting," some chapters of which I greatly enjoyed 
 when they appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly." With 
 kind regards to those of your family who remember 
 me, I am, very sincerely your old-time Rahway [N.J.] 
 neighbor on the other side of the fence, 
 
 CHARLOTTE BREWSTER JORDAN. 
 
 Of course, Lottie Brewster ! We had known each 
 other intimately as children ; how stupid of me not to 
 have remembered, when I had been reading every- 
 where of her translation of a novel selling as no novel 
 has ever sold before. 
 
 I despatched the "Amenities" forthwith, saying 
 that I was receiving far more than I gave, which, 
 indeed, was the case, for the inscriptions put the vol- 
 umes high in the "association" class, and upon my 
 next visit to New York I called on my old-time friend 
 and we had a delightful hour together. In the course 
 of our chat over old times, I said: "Lottie, perhaps 
 you can tell me what has become of my friend Jennie
 
 XI 
 
 M . She was my first love. I remember our 
 
 fond parting when, as a boy of thirteen, I went away 
 to school. I remember, too, returning, still a boy, to 
 find my sweetheart a young woman, with dresses 
 much longer than those young women are wearing 
 nowadays, and quite indifferent to me. I tried to 
 awaken in her some spark of the old sentiment, but 
 failed and knew that my heart was broken.*' 
 
 "Why," said Lottie, "Jennie is living in New York. 
 I see her occasionally. She is rich, good-looking, and 
 a widow. I am sure she would be glad to see you." 
 
 "I know nothing about that," I said; "but I am 
 coming to New York very soon, to make an address 
 at the Grolier Club on William Blake. It is a meet- 
 ing of woman artists or woman sculptors, or some- 
 thing. There will be tea afterwards and cake; in- 
 deed, that will be the most enjoyable part of the 
 affair. I shall be the only man, and for ten minutes 
 a hero. I want Jennie to witness my triumph." 
 
 So it was arranged, and a few weeks later the party 
 came off. 
 
 While I was reading my paper, I observed just in 
 front of me a demure little lady, exquisitely gowned, 
 her hair rather more than touched with gray ; and at 
 the end of my address I went forward. 
 
 "Jennie," I said, putting my arm around her. 
 
 "O Eddie, stop !" she cried, just as she did at part- 
 ing more than forty years before. 
 
 Like causes still produce like effects. Invitations 
 and counter-invitations followed in quick succession ; 
 and Carolyn Wells, hearing of what was going on,
 
 rii PURELY PERSONAL 
 
 signaled, " Wait a minute till I change my frock ; I 'm 
 from Rahway, too." 
 
 And Carolyn Wells's presence resulted in such 
 goings-on that I began to wonder whether the by- 
 product of authorship was not the best part of it. 
 
 And out of the shadow of the years long past rose 
 Van Antwerp, formerly Willie, also of Rahway, my 
 oldest friend, who, almost fifty years ago, was always 
 to be found playing in my back-yard when I was not 
 playing in his. Tired of beating and being beaten up 
 in Wall Street, he had retired with the substantial 
 fragments of several fortunes, to spend his declining 
 years (and may they be many) in content and 
 California, to which he invited me. 
 
 In the midst of the renewal of old associations and 
 the making of a host of new acquaintances, I dis- 
 covered that I was not in very robust health. This 
 is not my own discovery. I paid a physician a hand- 
 some fee for making it. His advice was : " Go slow. 
 You have been pelting along for forty years; it's 
 time to relax. Let someone else do your work. You 
 have a hearty son in business let him work ; and 
 your partner. He impressed me as a very forceful 
 fellow ; he will probably be glad to have his own way 
 a little more than he can when you are around. Give 
 him his head. It is a great mistake you business men 
 make of thinking that no one can take your place. 
 I have no doubt that there are half a dozen men in 
 your office who can do your work better than you do. 
 How about smoking," he continued; "how many 
 cigars?"
 
 PURELY PERSONAL xiii 
 
 To this I replied: "Doctor, there are some things 
 too sacred for words, there are some things that men 
 do not tell even their wives ; but, in point of fact, I 
 have always smoked in moderation, never more than 
 one cigar at a time ; three after breakfast, four after 
 lunch" 
 
 "That will do; that accounts for much. We will 
 omit the cigars after breakfast entirely, and hereafter 
 your limit will be one after lunch and one after 
 dinner; on holidays, birthdays, and the like, you 
 may smoke two after dinner mild ones. No more 
 excesses of any kind. Do not run for trains, and do 
 not climb steps unnecessarily. What exercise do 
 you take?" 
 
 "Very little," I replied, "I am of Joe Chamberlain's 
 opinion that to walk downstairs in the morning and 
 upstairs at night is enough exercise for any gentle- 
 man." 
 
 "A little extreme," said my physician, "but not 
 bad advice for you ; and when you sit, keep your feet 
 up." 
 
 "On the mantelpiece?" I inquired. 
 
 "I said no excesses," replied the physician; "the 
 table will do. Lessen the pull on your heart-muscle. 
 Do not play more than nine holes of golf on a flat 
 course." 
 
 "How about the nineteenth hole ?" I said. 
 
 "Well," said he, "with whiskey at twenty dollars 
 a bottle, you will not be likely to play that hole to 
 excess. You do not look as if you ever had. Don't 
 worry, avoid excitement, and keep your mind occu-
 
 xiv PURELY PERSONAL 
 
 pied. Take up reading. Didn't someone tell me 
 that you had written a book ? Write another one, a 
 long one, and then go to Europe, where the criticisms 
 of it will not annoy you. My prophecy is that you 
 will live to be a disagreeable old man. Take these 
 pills three times a day, and come to see me in a 
 month. Good-morning." 
 
 And as I exited, another victim entered, and was 
 received with the same sympathetic interest. 
 
 " This is just what the doctor ordered," I said, as I 
 rolled away from his door in my motor. I sat back, 
 put my feet up, and tried to feel a superannuated 
 man, and made a failure of it. "Let someone else 
 do your work!" What music was in these words! 
 "Write a book!" What fun! "Go to Europe!" 
 more fun ! I always said I was lucky, and for once 
 my friends agree with me. 
 
 I'm off! 
 
 A. EDWARD NEWTON.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 1 
 
 II. ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 33 
 
 III. LUCK . . 56 
 
 IV. WHAT Is THE MATTER WITH THE BOOKSHOP? . . 73 
 V. A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 91 
 
 VI. " 'T is NOT IN MORTALS TO COMMAND SUCCESS " . 109 
 
 VII. MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET . . .124 
 
 VIII. WALT WHITMAN . . . 140 
 
 IX. "20" . . . ..... 160 
 
 X. LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY . . . 178 
 
 XI. A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE . . . . 196 
 XII. MY OLD LADY, LONDON . . .
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "URIZEN" Frontispiece 
 
 CARD OF ADMISSION TO THE TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS . 12 
 
 TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS IN WESTMINSTER HALL . . 16 
 
 TITLE OF "LETTERS FROM SIMPKIN THE SECOND " ... 23 
 
 WARREN HASTINGS OF DAYLESFORD HOUSE, ESQUIRE . . 30 
 
 REPRODUCTION FROM A WHITMAN MANUSCRIPT, USED BY 
 
 A. E. N. AS A CHRISTMAS CARD, 1907 . . . __ . . 38 
 
 PARODY OF A FAMOUS POEM, BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY . 42 
 
 FRANCIS B. GUMMERE 44 
 
 TITLE OF SKELTON'S " PITHY, PLEASAUNT AND PROFITABLE 
 
 WORKS" 60 
 
 TITLE OF " COLIN CLOUTS COME HOME AGAIN" . ... 61 
 
 TITLE OF SUCKLING'S "FRAGMENTA AUREA" .... 63 
 
 TITLE OF THOMAS CAREW'S POEMS 64 
 
 DANIEL DEFOE IN THE PILLORY 64 
 
 TITLE OF DEFOE'S "JOURNAL OF THE PLAGUE YEAR" . 65 
 
 TITLE OF DEFOE'S "MOLL FLANDERS" 66 
 
 THE BUILDING THAT HOUSES THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY IN 
 
 CAMBRIDGE 68 
 
 TITLE OF C. MORLEY'S "THE EIGHTH SIN" . . . . 69 
 
 MAP OF ENGLAND IN COLORED SILK 70 
 
 TITLE OF PEPYS'S " MEMOIRES RELATING TO THE STATE OF 
 
 THE ROYAL NAVY OF ENGLAND 71 
 
 FOUR DISTINGUISHED COLLECTORS 74 
 
 PROF. C. B. TINKER MR. W. H. ARNOLD 
 
 MR. R. B. ADAM MR. W. F. GABLE
 
 xviii ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 TITLE OF DRINKWATER'S "ABRAHAM LINCOLN " ... 80 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 86 
 
 PORTRAIT OF DR. JOHNSON, BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS . . 96 
 
 TITLE OF HAWES'S ACCOUNT OF THE LATE DR. GOLD- 
 SMITH'S ILLNESS, ETC. 97 
 
 JOSEPH PENNELL . . . . . 106 
 
 TITLE OF KIPLING'S "DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES" . . . 108 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH . . .112 
 
 After the portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds 
 
 MASK OF DAVID GARRICK, BY R. E. PINE .... 141 
 FACSIMILE OF LEIGH HUNT'S SONNET TO JOHN KEATS . .116 
 TITLE OF FIRST EDITION OF KEATS'S " POEMS" . . .118 
 
 JOHN KEATS 118 
 
 From original portrait by Severn 
 
 FACSIMILE OF PAGE OF LETTER FROM B. R. HAYDON TO 
 MRS. BROWNING 119 
 
 DEATH-BED PORTRAIT OF KEATS, BY JOSEPH SEVERN . 120 
 
 FACSIMILE OF PAGE OF ORIGINAL MS. (IN SHORTHAND) OF 
 KEATS'S "VE OF ST. MARK" 121 
 
 THE GRAVES OF JOHN KEATS AND JOSEPH SEVERN IN 
 THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY IN ROME 122 
 
 AUTOGRAPH OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH 123 
 
 TITLE OF THE "UNDATED" QUARTO HAMLET .... 128 
 
 JAMES F. DRAKE 136 
 
 WALT WHITMAN . . . . . 140 
 
 WALT WHITMAN 144 
 
 From a bronze plaque, by R. Tait McKenzie 
 
 WHITMAN'S HOUSE, ON MICKLE ST., CAMDEN, N. J. . . 146 
 
 From an etching by Joseph Pennell
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS xix 
 
 TITLE OF FIRST EDITION OF "LEAVES OF GRASS" . . 148 
 
 TOMB OF WALT WHITMAN IN HARLEIGH CEMETERY . .156 
 
 A LONDON "GROWLER" DISSATISFIED WITH His FARE . 160 
 
 SMITHFIELD ENTRANCE TO SAINT BARTHOLOMEW'S HOS- 
 PITAL 166 
 
 TOMB OF RAHERE, FOUNDER OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S HOS- 
 PITAL 172 
 
 GLORIA DEI (OLD SWEDES') CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA . . 184 
 
 ST. PETER'S CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA 186 
 
 CHRIST CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA 188 
 
 THE OLD "WATER WORKS" IN FAIRMOUNT PARK, PHILA- 
 DELPHIA -. 192 
 
 OLD BRIDGE OVER THE THAMES AT SONNING . . .149 
 
 From a water-color by Frank Craig 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE 196 
 
 From frontispiece to Blair's "Grave" 
 
 SAMUEL, SAUL AND THE WITCH OF ENDOR 200 
 
 TITLE OF BLAKE'S "POETICAL SKETCHES" .... 203 
 
 ORIGINAL DRAWING AND ENGRAVED PLATE OF ILLUSTRA- 
 TION BY BLAKE FOR MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S "ORIG- 
 INAL STORIES" 204 
 
 BLAKE'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS . . 206 
 
 STOTHARD'S CANTERBURY PILGRIMS 206 
 
 ORIGINAL DRAWING AND ENGRAVED PLATE OF ILLUSTRA- 
 TION BY BLAKE FOR MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S "ORIG- 
 INAL STORIES" 208 
 
 PRELIMINARY SKETCH OF DEATH'S DOOR, BY WILLIAM 
 BLAKE - .... 210 
 
 ENGRAVED PLATE OF SAME, BY SCHIAVONETTI, AFTER 
 BLAKE'S DESIGN . .210
 
 xx ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 TITLE OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S ORIGINAL STORIES, 
 ETC 211 
 
 WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG TOGETHER .... 212 
 
 Photograph of original drawing by Blake 
 
 ONE OF THE FAMOUS PLATES IN BLAKE'S BOOK OF JOB . . 214 
 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA 216 
 
 Engraved by Blake after Hogarth's painting 
 
 COLORED TITLE OF BLAKE'S "AMERICA A PROPHECY" . 220 
 BOOK-PLATE FROM ONE OF BLAKE'S LAST WORKS . . .221 
 A HANSOM CAB . 226 
 
 ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, FROM THE BOTTOM OF LUDGATE 
 
 HILL 234 
 
 After a colored etching by Luigi Kasimir 
 
 HOLYWELL STREET 236 
 
 From a pen drawing by Joseph Pennell 
 
 BUNHILL FIELDS BURYING GROUND 238 
 
 JOHNSON HOUSE, 17 GOUGH SQUARE 242 
 
 VISIT OF DR. JOHNSON AND JAMES BOSWELL TO FLORA MAC- 
 DONALD . 244
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER DIVERSIONS OF A 
 BOOK-COLLECTOR
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 IN the good old days at the theatre, say a hundred 
 years or so ago, it was not unusual for the main fea- 
 ture of the evening's entertainment to be preceded by 
 a little curtain-raiser; in like manner, the farce to 
 which I am going to ask your attention is to be pre- 
 ceded by a necessarily brief resume of perhaps the 
 greatest burlesque ever written. 
 
 I refer to the trial of Mr. Pickwick, the immortal 
 creation of a young and practically unknown man, 
 who for a time masqueraded under the pseudonym 
 of Boz. (Pronounced not as we usually pronounce 
 it, but as if there were an e at the end of it ; it was a 
 corruption of Mose.) 
 
 Mr. Pickwick, who is as English as Falstaff, and I 
 think as great a creation, had inquired his landlady's 
 opinion as to the greater expense involved in keeping 
 two people rather than one, having in mind engaging 
 not himself, but a man, Sam Weller, to look after him, 
 as the phrase goes. Forthwith, the landlady, Mrs. 
 Bardell, assumes that Mr. Pickwick has made her an 
 offer of marriage, flings her arms about his neck, and 
 at his appeal to "consider if anyone should come," 
 cries, "Let them come."
 
 2 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 And come they did : young Master Bardell and Mr. 
 Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. The as- 
 tonishment of all was extreme. His friends did not 
 at the time know him for the amiable gentleman he 
 subsequently became, and regarded his astonishing 
 behavior with some suspicion. 
 
 How Mrs. Bardell, through that precious pair of 
 legal practitioners, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, 
 brought action against Mr. Pickwick for breach of 
 promise of marriage, with damages laid at 1500 ; how 
 his friends were made to testify against him ; how 
 Sam Weller was promptly ordered to "stand down" 
 when he began to tell how generous it was in those 
 legal gentlemen to take the case "on spec," and to 
 charge nothing at all for costs unless they got them 
 out of Mr. Pickwick, is known even to Macaulay's 
 schoolboy, if there ever was such a prodigy. 
 
 Had the elder Weller's advice been taken, an 
 "alleybi" would have been provided a strong " al- 
 ley bi" has indeed solved many a legal problem ; but 
 Mr. Pickwick would not hear of such a thing, and 
 judgment was given for the plaintiff with damages at 
 750. 
 
 How Mr. Pickwick, declining to pay, is cast into 
 the Fleet, and how Mrs. Bardell, having given a cog- 
 novit, whatever that may be, for the costs, also finds 
 her way into the famous old prison; their meeting, 
 and how, by the payment of all the costs, Mr. Pick- 
 wick finally secures the release of the lady and him- 
 self and their escape from the legal toils of the two 
 scamps, Dodson and Fogg all this has been written
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 3 
 
 for all the world to read. And all the world has read 
 it. Mr. Pickwick is immortal, not only as a char- 
 acter, but also in the sense in which the word im- 
 mortal is used by Chesterton, who points out that 
 Mr. Pickwick was a fairy ; not that he was suited to 
 swing on a trapeze of gossamer ; but that if, while so 
 swinging, he had fallen upon his head, his pains 
 would not have been severe, and he would not have 
 died. 
 
 I take it that the so-called trial of Mr. Pickwick is 
 known to more people the world over than any other 
 scene in any book whatever (the Bible excepted). 
 Call it what you will, comedy, high or low, or farce, 
 or burlesque, it remains the most famous picture of 
 an innocent man temporarily deprived of his liberty 
 and the pursuit of happiness, which after all was Mr. 
 Pickwick's serious business. There is one other trial 
 which, in some respects, resembles it, and that is the 
 trial of Warren Hastings. Both trials were farces ; 
 one was mean and sordid, the other was magnificent. 
 In one, a conviction was secured ; in the other, an ac- 
 quittal. But in both cases the result was the same 
 the victims paid the costs. 
 
 My home happens to be at Daylesford, on the 
 "Main Line" of the Pennsylvania Railroad; and 
 while the "Main Line" means little to those who are 
 not of the Quaker City, those who are know that it is 
 Spruce Street emancipated somewhat. Many 
 of the stations have pretty names Welsh for the 
 most part; for the district was taken up by Welsh
 
 4 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 settlers a century or two ago and Daylesford is 
 not the least pretty. It is hardly in the Welsh tract, 
 and gets its name rather curiously from the English 
 home of Warren Hastings ; for the reason that he was 
 the hero of an old man who once lived in these parts, 
 and who was given the privilege of naming the little 
 shed and platform which have served for a station 
 since the railroad people concluded that a stop at this 
 particular point might be advisable. 
 
 One distinction Daylesford has, in common with a 
 number of other hamlets and villages hereabouts : it 
 is only a few miles from Valley Forge, where the sol- 
 diers of the Revolutionary army under Washington, 
 when its fortunes were at the lowest, spent the terrible 
 winter of 1777-78. It is also within rifle-shot of the 
 fine old colonial mansion where Anthony Wayne was 
 born, Mad Anthony, subsequently commander- 
 in-chief of the army, as a bronze tablet let into its 
 south wall very properly records. Hence we all are 
 supposed to be somewhat conversant with colonial 
 affairs. 
 
 One evening, as I was going out on my usual train, 
 a large, pompous man, whom I knew slightly, con- 
 descendingly lowered himself into the seat beside me, 
 remarking as he did so : "I see you frequently on this 
 train. Where do you live? You go farther up the 
 line than I do." 
 
 I told hun the name of my station, which, being a 
 very insignificant one, he had never heard of; and 
 then, probably to keep me from reading my news- 
 paper, he observed: "Daylesford. It's a pretty
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 5 
 
 name. Gets its name from a ford in a dale, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "No," I replied, "there is no ford there." Then 
 I told him of Daylesford in England having been the 
 home of Warren Hastings, and that our little station 
 had been named in his honor, and how I had often 
 thought it a rather curious matter altogether ; when, 
 to my surprise, my friend seemed inclined to take 
 exception to my attitude, and remarked : " Not at all ; 
 I think it fine, the way we keep alive the names of 
 those old Revolutionary heroes. We don't do enough 
 of it. There ought to be a monument to him at Val- 
 ley Forge." 
 
 Fortunately my astonishment was covered by the 
 conductor throwing open the car door and announc- 
 ing "Bryn Mawr!" Whereupon my companion 
 bade me good-evening, and left me to my medita- 
 tions. 
 
 After dinner, lighting a cigar, I strolled about my 
 library, murmuring to myself, "The Hall was worthy 
 of the trial ; it had resounded with acclamations at 
 the coronations of thirty kings," or some such 
 matter. I had not read Macaulay's essay on Warren 
 Hastings, which is one of his best, for many years; 
 but these purple patches have a way of fixing them- 
 selves, somewhat unsteadily perhaps, even in so poor 
 a memory as mine. The subject haunted me, but I 
 could not remember whether the great trial had re- 
 sulted in a conviction or an acquittal, or exactly what 
 it was about. "High crimes and misdemeanors" 
 my memory seemed to say. It might not be a bad
 
 6 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 idea to revive a faded recollection. I had expected 
 to be through with Warren Hastings before I had 
 finished my cigar, but a year was to elapse before I 
 was tired of the subject. One of the joys of being a 
 desultory reader is that one may read as one chooses. 
 
 An immense amount has been written on Warren 
 Hastings, but, as is usual, when Macaulay has written 
 upon a subject, what he has said is remembered, and 
 all else is forgotten. At this late day a phrase much 
 employed by one of Hastings's biographers, "Be this 
 as it may," suggests that one can take one's choice 
 of the many contradictory statements and draw one's 
 own conclusions. Of a few facts we may be quite 
 certain. 
 
 Warren Hastings was born in Oxfordshire, in 1732, 
 of a very old family, then impoverished; his great- 
 grandfather had disposed of the ancestral estate, 
 Daylesford, and at the time of his birth the family 
 was living in great poverty. For such education as 
 he received, he was indebted to his uncle. At an 
 early age he was sent as a "King's scholar" to West- 
 minster School, where he did well. On the death of 
 his uncle, a guardian secured for him a situation in 
 the India Office, and shortly afterwards, at the age 
 of eighteen, he sailed for Calcutta. There he pros- 
 pered and married. His wife and several children 
 dying, Hastings used his immense energies and abil- 
 ity in the service of his country, incidentally increas- 
 ing his fortune. After fourteen years' residence, he 
 returned to England, pensioned his uncle's widow,
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 7 
 
 and otherwise providing for his family, occupied his 
 leisure with Oriental studies and society. His in- 
 vestments proving unfortunate, and his knowledge 
 of Indian affairs being constantly sought, he was 
 finally prevailed upon to go out to India a second 
 time ; and with his second journey to India his life 
 may be said to have begun. 
 
 He was low in funds and in spirits when he set out ; 
 and on the voyage, which in those days was an affair 
 of many months, he fell ill and was nursed back to 
 health by a beautiful and accomplished Baroness von 
 Imhoff , who was accompanying her husband to India, 
 and with whom he fell in love. Imhoff, a German 
 portrait-painter, proved complaisant, and finally 
 accepted a proposition of Hastings to the effect that, 
 in return for a substantial cash payment, he should 
 permit the baroness to secure a divorce and become 
 Mrs. Hastings. The legal formalities took years to 
 arrange; meanwhile, nature took its course and the 
 baron resided where the baroness was not. 
 
 One may again refer to Macaulay's schoolboy as to 
 the manner in which Hastings, as Governor-General, 
 wrote his name upon Britain's empire in the East. 
 It occupied him for sixteen years. His instructions 
 were vague ; they might perhaps be summed up in a 
 sentence: "Remember that Indian affairs are pri- 
 marily business affairs, and that dividends are ex- 
 pected ; and, by the way, if you can extend the sweep 
 of the Empire, it will be appreciated and perhaps out- 
 weigh the loss of the colonies in America, which have 
 recently been giving us much trouble."
 
 8 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 Hastings was far from home and self-reliant ; to ask 
 a question of the ministers of the Crown in London, 
 and get a reply, was a matter of perhaps two years, 
 by which time the crisis that had compelled the ques- 
 tion was over. Hastings, on the ground, did what 
 seemed to him best for all concerned. Moreover, he 
 was not alone in the government. There was a 
 council of five over which he presided, which claimed 
 to have the right of review of the acts of the Governor- 
 General. Sir Philip Francis, now generally regarded 
 as the author of the Junius Letters, was a member of 
 the Council, and from the moment of his arrival in 
 India became an enemy of Hastings. Originally the 
 difficulty seems to have arisen over the absence of the 
 ceremony with which Francis expected to be greeted. 
 Misunderstandings and quarrels between them were 
 frequent ; finally the short and ugly word was used, 
 and a duel fought. Francis was severely wounded, 
 and although a reconciliation was attempted, it was 
 not successful. 
 
 There was undoubtedly plenty of room for honest 
 differences of opinion as to the wisdom, to say nothing 
 of the legality, of many of Hastings's acts. He may 
 have been cruel, as was subsequently charged, but his 
 position was difficult in the extreme. He was sailing 
 an uncharted sea, and he was serving his King and 
 country rather than himself. Most men who served 
 hi India after a few years returned home rich. The 
 word Nabob was coined for them; they were a na- 
 tional scandal at a time when public morality was 
 low. According to the standards of his time, Has-
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 9 
 
 tings was unexceptionable in his conduct. To judge 
 him by the standards of another time is absurd; 
 rather we should remember the reply of his great con- 
 temporary Clive, when charged with having made, 
 by devious means, a great fortune : "When I think of 
 the possibilities of the case, I am surprised at my own 
 moderation." Only the Germans, and perhaps the 
 Irish, can doubt that England's rule in India has been 
 in the main beneficent. This is not to say that no 
 deeds were done which Englishmen should look back 
 upon with shame. Be this as it may. 
 
 Under a burning sun as Napoleon said of the 
 battlefield men soon grow old. Hastings finally 
 longed for home. He thought of England, and of 
 Daylesford, the estate of his ancestors, which he 
 would reacquire with a part of his fortune. As Gov- 
 ernor of India he had accustomed himself to live in 
 regal splendor; he would continue so to live in Eng- 
 land. His King, George III, having succeeded, prac- 
 tically unaided, in wrenching from his crown its most 
 valuable jewel, the American Colonies (acting upon 
 the advice of his mother, " George, be King!"), would 
 welcome with outstretched arms the man who had 
 added India to the British possessions. He would 
 receive a pension and a title; he would become Lord 
 Daylesford. He had nc children, but he would hear 
 his wife, whom he loved devotedly, somewhat doting- 
 ly perhaps, addressed as "My Lady." Such was his 
 dream. When would his resignation be accepted? 
 At last relief came, and Hastings sailed for England. 
 
 The voyage home was unusually short, Hastings
 
 10 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 sailed in February ; about the middle of the following 
 June he landed at Plymouth, and proceeded at once 
 to London, where his reception was all that he could 
 desire. He was received by the King, and, what was 
 quite as important, good Queen Charlotte received 
 Mrs. Hastings. Averse as she was known to be to 
 divorced persons, she appears to have looked upon 
 the Hastings's matrimonial escapade in India as due 
 either to the distance from civilization, or perchance 
 to the climate ; or perhaps she was moved by the gift 
 of a magnificent bedstead made entirely of carved 
 ivory, which Mrs. Hastings presented to her. Be 
 this as it may, the Hastings reception lacked nothing 
 in warmth, and all was going swimmingly, when 
 Edmund Burke rose in the House of Commons and 
 advised that he would at a future day make a motion 
 respecting the conduct of a gentleman just returned 
 from India ; and he was as good as his word. But it 
 required over two years properly to set the stage for 
 the great trial that was impending. 
 
 What living mortal ever heard 
 Any good of George the Third ? 
 
 What malign fairy touched at birth that royal prince, 
 so that he became silly at his best, and a his worst 
 insane? But whatever may be the English feeling 
 for George III, it is not for us to complain of him. 
 Glorying, as he said he did, in being born a Briton, 
 he was in fact, as in family, a German, and of a bovine 
 intelligence especially fitting him to drive oxen. A 
 sequence of events gave, or appeared to give, him
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 11 
 
 a proud and liberty -loving people to drive, just at a 
 time when English-speaking people were learning to 
 drive themselves. To the end of his long life, his 
 ill-success with them never ceased to amaze him. 
 During the war, now happily terminated with the 
 elimination of all German princes, we may hope for- 
 ever, I heard an English army officer bring a large 
 dinner-party to its feet by proposing "The health of 
 the English-speaking peoples, once separated by a 
 mad German king, now reunited by a mad German 
 emperor." The effect was electrical. 
 
 But in 1785 George III, while by no means as sure 
 of himself as when he came to the throne twenty-five 
 years before, still felt that, if he chose to welcome 
 warmly a man who appeared to have been more suc- 
 cessful than himself in governing dependencies, he 
 was at liberty to do so. But many and great changes 
 had taken place in England during Hastings's ab- 
 sence changes of which Hastings, who was an 
 administrator rather than a politician, could know 
 nothing, and which Majesty deemed unworthy of 
 notice. The mere fact that Hastings was favorably 
 received by the King raised up a party against him. 
 The younger Pitt, who was in power, at once became 
 suspicious. Hastings had probably forgotten his arch- 
 enemy, Francis ; but Francis had come to have great 
 influence over Burke, then at the height of his reputa- 
 tion; and we are justified in believing that Burke 
 was prompted, not alone by his partisan zeal, but by 
 his love of justice, when he decided that Hastings's 
 conduct in India should be reviewed in London.
 
 12 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 The Indian question was then a difficult question, 
 as the Irish question now is, and seemingly as im- 
 possible of solution. To say "India" was to start 
 something. Instantly there was a division of public 
 opinion. The King, the Court, and Lord Chancellor 
 Thurlow all took Hastings's side. Burke ranged on 
 his, Pitt, Sheridan, and Fox ; indeed, almost without 
 exception the most brilliant and forceful men in the 
 nation. The preparation for the trial was the work 
 of several years and the brief ( ? ), when printed with 
 its index, filled twenty -four folio volumes. Hastings 
 wished to be defended by Erskine ; but Erskine, while 
 not afraid of Burke, admitted his inability to oppose 
 Fox and Sheridan, and Hastings was obliged to con- 
 tent himself with a small group of relatively obscure 
 men, led by one Edward Law, afterwards Lord Chief 
 Justice Ellenborough, upon whom the burden of the 
 defense chiefly rested. Heroic work was to be done. 
 Hastings was appalled, as he had reason to be; by 
 the scope and venom of the proceedings against him. 
 He was alone and fighting a nation, not for his life 
 but for his honor. There was no question of personal 
 integrity. Out of the immense revenues which had 
 passed through his hands, he appears to have saved 
 for himself only 80,000 or so. If he could be con- 
 victed of wrongdoing, who had profited by it ? Eng- 
 land, the very England that seemed bent upon his 
 destruction. 
 
 At last the time for the trial grew near. The great 
 state trials of England have from time immemorial 
 been held in Westminster Hall. No place of less dis-
 
 CARD OF ADMISSION, SIGNED AND SEALED, TO THE TRIAL 
 OF WARREN HASTINGS
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 13 
 
 tinction was suited for so overwhelming a function. 
 Society with a capital S began to pay attention. 
 Heretofore the matter had been generally regarded 
 as a squabble between factions ; but it soon came to 
 be understood that a magnificent entertainment was 
 to be staged, the prosecuting committee being com- 
 posed of nineteen men, who very properly became 
 known as "the Managers." (The name was given 
 them at the time, and it has passed into history.) 
 Excitement could not have been more intense if a new 
 vice had been discovered and was to be on exhibition. 
 Society, which, in the picturesque phrase of Trevel- 
 yan, then floated from one amusement to another 
 upon a sea of wine, set sail for Westminster. For the 
 moment the clubs and gaming-tables were deserted. 
 
 It is early in the morning of the 13th of February, 
 1788. The approaches to the Hall are guarded by 
 grenadiers ; the streets are blocked by magnificent 
 carriages of state ; the demand for tickets is enormous, 
 and fabulous prices are paid : as much as fifty pounds, 
 it is said, is offered for a good location ; and even to 
 this day cards of admission, when duly signed and 
 sealed, have a certain monetary value. The spec- 
 tacle is to begin at eleven o'clock. Long before that 
 hour, the Hall is packed : four hundred Lords and 
 Commoners are in attendance. At last, the great 
 functionaries of the trial begin to file into the grand 
 old Hall, its gray walls concealed by crimson hang- 
 ings. Two by two the representatives of the legal 
 machinery of the nation enter : peers temporal and
 
 14 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 spiritual, judges and masters in Chancery, clerks and 
 gentlemen-in-waiting. There are "Black Rod" and 
 "Mace-Bearer," and the dukes of the Royal House, 
 and, finally, that notorious scoundrel, the Prince of 
 Wales himself, alias "The first Gentleman in Europe." 
 The King is not present, being "indisposed" this 
 euphonious word concealing perhaps from a few the 
 fact that Majesty is, for the time being, insane. The 
 throne, therefore, is empty, but each person passing 
 it makes a profound obeisance to it, and there is much 
 talk as to who bows lowest or most gracefully. 
 
 About noon, all being in readiness, the Sergeant- 
 at-arms cries : " Warren Hastings, come forth and 
 save thee and thy bail." At once there appears a 
 small and emaciated person, who, glancing around 
 with evident anxiety, falls on his knees before the bar, 
 but is at once told by the Lord Chancellor to rise. 
 It is the formal procedure, but nothing is omitted 
 that might tend to shake the confidence of the ac- 
 cused. 
 
 Thereupon the reading of the charges begins, and 
 occupies two whole days ; "rendered less tedious than 
 it would otherwise have been by the silver voice 
 and just emphasis of the clerk of the court," says 
 Macaulay, who was not then born and hence was 
 not obliged to sit through the proceedings ; whereas 
 Fanny Burney was, and gives it as her opinion that 
 the reading was so monotonous that it was impossible 
 to discover whether it was charge or answer. 
 
 "They're off !" is the cry for which we impatiently 
 wait at the race-course, and thereafter all is confu-
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 15 
 
 sion. So it is at this trial. The throng, which has 
 held itself tense for hours, suddenly becomes relaxed. 
 From one part of the house to another, from one 
 box to another, stroll the wits and beaux of the day, 
 eyeing and ogling ladies who have come to be 
 eyed and ogled. 
 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds, who has lost or forgotten his 
 ear-trumpet, does not allow this mishap to interfere 
 with his usual good-humor, but smiles and bows to 
 everyone, the centre of a group of admiring friends. 
 Johnson's friend Wyndham saunters up to Miss 
 Burney, and congratulates her upon the location of 
 her seat. "Is it not a magnificent spectacle? You 
 see it here to great advantage ; you lose some of the 
 Lords, but you gain all the ladies, ha ! ha !" 
 
 "Yes, but what is going forward? I can't dis- 
 cover to which side I am listening." 
 
 "It's not important. They are only galloping 
 through the charges." 
 
 " Galloping through the charges ? That 's a form 
 of law, I suppose." 
 
 "Oh ! look at the Archbishop of York affecting to 
 read the articles of impeachment ! Spare your eyes, 
 my good Lord ! we know that your mind is already 
 made up. Hastings has advanced your son's interest 
 in the East." 
 
 It was like a night at the opera, when the ballet is 
 on, and Society is more interested in itself than in 
 what takes place on the stage. We may be sure that 
 there was adjournment at the proper time for food, 
 and that tea was taken, and that the evening and the
 
 16 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 morning were the first day, and the second was like 
 unto it. Finally, however, the Chancellor rose and 
 made a brief speech, and gave great offense to "tlte 
 managers" by the use of the word "mere." "Mere 
 allegations," he called the rhetoric inscribed upon the 
 immense rolls of parchment, the reading of which 
 had consumed two entire days and these words 
 were to prove prophetic. 
 
 On the third day the trial really began. Burke as 
 Manager-in-chief rose and, making a profound bow 
 to the Court, stood forth as the accuser of Warren 
 Hastings, and in his opening address accused him of 
 every crime in the calendar. A famous judge, in 
 Polonius-manner, not long since summed up his ad- 
 vice to a young advocate in these words : "Above all, 
 avoid eloquence as you would the very devil" ; but 
 in those days eloquence, or what passed for it, was 
 the delight of Lords and Commons alike, and Burke 
 was admittedly the greatest speaker of his time. 
 
 The man who did not know how to indict a whole 
 people had no difficulty whatever in indicting one 
 man of offenses enough to damn an entire nation. 
 He accused Hastings of all the crimes that have their 
 rise in the wicked dispositions of men avarice, 
 rapacity, pride, cruelty, malignity of temper, haughti- 
 ness, insolence ;' in short, everything that manifests a 
 heart blackened and gangrened to the core. With 
 this as an introduction, he proceeded to charge him 
 with having stolen the lands of widows and orphans, 
 with having wasted the country and destroyed the 
 inhabitants, after cruelly harassing them. He ac-
 
 H ^ 
 
 II 
 
 fc "g
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 17 
 
 cused him of never dining without creating a famine, 
 of feeding on the indigent, the dying, and the dead. 
 His cruelty, he said, was more revolting than his 
 corruption ; and finally he ridiculed him as a swindler 
 who had obtained honor under false pretenses. Low, 
 mean, and contemptible as was his origin, bred in 
 vulgar and ignoble habits, he became more proud 
 than persons born to the imperial purple. Tyrant, 
 thief, robber, cheat, swindler, sharper, a spider in 
 Hell all these he was, and more; and finally the 
 orator expressed his regret that the English language 
 did not afford terms adequate to the enormity of his 
 offenses. 
 
 The speech lasted four days, and affected different 
 people in different ways. Those who were against 
 Hastings thought it magnificent, said so, and hailed 
 Burke as the modern Demosthenes. "Females" 
 fainted at hearing of so hideous a monster, and had 
 to be carried from the scene. Not all were of this 
 opinion, however : honest Jim Burney, Fanny's 
 brother, the sea-captain, protested that it was not 
 eloquence at all, that it was mere rant, stuff, and 
 nonsense, and that the whole thing was a comedy 
 nay, rather, a farce; and Fanny, who agreed with 
 him, told him to hush lest he should be overheard 
 by Burke's son, who stood near them. 
 
 If the Lord Chancellor had called the formal 
 charges "mere allegations," we can imagine with 
 what scorn he listened to Burke's vituperations. It 
 was at one of the sittings of this court, when Lord 
 Thurlow was presiding, that Fox, struck by the
 
 18 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 solemnity of the Lord Chancellor's appearance, made 
 his oft-quoted remark to a friend : " I wonder whether 
 anyone ever was as wise as Thurlow looks ?" 
 
 If the law were, as it is sometimes said to be, that 
 which is vehemently asserted and forcibly maintained, 
 or if eloquence were evidence, the trial might well 
 have been brought to an end then and there ; but in 
 point of fact the curtain had just been raised on a 
 performance that was destined to continue for years, 
 until the audience finally grew tired and went home, 
 leaving the actors playing to empty benches. 
 
 But it must be confessed that there never had been 
 a more brilliant first act, and never had play a 
 greater cast. The next day, when Sheridan took 
 the centre of the stage, it must have been quite 
 obvious to him that, if he were to live up to his 
 reputation as the greatest wit of the day, he would 
 have to speak briefly and to the point. He did not 
 dare attempt to outdo Burke in length, but he 
 thought that perhaps he might be more forceful ; he 
 compressed, therefore, his speech into two days, and 
 employed what was described at the time as some- 
 thing between poetry and prose and better than 
 either. It was in this speech that Sheridan made his 
 famous remark about the "luminous," which he sub- 
 sequently corrected to "voluminous," page of Gib- 
 bon. And one may be quite sure that he, the great 
 dramatist, the creator of the screen scene in the 
 "School for Scandal," lost no opportunity for dra- 
 matic effect. In closing, he gathered himself up for 
 a mighty effort, and pouring out his wrath and scorn
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 19 
 
 on the "hideous and ignominious" figure before him, 
 contrived to fall exhausted, almost fainting, into 
 the outstretched arms of Burke. Altogether, it was 
 magnificent team-work. 
 
 Fox, when his turn came, did not create, or, rather, 
 maintain a good impression. He seemed at ease and 
 in good humor for a moment, then fell into a pas- 
 sionate fit of vehemence, and as suddenly resumed 
 his careless and disengaged air. On the whole, he 
 was not convincing. Twenty years later one of this 
 trio, Sheridan, tried to apologize to Hastings hi an 
 off-hand way, saying, " Of course you know we public 
 speakers are expected to employ telling effects ; it 's 
 our business." But Hastings would not admit the 
 necessity, and ignored his outstretched hand. Of his 
 feelings during all these torrents of oratory, he has 
 left a record. "I was bewildered and for a time 
 fascinated," he said, "by the immense vigor and 
 energy with which I was attacked, and felt for half 
 an hour the most culpable man on earth ; but the 
 feeling passed, and I knew in my heart that I was 
 innocent of the infamous charges brought against 
 me." 
 
 It could not be expected that society would forever 
 give over all its customary amusements to attend a 
 trial, however famous. For a time it was the talk 
 of the town. But a theatrical tempest soon becomes 
 wearisome ; stage thunder and stage lightning seldom 
 kill. Hastings had been admitted to bail, he moved 
 about in society undisturbed, he bought the Dayles-
 
 20 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 ford estate, and took a town house in Park Lane. 
 At intervals the trial went on ; it was a long, tedious, 
 and costly proceeding. 
 
 We know upon unimpeachable authority how ob- 
 serving a young woman was Fanny Burney, at that 
 time second Keeper of the Robes to Queen Charlotte, 
 with a residence at Windsor. At first Fanny was 
 delighted at the privilege of attending the sittings at 
 Westminster Hall, and she stored up in her mind all 
 the interesting or amusing incidents, for recital when 
 she got home ; for the King, as he told her, preferred 
 her narrative to any other ; but gradually her interest, 
 too, waned. The submission of long and complicated 
 evidence is never an interesting proceeding for the 
 on-looker, and week after week, and month after 
 month, and year after year, it continued. She would 
 have liked to be excused from further attendance, 
 and suggested that the Hall was draughty and that 
 she might catch cold; but the Queen told her to 
 "wrap up well." It amused the King to listen to 
 her account of the proceedings, and Majesty's 
 wishes must be gratified. 
 
 What had at first been looked upon as the most im- 
 portant event of a reign full of interesting, dramatic, 
 and scandalous incidents became at last an awful 
 bore ; and as it gave no promise of ever coming to an 
 end, actors and audience alike became desperate. 
 Hastings cried, "For God's sake end the matter one 
 way or another; the expense is ruinous." "The 
 Managers" had the public treasury behind them; 
 but as Hastings was obliged to defray his expenses
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 21 
 
 out of his own pocket, bankruptcy stared him in the 
 face. Several years elapsed before his side had an 
 opportunity to present its argument; and when fi- 
 nally Edward Law came to be heard, he gave by way 
 of introduction the entire history of English affairs 
 in India. It was probably the first and only clear 
 and consecutive account of what the trial really was 
 about. The "trash and rubbish," as Thurlow called 
 the arguments presented by "the Managers," was 
 designed to bewilder and befog rather than to en- 
 lighten the group of gouty old gentlemen assembled 
 in all their magnificence to hear and sift the evidence 
 presented to them. 
 
 Not being a Philadelphia lawyer, I have been un- 
 able to discover upon what theory the trial proceeded. 
 Who were the judges? The peers of the realm, it 
 would seem. Were they required to hear, or did 
 they even pretend to hear, the evidence ? Not after 
 a little. Were they constant in their attendance? 
 No. It so happened that, as the trial progressed, 
 death took them, at first one by one, and then by 
 little groups, and their places were taken by others ; 
 so that many who heard the defense of Hastings knew 
 little and cared less about the attack that had been 
 made upon him several years before. Indeed, it 
 would appear that, although the legal machinery of 
 the nation had been set in motion, it was not, in the 
 usual sense, a trial at law at all. 
 
 The lawyers who entered into the proceeding did 
 so because they saw an immense opportunity for 
 fame and fortune. That was not a bad idea of Fred-
 
 22 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 erick, yclept the Great, that, if the lawyers about him 
 could not settle a difficulty in court within a year 
 from the time they began, then he would step in and 
 settle it out of hand. Curiously, the rewards for 
 non-success at the bar are frequently greater than 
 those crowning successful effort. What other pro- 
 fession is so fortunate? A doctor makes a mistake 
 and the patient dies then and there is an end ; but 
 when the lawyer makes a mistake, he merely makes a 
 motion for a new trial or takes the case to a higher 
 court, and asks for a further retainer. I have a 
 friend who takes a legal decision as reverently as 
 Moses took the Ten Commandments on the top of 
 Mount Ararat if that was the name of the moun- 
 tain from which "Thou shalt not" was sent rever- 
 berating through the ages. I once heard him say, 
 "The joy of the law " I would permit him to go 
 no further. "The joy of the law," I interrupted, "is 
 in writing briefly, 'To Services Rendered,' having 
 in mind the sum your client is likely to have in bank, 
 and doubling it." But this is a digression. 
 
 No student of eighteenth-century affairs will neg- 
 lect the caricaturist ; these men held up to nature a 
 distorting glass, in which everything is out of focus, 
 but which nevertheless emphasizes what is especially 
 characteristic. During much of the time when 
 Hastings was in the public eye, the public was too 
 much interested in the notorious escapades of the 
 Prince of Wales with the beautiful Mrs. Fitzherbert 
 to care very much what became of the former Gov- 
 ernor-General of India. Nevertheless, caricatures
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 anent the trial were numerous, most of them being 
 favorable to the prisoner. One, entitled the "Last 
 Scene of the Managers' Farce," answers the very 
 natural question, 
 What has become 
 of Philip Francis all 
 this time ? It rep- 
 resents Hastings 
 rising in glory from 
 the clouds of cal- 
 umny, while Burke 
 and Fox are in de- 
 spair at the failure 
 of their efforts ; and 
 behind is the crafty 
 face of Francis, that 
 malevolent deus ex 
 machina, with the 
 legend, " No charac- 
 ter in the farce, but 
 very useful behind 
 the scenes." 
 
 What purported 
 to be a series of 
 "Letters from Simpkin the Second in London to his 
 Dear Brother in Wales," an amusing skit written in 
 doggerel, was much in vogue during the early years of 
 the trial. Even Royalty enjoyed it. The salient fea- 
 tures of the amusing spectacle were cleverly brought 
 out, and it is clear that from the beginning Burke had 
 the laboring oar. Difficulties as to the admissibility 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 SIMPKIN THE SECOND, 
 
 DEAR BROTHER IN WALES; 
 
 CONTAIN1HO 
 
 AN HUMBLE DESCRIPTION OF THE TRJAL 
 
 or 
 WARREN HASTINGS, Es<^ 
 
 IIISIOMS IN 1789. 
 WITH 
 
 NOTES AND ALTERATIONS BT THE AUTHOR. 
 
 To which in idled, 
 
 SEVERAL LETTERS IN ANSWER, FROM 
 
 SIMON, AUNT BRIDGET, AND SHENK1N. 
 
 AND AN ORIGINAL POETICAL DEDICATION 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HON. EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 BY SIMPKIN. 
 
 THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED BT 
 
 JOHN BELL, JSrittify Iftranj.STRAND, 
 
 Bovluellcr to Hit Royal Highness the Prince of Wain. 
 M DCCZCII.
 
 24 
 
 of evidence consumed days, weeks at a time, as well 
 they might, when acts committed in India many years 
 before, and documents in outlandish tongues, were pre- 
 sented for the consideration of peers whose one idea 
 was to escape the rattle of words that pervaded West- 
 minster Hall. Burke 
 
 affected to treat as a joke 
 The doctrine of evidence written by Coke : 
 And of all the absurdities he ever saw, 
 The greatest absurdities were in the law. 
 
 His effort to create the belief that so high a tribunal 
 ought not to be bound by the forms and rules of evi- 
 dence which obtain in ordinary trials gave some peer 
 an opportunity to make an obvious pun, that the 
 trial must be conducted according to "Law" Law, 
 it may be remembered, being the name of Hastings's 
 chief counselor. 
 
 At length, the trial became, not only a bore, but a 
 scandal : somehow or other it had to be brought to an 
 end. Other political issues had come to the fore, and 
 that which once seemed so important had entirely 
 lost its interest. In France there was a revolution 
 a King and Queen had been executed, and Burke's 
 intense passion for justice took another tangent. At 
 home there had been too much of what we should 
 now call destructive criticism. It was time to tighten 
 things up a bit ; perhaps the shadow of the great Bon- 
 aparte was beginning to rest upon England. Be this 
 as it may, it was time for the curtain to fall ; the ques- 
 tion was, who should ring it down ? 
 
 It would seem that the peers finally came to the
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 25 
 
 rescue, not of Hastings, but of themselves. They at 
 last began to take counsel together as to the mode of 
 giving judgment. The trial, as Lord Thurlow, no 
 longer Chancellor, said, had no parallel in history. 
 It had extended over seven years and three months. 
 Very little "evidence" had been presented. Has- 
 tings had been treated rather like a horse-thief than 
 like one who had seen princes prostrate at his feet 
 and nations obeying his commands. Reflections of 
 this kind were inevitable, as it was seen that by no 
 possibility could a verdict against him be secured. 
 
 No longer did Hastings appear a monster in human 
 form ; his hour of triumph was at hand. Once again 
 he was formally called to the bar ; he knelt down, and 
 was bidden to rise and withdraw. The Lord Chan- 
 cellor then put the question, "Is Warren Hastings, 
 Esquire, guilty or not guilty ?" The charges seem to 
 have resolved themselves into fifteen ; on two of them, 
 bribery and corruption, he was unanimously ac- 
 quitted. On the others, most of the lords, standing 
 uncovered with their right hands upon their breasts, 
 declared, "Not guilty upon my honor." There were 
 some who voted guilty, but these adverse voters 
 ranged only from two to five on various counts 
 very far from the majority required to convict. 
 Lord Mansfield held him "not guilty" on all counts 
 but one, and that concerned a question, not of justice 
 but of the law, a seeming admission that justice and 
 law are not synonymous. La commedia e finita 1 
 
 It was for Hastings a complete vindication. The 
 Managers had fallen out and were quarreling among
 
 26 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 themselves ; the farce was over. It remained only to 
 deliver the epilogue ; it was brief and to the point, 
 for the audience was impatient. ' Warren Hastings, 
 to the bar ! You are acquitted of all things contained 
 in the articles of impeachment. You are therefore 
 discharged, paying your own fees." Warren Hastings 
 bowed and retired, an innocent man and a bankrupt. 
 The great trial was at an end. 
 
 I sometimes think that the trial of Herr William 
 Hohenzollern, had it taken place, would have been 
 as great a farce. He has already been tried before 
 the bar of public opinion of the world, and convicted. 
 Why go through the motions of a trial ? What pun- 
 ishment could be adequate to his crimes other 
 than to allow him, on some Devil's Island, to medi- 
 tate upon them forever, if that were possible ? 
 
 Since my interest in Warren Hastings has taken 
 possession of me, much Hastings material has drifted 
 from across the seas to a Daylesford the existence of 
 which would have surprised and pleased the great 
 man : portraits, documents, letters formal and letters 
 friendly, cards of admission to the great spectacle ; 
 and some day, if I am patient, I may own that fine 
 old mezzotint, "A view of the tryal of Warren Has- 
 tings, Esquire, before the Court of Peers in West- 
 minster Hall." l Not a work of art perhaps, but what 
 
 I 1 wrote to Maggs Brothers, the great dealers in London, and asked 
 if they had or could procure for me, a copy of this rare print. They 
 replied that they had not one, but that if I only wished to examine it, 
 they felt quite certain that the distinguished collector, Hampton L. 
 Carson, Esq., of Philadelphia, would be glad to show me his; that 
 Mr. Carson had "everything." I consulted Mr. Carson, found that
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 27 
 
 a human document ! Marking curiously and quaint- 
 ly an incident, on the whole creditable, in the life of 
 a great nation. For, absurd and grotesque as in 
 many respects the trial was, the ground for it was, 
 nevertheless, the maladministration of affairs in In- 
 dia, and it might properly be regarded as an attack 
 upon a corrupt and cruel system rather than upon an 
 individual. And good came of it. The proper gov- 
 ernment of dependencies was from that time assumed 
 as a national duty. 
 
 Before Hastings died, Parliament gave him in some 
 degree the honor that should long before have been 
 his. In 1813, his advice on Indian affairs was sought ; 
 and upon his entrance the House of Commons rose 
 and uncovered a most unusual proceeding. He 
 was listened to closely, and treated with great 
 respect. At the close of his examination the House 
 again rose and stood silent as he withdrew. Sub- 
 sequently he was received and treated with the same 
 great courtesy by the Lords. He had become a great 
 historic figure. 
 
 he had indeed "everything," except the print I wanted. Again I 
 wrote to Maggs, leaving a standing order. Two years passed. I was 
 hi London. One evening about tea-time, happening to be strolling 
 with my wife hi the Charing Cross Road, we passed an old print 
 shop. "Why do you not inquire for your Hastings Trial?" said she. 
 We entered, and disturbing an old man at his tea, I put the question. 
 Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he paused and then said, "I have 
 it, I'm trying to localize it. If you will stop in to-morrow morning, 
 I'll have it for you." "Are you certain?" I asked, quite willing to 
 spend the night there. "Quite." Needless to say, I was on hand 
 early next morning, and when, on being shown the print, a superb copy, 
 "proof before title," I asked the price, I was informed that he would 
 have to ask me 3 for it, at $3.50 to the pound ! I was almost ashamed 
 to take it.
 
 28 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 Throughout his long life Hastings carried himself 
 with great dignity and reserve. The first shock of 
 the impeachment proceedings over, he assumed the 
 role of the philosopher, one which he was well fitted 
 by nature to play. Immense power had been his ; he 
 had governed, and on the whole with justice and 
 wisdom, an empire the extent and importance of 
 which was at the time little understood. Expecting 
 to be rewarded as others had been who had served 
 their country faithfully, he was prosecuted like a 
 criminal. He did not allow it greatly to disturb him, 
 but went quietly about his affairs as if nothing was 
 going to happen. He set about improving his Dayles- 
 ford estate, at the same time residing during the 
 season at his establishment in Park Lane, the lease- 
 hold of which he had secured in Mrs. Hastings s name. 
 The house, then known as No. 1, was at the northern 
 end of the street overlooking Hyde Park a most 
 desirable location. Subsequently, it became the 
 town residence of Lord Rosebery, great-grandfather 
 of the present Earl. In connection with the transfer 
 of the property, there is some amusing correspond- 
 ence. Lord Rosebery was not wealthy, but was in 
 some way allowed to take possession of the house 
 before he had signed an agreement or paid a deposit. 
 Hastings, on hearing this, wrote to his banker : 
 "Your letter has done what impeachment could not 
 do it has broken my rest. If his Lordship has 
 possession, nothing but a law-suit in Chancery can 
 force him to pay, should he go back on his bargain." 
 Fortunately, all went well, and the house a hundred
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 29 
 
 years later passed by purchase into the hands of 
 George Murray Smith, of the firm of Smith, Elder & 
 Co., the publishers. 
 
 It was at Daylesford that Hastings spent the after- 
 noon and evening of his long and eventful life. He 
 wrote poetry, and doubtless would have written, had 
 he, instead of Browning, thought of it, 
 
 Grow old along with me ! 
 
 The best is yet to be. The last 
 
 Of life, for which the first was made. 
 
 Hastings said that the purchase of Daylesford en- 
 tailed a longer negotiation than would have served 
 for the acquisition of a province. It became a pas- 
 sion with him to build and plant, and Daylesford 
 House was erected in a park of some six hundred 
 acres. It was a large and comfortable mansion, fur- 
 nished with the gifts and acquisitions of a long and 
 distinguished life. 
 
 At the close of the trial Hastings, as has been said, 
 was, to all intents and purposes, a ruined man finan- 
 cially. The government did nothing for him, but 
 the East India Company, which he had served so 
 loyally, came to his aid, and advanced him large 
 sums, to be repaid at his convenience, without in- 
 terest ; and these debts were subsequently canceled. 
 He declined, with proper acknowledgments, the offer 
 of a pension of two thousand pounds per annum 
 from an Indian potentate ; but he felt that he need 
 have no scruples in accepting from the Company 
 such sums as he required to enable him to live in
 
 SO A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 what seemed to him a fitting manner. In a com- 
 munication to the Directors, he confessed that he had 
 lived beyond his means, adding that strict "cecon- 
 omy" could not be expected from one who had de- 
 voted his entire life to public affairs. It is indeed 
 curious that, at a time when pensions were freely paid 
 to the sisters and the cousins and the aunts of de- 
 parted statesmen, as well as living politicians, noth- 
 ing could be spared from the public or privy purse 
 for such a man as Hastings. Whatever was needed, 
 however, he had, and he continued to live, dispensing 
 hospitality accompanied by sleep-inducing poetry, 
 for many years years that were probably the hap- 
 piest of his life. 
 
 Every man is to a greater or less extent a dual per- 
 sonality. Hastings was a dreamer as well as a man 
 of action. As a lad, to muse was, he says, his favor- 
 ite recreation. "One summer's day, when I was 
 scarcely seven years old, I well remember that I first 
 formed the determination to buy back Daylesford. 
 I was then literally dependent upon those whose con- 
 dition scarcely raised them above the pressure of 
 absolute want ; yet somehow, as it did not appear 
 unreasonable at the moment, so in after years it 
 never faded away. God knows there were periods 
 in my career when to accomplish that, or any other 
 object of honorable ambition; seemed impossible, 
 but I have lived to accomplish it. And though, 
 perhaps, few public men have had more right than I 
 to complain of the world's usage, I can never express 
 sufficient gratitude to the kind Providence which
 
 WARREN HASTINGS OF DAVLESFORD HOUSE ESQUIRE
 
 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 31 
 
 permits me to pass the evening of a long, and I trust 
 not a useless life, amid scenes that are endeared to 
 me by so many personal as well as traditional associ- 
 ations." 
 
 At what time he dreamed of England's greatness 
 in India, he does not tell us ; but he lived to see that 
 dream, too, come true ; and forceful, nay, brutal, as 
 he undoubtedly was in India, so kindly and gentle 
 was he to his wife, by whom he was survived for 
 twenty years years devoted to his memory. 
 
 With Daylesford in Pennsylvania, I am much at 
 home. Life in our little hamlet is not unduly stim- 
 ulating. Such local happenings as occasionally find 
 their way into the newspapers are generally occa- 
 sioned by a sharp and dangerous turn in the much- 
 traveled Lancaster Pike, an old post -road, now taking 
 the grander name of the Lincoln Highway. This 
 road, plunging under the railway bridge just at the 
 station, appears to be going in one direction, whereas 
 it is actually going in another. Not all automobilists 
 know this, and two or more of them trying to oc- 
 cupy the same space at the same time afford all 
 the excitement we seem to require. Twenty-five 
 years' residence has made few changes other than 
 that, speaking to our trees and to our children, we 
 can truthfully say, "How you have grown!" 
 
 Daylesford in Worcestershire I visited when I was 
 last in England, and I had the pleasure of being 
 shown over the entire estate by its present owner, 
 Squire Young, a kindly gentleman much resembling
 
 32 A MAGNIFICENT FARCE 
 
 Cardinal Newman in appearance. But the interest 
 at Daylesford is the church rather than the house. 
 I was traveling with that exquisite book of Le GaJ- 
 lienne's, "Travels in England," by way of a guide; 
 opening it I read : "Almost as soon as you catch 
 sight of it [the church] from the road, you see, too, a 
 great urn standing over a tomb beneath the east 
 window. Something tells you that that is the tomb 
 you seek, and, when you reach it, you find engraven 
 upon it the words ' Warren Hastings,* simply as they 
 are engraved across the Indian Empire, though per- 
 haps hardly so everlastingly. As one turned and 
 looked round at the peaceful green hills on every 
 side, it seemed strange to think what thundering 
 avenues of fame converged at this point of quiet 
 grass." 
 
 The original church dated back a thousand years 
 or so one "fabrick" giving away to another; the 
 one now standing was built at a time when English 
 architecture and our own was at its very worst : 
 1860. It supersedes a small and simple structure 
 erected by the great old man in an effort, it may be, 
 to make his peace with Heaven. A tablet erected 
 in the former church, now removed into the present 
 structure, testifies in a long inscription, "To the emi- 
 nently virtuous and lengthened life of Warren Has- 
 tings, Esquire, of Daylesford House in this Parish, 
 first Governor General of the British territories in 
 India," etc., ending with the pious hope, in which 
 we join, that the soul of the Lord's departed servant 
 may be at peace.
 
 II 
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 MY life has always been a singularly duplex affair : 
 one half of it no, much more, nine tenths of it 
 has been hard work, the rest of it has been spent in 
 my library ; even when I was a boy and had only a 
 shelf or two of books, I always called it my library. 
 
 As a result of much reading, and very little 
 thinking ; for like Charles Lamb, books do my think- 
 ing for me, I became moved to write a paper on the 
 pleasure of buying and owning books ; and, much to 
 my delight, not only was it accepted by a well-known 
 editor, paid for, and published, but people read it 
 and asked for more. It is the first step qui coute, as 
 the French so eloquently say. After the acceptance 
 of my first article my ascent was easy. 
 
 I have said that I have always been misunderstood. 
 For example : I never had any education, whereas it 
 is commonly supposed that I have sat, or at least 
 stood, at the knee of some great scholar like Kit- 
 tredge. The fact is that kindly disposed relatives 
 took me in hand at an early age and sent me from 
 one dame I had almost said damn school to an- 
 other, according to the views of the one who had me 
 in charge for the time being. This is a bad plan. 
 
 In like manner, when I grew up I got a job in a 
 bookstore, Porter & Coates's, and a fine bookstore
 
 84 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 it was ; but I never sold any books. I suppose it was 
 early discovered that, though I might take a cus- 
 tomer's money, I would never part with the books, 
 never deliver the goods, as it were, and for that reason 
 I was put in the stationery department. I made my 
 first acquaintance with pens, ink, and paper by selling 
 them, and in those days I had no idea what delight- 
 ful playthings they make. Because I spent a few 
 years at Porter & Coates's, I am supposed to have 
 gained there the knowledge of books that I am cred- 
 ited with. 
 
 And later on I was for a time in a banking-house, 
 and a most respectable banking house it was, too : 
 Brown Brothers & Co. a sort of younger son of 
 Brown, Shipley & Co. of London. There I drew 
 bills of exchange in sets of three : first, second, and 
 third of exchange, I remember they were called. I 
 never became much of a draftsman, but I soon be- 
 came expert enough to make three separate blunders 
 in a single bill. It took tune for these blunders to 
 come to the surface. I made a mistake in June in 
 Philadelphia, and it came to light in Shanghai in 
 December. I used to dread the arrival of a steamer. 
 I did not mind " steamer day " that meant outgo- 
 ing mail ; what I hated was an incoming post. I can 
 see now the brief notes written in clerkly longhand, 
 it was before the introduction of typewriters in re- 
 spectable houses, " calling attention for the sake 
 of regularity to the error in draft" number, name, 
 and amount given. I came to know just how long 
 after the arrival of the mail it would be before some-
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 35 
 
 one would tell me that Mr. Delano wanted to see me 
 in the back office. 
 
 This was the unhappiest time of my life. I can 
 imagine nothing more miserable than to spend the 
 best part of one's life in counting money, especially 
 some other fellow's money. Dr. Johnson, once re- 
 proached for his clumsiness in counting money, re- 
 marked, "But, Sir, consider how little experience I 
 have had." I had had as little. Then, to make the 
 game more difficult and to add to my misery, I was 
 expected to count it, not only in dollars and cents, 
 but in pounds, shillings, pence, francs, marks, and 
 anything else that the devilish ingenuity of man 
 could contrive. Reflection told me that I not only 
 was in the wrong pew, but in the wrong church as 
 well ; I determined to throw up my job and go into 
 business for myself : to do in a wholesale way what I 
 had done at retail. After some years, when I had 
 accumulated a little money, a man, thinking I had 
 much, called on me with a view to selling me an in- 
 terest in an electrical business. I was told that what 
 was needed was a financial manager ; and when upon 
 investigation I discovered that the business was in 
 the hands of the sheriff, I knew that I had not been 
 deceived. 
 
 A story of suffering and disaster is usually more 
 interesting than a story of commonplace success. 
 How in time I became the president of an electrical 
 manufacturing company, without knowing a volt 
 from an ampere, or a kilowatt from either, might be 
 interesting to my family, had they not heard it before,
 
 36 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 but to no one else. It is enough for me to say that 
 by the happiest kind of a fluke I came to have a name 
 not quite unknown in electrical and financial circles, 
 although nothing of an electrical engineer and very 
 little of a financier. 
 
 And now in my old age, for if an electrical busi- 
 ness will not prematurely age a man, nothing will, 
 when I sometimes so far forget myself as to talk of 
 eddy currents and hysteresis, I see that I deceive no 
 one ; that I am listened to as an old man is, when for 
 the hundredth time he starts to tell what he thinks is 
 a funny story ; for I am known to hate every living 
 mechanical thing with a royal hatred automobiles 
 especially, with their thousand parts, each capable of 
 being misunderstood. Even a screw-driver fills me 
 with suspicion, and a monkey-wrench with horror. 
 
 And I am not altogether alone in this : others so sit- 
 uated share my weakness. I was dining once in Lon- 
 don, quite informally, with a great electrical engi- 
 neer, a very trig maid in attendance. On the table 
 near my host's right hand was a small block of white 
 marble and a tiny silver mallet. When he wanted the 
 maid, he struck the marble a resounding blow. 
 
 I was somewhat amused, and asked him if he had 
 ever heard of a push-button for the same purpose. 
 
 "My boy, I have," was his reply, "but I get 
 enough of electrical devices in the city ; I don't want 
 a single one of them in my own home. I 've not come 
 yet to using gas ; I prefer candles ; they are not so 
 likely to get out of order. I hate this pushing a dimple 
 and waiting for something to happen. When I make
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 37 
 
 a noise myself I begin to feel a sense of progress ; 
 that's what we stand for in this country," with a 
 knowing wink, "progress." 
 
 I have frequently been asked how I came to write 
 a book. It is one of the few questions that have been 
 asked that I can answer. Away back in 1907 we had 
 a panic ; we have been in such a turmoil, financial 
 and other, since, that some of us have forgotten the 
 very respectable dimensions of the money panic of 
 the autumn of 1907. Not so the writer. I had gone to 
 Europe, in no way pleased with the financial outlook, 
 and to some extent prepared for a breeze, but not for 
 a typhoon. Enough : Christmas came as Christmas 
 will, and when it came time to say a word of greeting, 
 it seemed absurd to send a man (or a woman, for 
 women sometimes suffer in panics just as much as 
 men do) a dainty little card with a picture of a bunch 
 of mistletoe or a reindeer pulling a sleigh, and wishing 
 him or her a "Merry Christmas." Admitting that 
 "merriment" is a conventional wish anyway, I could 
 not bring myself to do it. 
 
 While I was turning over in my mind whether it 
 would not be possible for me to hit upon some thought 
 which might raise a smile amid the general gloom, 
 and for a moment escape the waste-paper basket, I 
 chanced to drop in on Horace Traubel, who, having 
 little to lose, was as happy as ever ; and in looking 
 over his Whitman manuscripts I came across a scrap 
 of paper on which was written a sentiment that 
 seemed particularly appropriate to the moment. So 
 I had a facsimile of it made and printed on one side 
 
 4 5 3 1 5
 
 38 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 of a card, with my own comment on the other. This 
 provided me with a "greeting" that caught the fancy 
 of some of my friends. Several " Captains " of politics, 
 industry, and finance, to whom it was shown, wrote 
 me and asked if I could "spare a copy" ; and almost 
 immediately my supply was exhausted and the mat- 
 ter passed out of my mind until the next year, when 
 I again indulged myself in a greeting a little more 
 personal than could be bought in a shop. I have con- 
 tinued this practice since : thus my descent into lit- 
 erature was gradual and easy. 
 
 Quite recently, in the drawer of an unused desk, I 
 found a sole remaining copy of my Christmas card 
 of 1907, which I now reproduce. 
 
 To the courtesy of Mr. Horace Traubel I am indebted 
 for the opportunity of reproducing an interesting scrap of 
 Whitman's handwriting. In Traubel's recently published 
 book, "With Walt Whitman in Camden," one of the 
 most remarkable biographical works since Boswell's 
 "Johnson," we read that he (Traubel) one day picked 
 up from the floor of Whitman's little study a stained piece 
 of paper and, reading it, looked at Whitman rather quiz- 
 zically. "What is it?" he asked. I handed it to him. 
 He pushed his glasses down over his eyes and read it. 
 "That's old and kind o' violent don't you think for 
 me? Yet I don't know but it still holds good." 
 
 If this was true twenty years ago, how much truer is it 
 to-day? And if it be said that Whitman was extreme in 
 his views and unguarded in his writings, what may be said 
 of the following absurdity redeemed by wit : 
 
 "He touched the dead corpse of public credit," said 
 Daniel Webster of Alexander Hamilton, "and it sprung 
 upon its feet."
 
 IrU.M 
 
 Stf 
 
 fH 02 
 
 SB 
 
 > K 
 ? O
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 39 
 
 Is it to be said of another New York Federalist, infinitely 
 more popular and far more of a Federalist than Hamilton, 
 that he touched the healthy body of private credit and it 
 became a corpse ? Shall it be added that an adoring nation 
 cheered the miracle and murmured with reverent lips : 
 "Hail, Caesar ! We who are about to bust salute you" ? 
 
 Or of the following absurdity unredeemed : 
 
 "All that our people have to do now is to go ahead 
 with their normal business in a normal fashion and the 
 whole difficulty disappears ; and this end will be achieved 
 at once if each man will act as he normally does act. . . . 
 
 "The Government will see that the people do not suf- 
 ier if only the people themselves will act in a normal way." 
 
 No mollycoddle's work is this; this broad guaranty 
 drips clumsily from the pen of a strenuous man in a panic 
 at the panic he has made. 
 
 Under "normal" conditions it would now be in order 
 to shout Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year ; but 
 to shout anything at the moment might be out of place 
 thanks to our so-called "Captains" of Politics, Industry, 
 and Finance, a Merry Christmas is out of the question, 
 and a Happy New Year unlikely. 
 
 Cheer up. Let's have a drink : "Here's to a full baby- 
 carriage and an empty dinner-pail !" 
 
 A. E. N. 
 
 Times change quickly, and once again we face an 
 era of the empty dinner-pail. Whose fault is it ? How 
 shall it be remedied ? These are not questions for 
 the mere book-collector, for the nonce (how long is a 
 nonce ?) wielding a pen. 
 
 Do not be alarmed, gentle reader ; this introduc- 
 tion is almost over. It is like a door stuck tight which, 
 when, by a great effort, you have forced it open, you 
 find leads nowhere.
 
 40 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 I set out some time ago to tell how I came to be an 
 author, and then I lost my place ; better authors than 
 I ever hope to be have done the same. 
 
 I shall start over again. There is a rhyme to this 
 effect : 
 
 A little home well filled, 
 A little wife well willed, 
 Are great riches. 
 
 Having these, I wanted one thing more. I wanted 
 to add a leaf I did not ask to add a tree, not even a 
 sapling, only a single leaf to that forest which we 
 call English literature, that stately forest in which 
 for many years I have delighted to lose myself. It is 
 an honorable ambition and I gave it full play ; and 
 I was as pleased as Punch when, after a time, it was 
 suggested that if, in addition to a number of essays 
 that had already appeared in the "Atlantic," I had 
 some other literary material, as it is called, it would 
 be read with the idea of publication in book form. 
 
 In due time a book appeared a book, mind you. 
 Boswell, in conversation one day with Johnson, re- 
 marked that he had read a certain statement. " Why, 
 Sir, no doubt," replied the sage, "but not in a bound 
 book." There is a great difference between an essay 
 in a magazine and the same essay in a bound book. 
 My book was bound. As one of my critics very 
 kindly said of the publication, it might not be worthy 
 of the immortality of morocco, but it certainly was 
 a very pretty success "in boards." 
 
 But, after all, reading is the test. Anyone can 
 write and print and bind a certain number of pages ;
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 41 
 
 the thing is to get people to read them. A great man 
 can wait for posterity, but for a little man it is now 
 or never. A book's life is almost as brief as a butter- 
 fly's. There is something pathetic about the brevity 
 of the life of a book. A man works over it, thinks 
 about it, talks about it, if he can get anyone to listen 
 to him; at last he finds a publisher, and the book ap- 
 pears. For a few days, perhaps, it may be seen in the 
 bookshops, and then, like the snowflake in the river, 
 it disappears, and forever. Speaking by and large, 
 the greatest successes escape this fate only for a mo- 
 ment. There are so many books ! Go into any public ,. 
 library and ask what proportion of the books on the 
 shelves are called for, say, once in ten years. The 
 answer should make for modesty in authors. That it 
 does not do so proves only with what eagerness we 
 pursue the phantoms of hope. 
 
 But I must avoid a minor note in my carol. D 'Is- 
 raeli has written of the Calamities and Quarrels of 
 authors I write only of the amenities of author- 
 ship. When writing ceases to be a delight, I will give 
 it over. Meanwhile, the trifling honor that has come 
 to me is very gratifying. My book was published in 
 November, 1918. Within a short time commenda- 
 tory letters began to arrive. They came from every 
 part of the country, at first single spies, and then bat- 
 talions. Almost all of them from entire strangers. 
 Not many of my friends wrote me. When a man is 
 publishing his first book, his friends, feeling that a 
 great joke is being perpetrated, want to have a hand 
 in it and do not hesitate to remind him that they are
 
 42 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 looking forward to receiving a presentation volume, 
 the inference being that they, at least, may be de- 
 pended upon to read it. But I remembered Dr. John- 
 son's remark : "Sir, if you want people to read your 
 book, do not give it to them. People value a book 
 most when they buy it." 
 
 When the book finally appeared, and people began 
 to read and talk of it, many things, grave as well as 
 gay, resulted, the gayest being a dinner given to me 
 at one of the clubs, at which I was presented with a 
 copy of my own book superbly bound by Zucker in 
 full crushed levant morocco. A special page was in- 
 serted in it, whereon was printed, among other gibes 
 and floutings, a paragraph from the book itself : " I 
 trust my friends will not think me churlish when I 
 say that it is not my intention to turn a single copy of 
 this, my book, into a presentation volume." This 
 was followed by a "stinging rebuke from the uncom- 
 mercial committee which is paying for the dinner and 
 which regards presentation copies as the cardinal 
 virtue of good book-collecting." 
 
 It was a merry dinner, and well on toward morn- 
 ing, after the wine had been flowing freely for several 
 hours, my friend Kit Morley wrote on the back of a 
 menu card the following parody of Leigh Hunt's well- 
 known poem, " Abou Ben Adhem" : 
 
 ABOU A. EDWARD 
 
 A. Edward Newton may his tribe e'er wax 
 Awoke one night from dreaming of Rosenbach's, 
 And saw among the bookshelves in his room, 
 Making it like a "Shelley first" in bloom, 11
 
 (nru^ A- 
 
 d . 
 
 PARODY OF A FAMOUS POEM, BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 43 
 
 A Boswell writing in a book of gold. 
 
 Amenities had made Ben Edward bold, 
 
 And to the vision in the room he said, 
 
 "What writest thou?" The Boswell raised its head, 
 
 And with a voice almost as stern as Hector's, 
 
 Replied, "An index of the great collectors." 
 
 "Sir, am I one?" quoth Edward. "Nay, not so," 
 
 Replied the Boswell. Edward spake more low, 
 
 But cheerly still : " Sir, let us have no nonsense ! 
 
 Write me at least as a lover of Dr. Johnson's." 
 
 The Boswell wrote and vanished. The next night 
 
 He came again with an increase of light, 
 
 And showed the names whom love of books had blessed 
 
 And lo, A. Edward's name led all the rest ! 
 
 In the cold gray light of the morning after, it was 
 seen that this poem lacks some of those transcendent 
 qualities which have given Shelley's "Cloud" and 
 Keats's "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer" 
 such enduring fame; but at the time it was composed 
 and read, it produced a prodigious effect upon the 
 company, and some day my heirs, executors, admin- 
 istrators, and assigns may sell the manuscript at auc- 
 tion for a price which will amaze them. But this 
 verges upon prophecy. 
 
 I had another pleasant experience not long after 
 the publication of the "Amenities," to which I refer 
 chiefly that I may link my name, if only for a mo- 
 ment, with that of a dear friend and fine scholar, now 
 dead, Francis B. Gummere. 
 
 I was in Boston, and had been invited to a meal, 
 too elaborate to be called a luncheon and hardly for- 
 mal enough for a dinner, at the Club of Odd Volumes, 
 as the guest of George Parker Winship, the librarian
 
 44 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 of the Widener Memorial Library. It was a delight- 
 ful affair, and I was seated next to a good Johnsonian, 
 Mr. Harold Murdock, who was good-naturedly chaff- 
 ing me over some item which I had wanted and he 
 had acquired at a recent sale, when a distinguished- 
 looking man entered the room and took his place at 
 the other end of the table. Hearing that there was 
 merriment at our end, he joined in the good-natured 
 raillery, and I, having no idea who he was, seized 
 upon what appeared to be a good opening to say : 
 "You're having a good deal of fun at my expense; 
 you have the advantage of me you know who I 
 am : I am a distinguished guest ; whereas I do not 
 know you at all ; you may be a man of no import " 
 
 The rest of my sentence was lost in a burst of 
 laughter, at the end of which he told me he was 
 George L. Kittredge, and I discovered that I was 
 bandying words with a landmark of learning at 
 Harvard, and by common consent the most distin- 
 guished professor of English in the country. I had 
 to carry matters with a high hand, or I should have 
 been done for. So I told him not to apologize and 
 that I seemed to remember having heard my friend 
 Gummere speak highly of him. "Ah," replied Kit- 
 tredge, "do you know Gummere ?" And when I told 
 him that I did, he, like the polished gentleman that 
 he is, rose and, rilling his wine-glass, bowed and said, 
 "Sir, I am drinking wine with you and to him." 
 
 Well, we spent a delightful afternoon together, 
 at least it was delightful to me, in the course of 
 which Kittredge said: "Did you ever meet a man
 
 THE LATE FRANCIS B. GUMMERE, 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AT HAVERFORD COLLEGE
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 45 
 
 more universal in his knowledge than Frank ? What 
 a delightful companion he is ! Have you ever heard 
 of a book that he has not read ?" 
 
 And then I told him of a little club of which I had 
 been a member for thirty years or more, a club with- 
 out a name or rules or anything, which it was diffi- 
 cult to get into, and once in, impossible to get out of, 
 of which my friends Henry Hanby Hay 1 and H. H. 
 Bonnell and Felix Schelling were the founders, and 
 which Gummere finally joined as our baby member. 
 It 's a thing of the past now, our club ; but what a 
 club it was ! We devoted ourselves to the study of 
 the more obscure English authors. There was plenty 
 of give and take at our meetings, and it was an estab- 
 lished custom among us, when we saw a head, to hit 
 it. At our meetings how Gummere shone ! And when 
 he forgot himself, as he occasionally did, and over- 
 whelmed us with his learning, it was our habit to 
 bring him down to earth by saying, "Steady there, 
 Gummere, remember you are not Kittredge !" 
 
 When our sitting broke up, as sittings must, at 
 parting Kittredge said to me, "When you see Frank, 
 give him my love. He 's one of my oldest and warm- 
 est friends." 
 
 On my way home a day or two later, I chanced to 
 pick up a paper and read that Gummere, the cultured, 
 amiable scholar, had suddenly passed away. I never 
 had an opportunity of delivering Kittredge's mes- 
 
 1 1 wish here and now formally to acknowledge the debt I owe to the 
 Club (especially to dear old Hay) ; and, paraphrasing Dick Steele, I 
 might say that to have been a member of it for thirty years is a liberal 
 education.
 
 46 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 sage, and our little club has never had a meeting 
 since his death. I fancy it had outlived its usefulness ; 
 most of us joined it when we were in our early twen- 
 ties, and we had, to quote Goldsmith's remark, which 
 so aroused Dr. Johnson's ire, " travelled pretty well 
 over one another's minds. " Some of us were getting 
 too old to be regular in our attendance, and old Father 
 Time, too, had been busy with his scythe, and there 
 was a feeling that the places of those who had gone 
 could never be filled. 
 
 Written, as my book professedly was, for the tired 
 business man, it had an equal success with the sex 
 which we have been taught to think of as fair. I came 
 to have in some small measure the astonished feeling 
 that Byron had, when he awoke and found himself 
 famous, except that I feared to wake and discover 
 that my success was a dream. I dreaded the arrival 
 of the time when flattering letters would be a thing of 
 the past, and when friends would no longer stop me 
 in the street to tell me that they never would have 
 supposed that I could write a book. 
 
 My reputation as a Johnsonian grew out of all 
 proportion to my knowledge; and if I recast a bit of 
 dialogue with a casual acquaintance on a street cor- 
 ner it must stand, not for the single encounter, but 
 for a hundred. 
 
 FRIEND. I never hear Dr. Johnson's name men- 
 tioned without thinking of you. 
 
 N. That's very good of you (with a leer). 
 
 FRIEND. There were two Johnsons were n't there ? 
 Did n't one write plays ?
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 47 
 
 N. Yes, but they spelled their names differently, 
 and Ben Jonson died 
 
 FRIEND. I remember I sat in his seat in a tavern 
 the last time I was in London in 1907, no, 1909, I 
 can't remember now whether it was 1907 or 1909, 
 but I sat in Dr. Johnson's seat in a tavern ; let me see, 
 I have forgotten the name, but it was in the Strand. 
 
 N. (wearily). No, it was not in the Strand, it 
 was in Fleet Street, and the name of the tavern was 
 the Cheshire Cheese 
 
 FRIEND (exultingly, as one who has found great 
 treasure) . That 's it the Cheshire Cheese ! I 
 had lunch there and I sat in Dr. Johnson's seat. Have 
 you ever been there . 
 
 N. Yes, and it may surprise you to know that 
 there is not one single contemporary reference to 
 Johnson's ever having visited the Cheshire Cheese. 
 
 FRIEND. Why, that's queer. I was told 
 
 N. (firmly) . Yes, I know very well what you 
 were told, but it's all fiction. The legend that he 
 frequently visited the Cheshire Cheese has grown up 
 in the last century, and is founded on nothing more 
 than possibility, or, at most, probability. 
 
 FRIEND. You surprise me. Well, it's a dirty old 
 place, anyhow. I always preferred going to Simp- 
 son's. 
 
 N. Now you're talking! Don't you wish you 
 were there now ? Well, I must be on my way. 
 
 For the reason, I suppose, that it was soon recog- 
 nized that my book was written in the leisure hours
 
 48 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 of a busy man, it escaped severe treatment at the 
 hands of the critics. Allowances were made. Dr. 
 Johnson suggests that a woman's preaching should 
 not be criticized ; rather, one should be surprised that 
 she does it at all. Thus amiably was my writing con- 
 sidered. It was, however, rather disconcerting to dis- 
 cover that in no single instance, I believe, was I 
 asked a question that I was able to answer. This 
 leads me to reach the profound conclusion that there 
 are many more questions than answers in this world. 
 
 One thing greatly surprised me : it seems that my 
 book had created the very erroneous idea that all 
 old books are valuable, especially those in which /'s 
 take the place of s's. This form which began 
 almost with the art of printing, continued through- 
 out the eighteenth century, and signifies exactly 
 nothing at all was supposed to be a mark of spe- 
 cial significance ; and it took all the tact I was master 
 of to break the news of its lack of significance gently 
 to those who were thinking of selling a few volumes 
 which had long been regarded as invaluable family 
 treasures. 
 
 When the famous Gutenberg Bible was bought by 
 Mr. Huntington at the Hoe sale in New York, in 
 1911, people generally especially in the remote 
 country formed the idea that, Mr. Gutenberg hav- 
 ing recently died, his widow had disposed of the fam- 
 ily Bible for the sum of fifty thousand dollars, and, 
 it was thought, would be willing to pay a substantial 
 fraction of this sum for any other old Bible that might 
 be offered. Consequently, "Mrs. Gutenberg" was
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 49 
 
 overwhelmed with offerings of Bibles, most of which 
 would have been dear at one dollar. 
 
 In like manner, I was overwhelmed with offerings 
 of Burns. I had casually mentioned, in speaking of a 
 Kilmarnock Burns in boards uncut, that the price 
 might be about five thousand dollars. The book was 
 published in 1786, and the reasoning which went on 
 in the minds of those who addressed me on the sub- 
 ject seems to have been : if a copy of Burns printed 
 one hundred and twenty-five years ago is worth five 
 thousand dollars, a copy half as old would be worth 
 half as much ; certainly a copy of Burns printed in 
 1825 must be worth, say, a thousand dollars. 
 
 One old lady, suffering from sciatica and desirous 
 of spending some months at Mount Clemens, de- 
 cided to part with her copy for this amount. She 
 wrote me as follows: "My copy of Burns belonged to 
 my grandfather. It is of 1825 edition, bound with 
 gilt edges, and is in fair condition for so old a book 
 (almost a hundred years) . It is of course very yellow 
 and some pages are much worn; however, it is all 
 there: 9 
 
 Another lady wrote: "Under standing you are de- 
 sirous of buying old books, I write to say that I 
 know of families having same in then* possession. 
 Before I make inquiry I want to get all the infor- 
 mation possible. I am anxious to make money in a 
 pleasing way, and this seems along the lines of my 
 taste and inclinations. Please let me know what you 
 want to buy, by return mail." Not getting a reply 
 by return mail, she wrote another letter, this time
 
 50 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 sending a stamped envelope : "I wrote you recently 
 about old books. I am anxious to begin. Please write 
 at once, sending me a list of books that are valuable." 
 
 From a man in Texas came this gem, on a letter- 
 head of William Crawford, who called himself an 
 Electrician, Plumber, and Steamfitter : "Dear Sir: 
 I understand you have gotten out a book giving a 
 list of old books that are valuable. Does it come 
 free of charge ? If so, send it right along, as I know 
 where some books are that I would like to know the 
 value of." 
 
 Many of these tributes to my genius I owe to the 
 editor of that enterprising journal, the Kansas City 
 "Star," for an excellent review which appeared in 
 that paper, I call it excellent because it was so 
 flattering, and which was copied far and wide, 
 even in the metropolitan press. It created the idea 
 that I knew all that was to be known about the en- 
 trancing subject of book-collecting. "Get hold of a 
 book entitled 'The Amenities of Book-Collecting/ 
 by A. Edward Newton, and you will find therein the 
 golden key that will open up for you whatever there 
 is of mystery about the game," the review said. 
 
 This "golden-key" business bedeviled me for a 
 tune. I was asked to send forward promptly the 
 "golden key," and at the time, not having seen the 
 article, I was quite hi the dark to know what was 
 meant. It seemed as if, the moment this phrase met 
 the eye of the reader, he or she followed the instruc- 
 tions au pied de la lettre. One man, evidently a busi- 
 ness man in Minnesota with no time for the " Ameni-
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 51 
 
 ties/' wrote me briefly and to the point: "Give me 
 all particulars about old rare books. Send me the 
 4 golden key' at once. I have some." 
 
 My prize letter, however, reached me in England. 
 It is a pretty generally accepted opinion over there 
 that every American is a millionaire, and when the 
 English think of us, it is usually to call to mind the 
 old adage about a fool and his money. My corre- 
 spondent certainly did when he penned this gem : 
 
 11 CLOVELLY ROAD, HORNSEY, LONDON, 
 
 October 30, 1920. 
 DEAR SIR : 
 
 I have in my possession a book called "Catulli Tibulli 
 et Propertii Opera," the works of Catullus, Tibullus, & 
 Propertius, Latin poets, in Latin, published at London 
 1715 by Tonson & Watts. It has the following important 
 inscription: "James Boswell Cambridge 1760. A Present 
 from my friend Temple." You can have this extremely 
 interesting memento of the famous friendship between 
 Boswell and Temple for one thousand pounds. 
 
 As I understand from the "Bookman's Journal" that 
 you are at present in London, I shall be pleased to wait 
 upon you, if you so desire it, to show you the book. I have 
 addressed this letter c/o your publisher, Mr. Lane. 
 Hoping to hear from you at your convenience, I am, 
 
 Yours v. truly, 
 
 PETER STRUTHERS. 
 
 Now think of it ! But for the kindness of my cor- 
 respondent, I might never have suspected that Catul- 
 lus, Tibullus, and Propertius were Latin poets; and 
 no doubt Mr. Struthers's mind was working nor- 
 mally when he assumed that an American would be
 
 52 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 willing to acquire the volume for a sum almost equal, 
 at the normal rate of exchange, to five thousand 
 dollars ! Disappointed, he may by this time have sold 
 his "interesting memento" to some dealer in the 
 Charing Cross Road for a few shillings, and I may 
 yet become the owner of it for a guinea, at which 
 figure it would be by no means a bargain. 
 
 From the days of the Phoenicians the English have 
 been fixing both the buying and the selling price. It 
 is no accident, but industry directed by intelligence, 
 that has made them the greatest traders in the world. 
 If you doubt this statement, read " England's Treas- 
 ure by Forraign Trade," by Thomas Mun; it was 
 written almost three hundred years ago, but a mod- 
 ern reprint is readily obtainable. At the moment, 
 they are in debt to us, and the idea is very distaste- 
 ful to them ; so distasteful that they propose that we 
 should cancel our loans to them, in exchange for 
 which courtesy they propose to cancel loans to their 
 insolvent debtors to an equal amount. It sounds pre- 
 posterous, but is it ? 
 
 Europe, they say, cannot possibly pay its debts. 
 I doubt if it can. The debt of the Allied nations to us 
 is, roughly, ten billion dollars ; the interest charge 
 alone will soon amount to two million dollars a day ! 
 Think of it ! Theoretically, the debt, both principal 
 and interest, is payable in gold ; actually, it must be 
 paid in merchandise, for there is not enough gold to go 
 round. Do we Americans want ten billion dollars' 
 worth of manufactured goods or staples seeping into 
 this country? Would not farmer and manufacturer
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 53 
 
 alike build a tariff wall to prevent it ? And if we could 
 collect the money over a long term of years, should 
 we be wise to do so, thereby bankrupting our best 
 customer? Would it not be better to get down to 
 brass tacks, fund the debt, spread it over a term of 
 years, and pay it ourselves ? We now know what it 
 costs to elect a president on the issue "He kep' us 
 out of war," when we should have been in it, and 
 the price of " Making the world safe for Democracy " ; 
 I, for one, maintain that it is not worth it. 
 
 There is only one mistake we have not yet made, 
 and that is, having finally become convinced that it 
 would be unwise or impossible to collect the debt, to 
 continue to hold it over our late allies and talk about 
 our generosity in not pushing our claim. 
 
 But to return to my correspondence, after this 
 brief foray into the dismal science. 
 
 I received some letters which would give delight 
 even to so hardened an author as H. G. Wells. Cap- 
 tains of Industry, whose names are household words 
 in Wall Street, seem to have found relief from the 
 cares of the hour in my pages ; and officers just re- 
 turned from duty in France, anxious to forget the 
 horrors of the Argonne, dipped into me as if I were a 
 bath of oblivion. Finally, I was asked to name my 
 price for lectures. Of the many unexpected results of 
 my little success, this was the most amusing. I in- 
 variably replied to requests for "terms" by a story 
 told me by Sir Walter Raleigh, the great Oxford 
 scholar. A friend, being asked to name his fee for a
 
 54 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 
 
 lecture, replied, "I have a three-guinea lecture and a 
 five-guinea lecture and a ten-guinea lecture, but I 
 can't honestly recommend the three-guinea lecture." 
 I said that I had only three-guinea lectures in stock 
 and that I could n't recommend them, especially as I 
 should have to charge a hundred guineas for them. 
 No doubt my correspondents thought me mad. 
 
 It was Sir Walter Raleigh who suggested that I 
 write a paper on Mrs. Thrale, although my title for 
 it, "A Light-Blue Stocking," is my own. And speak- 
 ing of Sir Walter, let me tell a story of him, which I 
 have never seen in print, but which deserves to be 
 immortal. 
 
 He was to deliver a series of ten-guinea lectures at 
 Princeton University, and was expecting to be met 
 by President Hibben at the railway station. Just at 
 the hour of his arrival, Dr. Hibben discovered that 
 he had a very important meeting of the trustees, or 
 something, which he could not very well miss. There 
 was nothing to be done but call upon one of the 
 younger professors to go to the station, meet the 
 distinguished man, and escort him to "Prospect," 
 Dr. Hibben's residence. 
 
 The professor thus called upon was glad to be of 
 service, but remarked, "I have never met Sir Walter. 
 How shall I know him ?" 
 
 "Oh, very easily," replied Dr. Hibben ; "Sir Walter 
 is a very large, distinguished-looking man. You can't 
 miss him ; you will probably know almost every man 
 getting off the train from New York ; the man you 
 don't know will be the man you are looking for."
 
 ON COMMENCING AUTHOR 55 
 
 With these instructions Dr. Hibben's representa- 
 tive proceeded to the station, met the incoming train, 
 and seeing a large, distinguished-looking man wearing 
 a silk hat, approached him, remarking, "I presume I 
 am addressing Sir Walter Raleigh." 
 
 The gentleman thus accosted was much astonished, 
 but, pulling himself together, quickly replied, " No ! 
 I 'm Christopher Columbus. You will find Sir Walter 
 Raleigh in the smoking-car playing poker with Queen 
 Elizabeth." 
 
 The man, as it turned out, was a New York banker ; 
 he had heard much of the impudence of the Prince- 
 ton undergraduate and decided to nip it in the bud. 
 No one enjoyed the story more than Sir Walter him- 
 self when it was told him. 
 
 In the words of "Koheleth," as my friend Dr. 
 Jastrow prefers to call the author of "Ecclesiastes," 
 in his delightful book, "The Gentle Cynic," "Hear 
 the conclusion of the whole matter : ' Much study is 
 weariness to the flesh.'" "Much" study, observe. 
 I have given my subject only such study as has pro- 
 duced, not weariness, but pleasure. Books are for me 
 a solace and a joy. We are told that of the making of 
 them there is no end. Be it so. Let us rejoice that, 
 whatever comes, books will continue to be, books 
 that suit our every mood and fancy. If all is vanity, 
 as "The Preacher" says, how can we better employ 
 our time than by reading books and writing about 
 them?
 
 Ill 
 
 LUCK 
 
 I AM a strong believer in luck. I know that Emer- 
 son says that luck is the refuge of the shallow, but 
 I don't care much what one philospher says ; I will 
 find you another philosopher of equal standing who 
 will flatly disagree. Gibbon, in his fascinating "Auto- 
 biography," speaks of his life as being the lucky 
 chance of one unit against millions ; and in propor- 
 tion to my deserts I have been far luckier than he ; 
 but we can have too much of a good thing. I once 
 heard a story of a man who, walking along a coun- 
 try road, noticed a horse-shoe lying at his feet, and, 
 picking it up, remarked to himself, "I'm in luck." 
 A few yards farther on he picked up another, saying 
 as he did so, "This is certainly my lucky day." A 
 little farther on he came across another, and then 
 another, and he kept on picking them up until he 
 was loaded down with them. Finally he saw, some 
 distance ahead of him, a large wagon full of old, rusty 
 horse-shoes, on its way to the junk-heap, which led 
 him to make the wise observation that too much 
 luck is junk. 
 
 In trudging along the dusty road of life, I have 
 picked up symbols of luck just often enough to make 
 me feel sure that they were not falling from an over- 
 loaded wagon. I was lucky when my wife picked me
 
 LUCK 57 
 
 out for her husband and so delicately ensnared me 
 that I thought I was doing the courting. My chil- 
 dren have not been a bitter disappointment, and I 
 have been singularly blessed in the matter of a busi- 
 ness partner. And finally, I wrote a book, the suc- 
 cess of which I feel sure made even my friends admit 
 that I was right, at least once, when I said that my 
 achievements were largely luck. How my book 
 came to be published was told in the introduction, 
 and need not be told over again. Nor am I now con- 
 cerned with the impression it made on others ; its 
 readers could work their way through its pages and 
 forget it, but its publication had a profound effect 
 upon its writer. It gave him a reputation as a col- 
 lector so far above that which he merited that, in an 
 effort to live up to it, he has well-nigh ruined him- 
 self. We are so constituted that we never care to hear 
 much of the successes of our friends ; but their diffi- 
 culties are very comforting to us, and, properly set 
 down, make very pretty reading ; so I continue. 
 
 The foolish and ignorant frequently say to me : 
 "However do you find such lovely and wonderful 
 things?" "Lovely" and "wonderful" are the words 
 they use ; and when, in reply, I tell them that the diffi- 
 culty is not in the finding but in the paying for such 
 treasures as I seem to require for my reputation's 
 sake, they think that I am spoofing them, to use a 
 word we have borrowed from our English cousins. 
 
 There is, of course, a certain class of literary prop- 
 erty to which I have no right items so far above 
 my means that they make no appeal whatever. I
 
 58 LUCK 
 
 remember once hearing an old gentleman of consid- 
 erable means say, in reply to my question why he did 
 not buy such and such things that I knew he would 
 enjoy : "I would like to have them, of course ; but if I 
 should buy them, what would the Vanderbilts buy ?" 
 In like manner, assuming that the possession of a 
 pocketful of Shakespeare quartos meant more to me 
 than the possession of wife and children with a tight 
 roof over our heads, and that I should yield to temp- 
 tation, what would the real collectors do ? 
 
 But there are countless items in what may be 
 called the second class, which formerly used to come 
 my way and tempt me occasionally, but which now 
 come in close formation. Such defense as I am able 
 to make seems to have no effect whatever. If life is, 
 as life is said to be, just one damn thing after an- 
 other, what shall be said of my existence, tempera- 
 mentally fitted to withstand everything except temp- 
 tation ? And the arguments of my friends, the book- 
 sellers, are so skillf ully brought to bear ; they scratch 
 where it itches, and I am so grateful until the first 
 of the month, when the bills come in. 
 
 I had supposed that I could' resist flattery. I have 
 been selling something or other all my life. I know 
 something of the wiles of the class to which I belong ; 
 but since I first tried my prentice-hand at making a 
 living by selling things, a class has grown up so skill- 
 ful that I am how does the old phrase go ? but 
 wax in their hands. Be this as it may, my ruin is 
 impending I know it is ; and when the sheriff gets 
 me, as he surely will, and to satisfy my creditors my
 
 LUCK 59 
 
 books have to be sold, I have decided just what title 
 my friend Mitchell Kennerley, that genial soul who 
 presides over the fortunes of the Anderson Auction 
 Company in New York, will put upon my sales 
 catalogue : 
 
 WHO'LL BUY, WHO'LL BUY 
 THE BOOKS OF A BUSTED BIBLIOPHILE? 
 
 And in imagination I can hear the auctioneer saying : 
 "Now, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your 
 attention, we will sell the library of a collector well 
 known to many of you. The books are all in good 
 condition, having been collected by one who was 
 careful to admit nothing into his library, etc. If you 
 will turn to the first item in your catalogue, we'll 
 begin the sale. 'A'Beekett, Comic History of Eng- 
 land. First edition, two volumes, in original cloth.' 
 How much am I bid ? Thank you," and so on, 
 down to Zaehnsdorf's "Short History of Book- 
 binding." 
 
 And it won't be so bad ! Better men than I have 
 parted with their books better men, mind you, 
 but none with a greater love of books than I ; and 
 if my present collection has to be jettisoned, I'll at 
 once begin collecting over again. Not from me shall 
 arise a sombre sonnet, "To My Books on Parting 
 With Them" for two reasons: in the first place, 
 I could not write a sonnet with a set of the "first 
 folios " as a reward ; and the second reason is tem- 
 peramental : I have never allowed myself to become 
 "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." 
 
 And maybe the sale won't take place, after all.
 
 60 
 
 LUCK 
 
 plea- 
 
 Otmtanfcpiofitft* 
 
 Maybe I'll be able to compound with my creditors 
 for a penny in the pound. I have heard of such 
 terms, and I cannot imagine anything more satis- 
 factory. I must have had some such terms as these 
 
 in my mind when a 
 little Skelton work- 
 ed its way into my 
 library, and took its 
 place on my shelves 
 just alongside my 
 copy of the first edi- 
 tion of Piers Plow- 
 man. Now, Skeltons 
 are rare ; even Bev- 
 erly Chew admits 
 that. What was it he 
 said in his introduc- 
 
 ttcr Skelton, 
 
 Pocte Lau- 
 
 reate. 
 
 collected atft 
 
 nclulp ptibllfljco. 
 
 1568. 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 London hi Flettjlrtdte f 
 neart lento faint (Dunflonet 
 
 bfarfhe. 
 
 tion to the sale cata- 
 logue of the Hagen 
 books? "If I were 
 asked what is the 
 scarcest item in the 
 sale, I should unhes- 
 itatingly say, that charming little volume contain- 
 ing four poems of John Skelton, Poet Laureate to 
 King Henry VII." That little paragraph did for 
 me, followed as it was by this: "One who followed 
 with some apprehension Mr. Hagen' s continual 
 investment in books said he thought he would do 
 better to purchase good bonds. 'No,' said Hagen, 
 'my books are worth more than your bonds.' Let
 
 LUCK 
 
 61 
 
 us hope he was right ; recent events would seem to 
 confirm his judgment." 
 
 Well, it turned out just as he had hoped. I went to 
 the sale with that "What would the Vanderbilts 
 buy ?" story in the back 
 of my head; and from 
 where I sat it seemed as 
 if the whole family were 
 competing for the Skel- 
 ton. I don't know who 
 got it, but the auction- 
 eer's hammer fell when 
 someone said "$9700," 
 and then and there I 
 determined to have a 
 Skelton not the edition 
 of 1520, of course, but 
 a Skelton, nevertheless : 
 say the "Pithy, Pleas- 
 aunt and Profitable 
 Workes, nowe collected 
 and newly published. 
 Anno 1568." And so 
 when, a year or two later, a fine black-letter copy in 
 contemporary vellum turned up in London, where 
 Wells got it and brought it to New York, what was 
 I to do ? Reader, what would you have done ? 
 Well, that 's exactly what I did, and that 's how this 
 dainty little volume snuggled its way into this room, 
 where it seemingly is quite as much at home as it 
 was in Mr. Thomas Marshe's shoppe in Fletestreate 
 
 COLIN CLOVTS 
 
 Come home againe. 
 
 LONDON 
 Primed for rv Alton Ptxjvatie. 
 
 I t 9 
 
 (Observe the spelling of the author's 
 name in this facsimile.)
 
 62 LUCK 
 
 neare unto saint Dunstones Churche, three hundred 
 and fifty years ago. I smoked several cheap cigars 
 on the night of its arrival one has to economize 
 in something. 
 
 One great temptation I have so far avoided, 
 Restoration Plays, assisted in my escape by their 
 rarity and consequent high prices. These little vol- 
 umes, many of them bearing titles which can hardly 
 be mentioned when ladies are around, fascinate 
 scholar and collector alike. No one who knows him 
 would, I fancy, dispute Dr. Schelling's claim to have 
 read every old play in our literature. And they had 
 the same fascination for Trollope, who in his "Auto- 
 biography" says : "Of late years, putting aside the 
 Latin classics, I have found my greatest pleasure in 
 our old English dramatists, not from any exces- 
 sive love of their work, which often irritates me by 
 its want of truth to nature even while it shames me 
 by its language, but from curiosity in searching 
 then* plots and examining their character. If I live 
 a few years longer, I shall, I think, leave in my copies 
 of these dramatists, down to the close of James I, writ- 
 ten criticisms on every play. No one who has not 
 looked closely into it knows how many there are. 
 
 But if I have so far withstood the lure of the drama, 
 the desire to own first editions of those poets who 
 have done so much to fix our language and who have 
 enriched our common inheritance beyond that of 
 other nations, is strong and will not be denied. Al- 
 though I boast a "Colin Clout" and "The Faerie 
 Queene," it is not until I reach the "Hesperides" of
 
 LUCK 
 
 63 
 
 Herrick that I really enjoy myself. This lovely book 
 opens up a whole train of wants, satisfied, thank 
 Heaven, in Lovelace's "Lucasta," Suckling's "Frag- 
 menta Aurea," and Carew (one of the Gentlemen of 
 the Privie Bed-Chamber and Sewer in Ordinary to 
 His Majesty), his "Po- 
 ems," and many more, 
 right down to Brown- 
 ing's "Men and Wom- 
 en," two small volumes, 
 containing some of his 
 best poetry, without 
 which no collection of 
 the poets is worthy of 
 the name. 
 
 It is a curious thing, 
 what trifling incidents 
 give a slant to one's col- 
 lecting ; all through life 
 it is the same story 
 One goes to a party, 
 passes a dish of ice- 
 cream to a person with 
 a pair of particularly bright eyes, becomes engaged, 
 married, and done for almost before one knows it. 
 My interest in Defoe came about just as fortuitously. 
 Many years ago I was spending a week or so in Ox- 
 ford, occasionally running up to London on business. 
 One day my affairs took me into the City Road, and 
 having an hour to spare, I spent it prowling around 
 in Bunhill Fields Burying Ground, looking at the
 
 64 
 
 LUCK 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 graves of the all-but-forgotten worthies buried there. 
 Quite unexpectedly I came upon the grave of Bun- 
 yan, and a little later upon that of Defoe, erected by 
 
 the subscriptions of 
 the school - children 
 of England. The dis- 
 covery gave me a 
 pleasant thrill. That 
 evening, after dinner, 
 in a tiny smoking- 
 room of the King's 
 Arms in Oxford, I 
 fell into conversation 
 with an American 
 gentleman who ap- 
 peared interested in 
 Defoe, and to him, 
 in a few well-chosen 
 words,! imparted my 
 opinion of the author 
 of " Robinson Cru- 
 
 THOMAS CAREVV 
 Efquire, 
 
 One of the Gentlemen of die 
 
 Privic-Chamber , and Sewer in 
 
 O rdinary to His Majcfly. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 Printed by 7. D. for Ihmu Wnlklej, 
 
 and are to be fold at the figne of the 
 
 flying Horfc, between Brittains 
 
 Jtorfc, andYork-Honfe. 
 
 soe. " He agreed with 
 me, set me right here 
 and there, and was a very charming companion alto- 
 gether. Subsequently, I was rather disconcerted when 
 I discovered that I had been explaining Defoe to the 
 greatest living authority on that author Professor 
 William P. Trent of Columbia University. He was 
 spending a summer in Oxford, engaged in the well- 
 nigh insuperable task of studying Defoe pamphlets 
 in the Bodleian Library,
 
 LUCK 
 
 65 
 
 JOURNAL 
 
 or THE 
 
 plague gear : 
 
 BEING 
 
 Obfervatlons or Memorials. 
 
 Of tie mod Remarkable 
 
 OCCURRENCES, 
 
 As a child, I think I preferred "The Swiss Family 
 Robinson" to "Robinson Crusoe," and I remember 
 wondering what relation the one Robinson was to 
 the other. We are told 
 that the discovery of 
 the print of a man's 
 naked foot in the sand 
 is the greatest bit of 
 realism in fiction. No 
 doubt it is, but we 
 must not overlook 
 the "Journal of the 
 Plague Year. " It was 
 published shortly af- 
 ter "Robinson Cru- 
 soe" ; and of the many 
 books on the Great 
 Plague of London, it 
 is the only one that has 
 survived "the tooth 
 of envious time." It 
 remained for another 
 American scholar, Dr. 
 Watson Nicholson, to 
 point out the manner 
 
 in which this book was compiled. Defoe, sometimes 
 called the father of the English novel, was in fact what 
 we would to-day call a journalist. He set himself to a 
 piece of work, got his facts together as accurately as 
 he could, working under pressure, writing, so to 
 speak, against time, and then, by representing him- 
 
 PUBLICK as PRIVATE, 
 
 Which happened in 
 
 I N D ON 
 
 During the bit 
 
 GREAT VISITATION 
 In 
 
 Written 67 a CITIZEN who continued all the 
 while in Lstuden. Never rruule publick before 
 
 L N <D O N: 
 
 Printed for E. ffftt at the Rojal-Extbaa^e; J. Rolrrti 
 in Waraiick-Laat ; A. DcJJ without 7emflt-ar j 
 scd J. Groves in St. Jamti's-Jlreet. 1711.
 
 66 
 
 LUCK 
 
 THE 
 
 FORTUNES 
 
 AND 
 
 MISFORTUNES 
 
 Of the FAMOUS 
 
 self as present at the events which he describes, de- 
 ceived his readers so completely that they accepted 
 the result as the actual narration of an eye-witness. 
 First of all regarded as an authentic history, next as 
 clever fiction, we to-day know the book for what it 
 
 is : a hastily written but 
 wonderfully realistic ac- 
 count of one of the 
 most tragic events in 
 the history of the city 
 of London. Through- 
 out its entire length, 
 every page records 
 some fact or fancy 
 which makes for real- 
 ity. My copy is in 
 superlative condition 
 bound but uncut, as 
 is also my " Moll Flan- 
 ders," with its all- 
 comprehending title- 
 page. And there are 
 many more. 
 
 It is only a step 
 from Defoe to Samuel Pepys. There is one book, at 
 least, which no reader, be he judicious or she gentle, 
 will wish to have in first edition the immortal 
 "Diary." On three separate occasions did I journey 
 from London to Cambridge to see the Pepysian Li- 
 brary, each time to be told that the custodian "re- 
 gretted that it was impossible." If my visit fell on 
 
 Who was Bora' inNEWOATE, and during* 
 Life of continu'd Variety for Threefcore Years, 
 T>efide her Childhood, was Twrelye Year 
 TTborti five times a JTife (whereof once to .her 
 own Brother) Twelre Year a Tbief, Eight Ywr a 
 Tranfported Ftb>* ia Virginia,** laftgrew Ricb, 
 liv'd #<</, and died a PHfrf, 
 
 Written. from her ovn MEMORAND u M s. 
 
 LONDON.- Printed for, nnd Sold >y W, 
 CHETWOOD, at Cato'+JIeaJ, rn'RuJJel. 
 freet, Cogent-Garden ; and T. E D L I N o, at 
 
 Wthc.Sfr/W. MDDCXXL
 
 LUCK 67 
 
 a Tuesday, it was on a Wednesday that the library 
 could be seen ; if I called in the morning, the after- 
 noon was the proper time. Once I tried "the silver 
 key," but was unsuccessful ; perhaps it was not large 
 enough. The last time I was in Cambridge, however, 
 I was fortunate enough one day, in Mr. Heffer's 
 bookshop, to be introduced to the present librarian 
 or custodian, Mr. O. F. Morshead, and I had the great 
 pleasure of spending a morning in the library under 
 his delightful guidance, looking at such treasures as 
 would cause the heart of the coldest book-collector 
 and I am not the coldest to throb with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 Pepys began his diary when he was twenty-seven 
 years of age. He gave up keeping it, on account of 
 failing eyesight, when he was but thirty-six, which, 
 he says, was "almost as much as to see myself go 
 into my grave." But he remained a collector all his 
 life, and he did not die until he was past seventy. 
 Not until after the close of the Diary did he reach the 
 maturity of his power in the Navy. 
 
 What treasures can a rich and industrious man 
 accumulate in forty years ! Particularly if, as was at 
 least once the case, he borrowed and did not return. 
 One item he obtained in this way from his brother 
 diarist, John Evelyn. It is a pocket-book, a sort of 
 an almanac, formerly the property of his great hero, 
 Francis Drake, with his name, spelled "Drak," writ- 
 ten therein. It is of course of supreme interest, and 
 Pepys, who numbered all his books, gave it number 1. 
 
 Pepys's books, about three thousand in all, repose
 
 68 LUCK 
 
 in the original bookcases which he had made in 1666 
 by Mr. Sympson, "the joyner." They are arranged 
 according to a curious scheme of his own, exactly as 
 he left them. In point of fact, the shorthand manu- 
 script of the Diary is, at a cursory glance, one of the 
 least interesting things in the collection. But what a 
 story is locked up in the six volumes of closely written 
 cypher ! 
 
 Under the terms of Pepys's will, Magdalene Col- 
 lege is intrusted with the care of the collection, with 
 reversion to Trinity in the event that there is any 
 default in the rules and regulations laid down by 
 Pepys for its safe keeping ; and the manuscript of the 
 Diary slumbered among Pepys's books from his 
 death in 1703 to 1825, when it was deciphered and 
 published. But in the first edition, only about half 
 of the Diary was published, and this was edited and 
 expurgated by Lord Braybrooke to an extent which 
 became apparent only by degrees. Some years later, 
 a clergyman took the matter in hand and, omitting 
 what seemed good to him, suggested that the com- 
 plete work might be found "tedious" ! Finally, and 
 not until 1893, there appeared an edition, edited by 
 H. B. Wheatley, which gave the Diary complete, 
 with the exception of a few passages, amounting in 
 all to about one page of text, which, he says, cannot 
 possibly be printed. 
 
 What a book it is ! Without style, or wit, or elo- 
 quence ; but for what book having all these qualities 
 would we exchange it ? As someone has said, Rous- 
 seau is positively secretive in comparison with Pepys.
 
 LUCK 
 
 69 
 
 THE EIGHTH SIN 
 
 The charm of the Diary is its quaint and utter shame- 
 lessness, as when its author confesses that he kicked 
 one of his maids and is not sorry for it, but he is 
 sorry that he was seen doing so. Most of us are more 
 like Pepys than we would be willing to confess. We 
 do wrong and carry our heads high, and are ashamed 
 only when we are _ , 
 found out. 
 
 And now I find my- 
 self wondering wheth- 
 er I have written all 
 this just to intro- 
 duce a charming bal- 
 lade, worthy of Austin 
 Dobson at his best, by 
 my friend" Kit "Mor- 
 ley, or as a pretext for 
 referring to my beau- 
 tiful copy of Pepys's 
 Memoires of the Roy- 
 al Navy. Let me give 
 the ballade first. 
 
 It would seem from 
 
 an entry in the Diary under date of February 3, 1665, 
 that Pepys had taken a vow to abstain from kissing 
 pretty women and, in the event of his breaking it, 
 to give to some good cause a shilling for each kiss 
 after the first one. He was a methodical scamp, but 
 I doubt if he could accurately keep count. In any 
 event, on this day, in addition to Mrs. Turner having 
 shown him something that he ardently admires, he 
 
 C. D. MORLEY 
 
 "There is Do greater Sin after the seven deadly 
 than to flatter oneself into an idea of beicg a (real 
 Poet." Lilttri o/Jokn Kult. 
 
 OXFORD 
 
 B. H. BLACKWELL. BROAD STREET 
 
 LONDON 
 SIUPKIN, MARSHALL ft CO. LIMITED
 
 70 LUCK 
 
 records meeting, "among the others, pretty Mrs. 
 Margaret who indeed is a very pretty lady ; and, 
 though by my vow it costs me I%d. a kiss, yet I did 
 venture upon a couple." 
 
 Good Mr. Peeps or Peps or Pips 
 
 (However he should be yclept), 
 Clerk of the King's Bureau of Ships, 
 
 A very spicy journal kept. 
 He knew a lemon from a peach, 
 
 And, among other things, he knew, 
 When kisses are a shilling each, 
 
 We should adventure on a few ! 
 
 He was a connoisseur of lips, 
 
 And though I cannot quite accept 
 Some of his rather shady tips 
 
 (I grant he often overstepped 
 The bounds of taste) still he can teach 
 
 Misogynists a thing or two 
 When kisses are a shilling each, 
 
 We should adventure on a few ! 
 
 He drank the wine of life by sips, 
 
 He roundly ate and soundly slept, 
 His spirits suffered no Eclipse, 
 
 But Lord ! how sore he would have wept 
 To see his private linen bleach 
 
 And flutter in the public view 
 Well, kisses are a shilling each ; 
 
 Let us adventure on a few ! 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 O Ballad-monger, I beseech, 
 
 Consider his advice anew ; 
 When kisses are a shilling each, 
 
 Why not adventure on a few ?
 
 MAP OF ENGLAND. EVERY LINE OF WHICH IS EMBROIDERED 
 IN COLORED SILK 
 
 The making of these maps antedated the "movies" by a century or more
 
 LUCK 
 
 71 
 
 JHcmoircs 
 
 Relating to the 
 
 STATE 
 
 OF THE- 
 
 ROYAL NAVY 
 
 This clever poem first appeared in a little paper- 
 backed volume of verse, "The Eighth Sin," pub- 
 lished by Blackwell in Oxford in 1912, when Morley, 
 one of three brothers, 
 all Rhodes scholars, 
 was an undergradu- 
 ate. It is much sought 
 by collectors, and gets 
 its title from a sen- 
 tence in one of Keats's 
 letters, "There is no 
 greater Sin after the 
 seven deadly than to 
 flatter oneself into an 
 idea of being a great 
 Poet." And with this 
 sentiment I am in full 
 accord. 
 
 The "Memoires Re- 
 lating to the State of 
 the Royal Navy of 
 England" is a scarce 
 book, with a fine por- 
 
 OF 
 
 ENGLAND, 
 
 Fot Ten Years, Deeermiji'd 
 December 1688. 
 
 Quant is moleftiis vataM } t^tti tiibil cmnino 
 cum Populo contrabunt ? Quid DuJcutj) 
 OtioLitttrtto? Cic. Tufc. Difp. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 (Printed for Etn. Grffii, and are to be Ibid 
 by Sam. KtMtlt the Great Tarks-He*l\n 
 fieet-firttt over againft Fetter-Lane t i69o. 
 
 trait of Pepys after 
 Kneller, and, to be correct, must have a large folded 
 plate giving an account of the finances of the Navy 
 with the Exchequer. This plate, as the catalogues 
 say, is "frequently lacking." I had almost forgotten 
 that I have, too, a fine letter from Pepys to his 
 nephew and heir, John Jackson, bidding him, when 
 he buys anything such as books, or prints, to "get
 
 72 LUCK 
 
 very good ones only" ; excellent advice for the col- 
 lector, and too little considered in Pepys's time. 
 
 There are, it is said, seventeen ways of spelling the 
 Diarist's name, but only three of pronouncing it; 
 which is correct, is still a vexed question. Let me 
 quote a little verse by Ashby Sterry, which all the 
 papers were copying twenty-five years or so ago, and 
 which found its way into my scrap-book. 
 
 There are people, I 'm told some say there are heaps 
 
 Who speak of the talkative Samuel as Peeps ; 
 
 And some so precise and pedantic their step is, 
 
 Who call the delightful old diarist Pepys ; 
 
 But those I think right, and I follow their steps, 
 
 Ever mention the garrulous gossip as Peps. 
 
 "And so to bed."
 
 IV 
 
 WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 SOME time ago my friend Mr. William Harris 
 Arnold told me that he had written a paper on the 
 welfare of the bookstore. When it appeared in the 
 "Atlantic Monthly," I read it attentively, and I dis- 
 agree with his conclusions. As it seems to me that the 
 subject is one in which all who read should be inter- 
 ested, I should like to present my views for what 
 they may be worth. 
 
 Mr. Arnold's remedy for the situation, admittedly 
 difficult, in which the retail booksellers find them- 
 selves is to have publishers grant to booksellers " the 
 option of taking books by outright purchase or on 
 memorandum " that is to say, on sale, and sub- 
 ject to return. I remember once, years ago, hearing 
 the late Andrew Carnegie say to a body of business 
 men that, if he were in a business in which it was im- 
 possible for him to tell, at least approximately, how 
 much money he had made or lost in a given month, 
 he would get out of that business. He said that the 
 next best thing to making money was to know that 
 you were not making it and apply the remedy. 
 Now, if a publisher should establish in any large 
 way the custom of disposing of his publications "on 
 sale," as the phrase is, I should like to know when, if 
 ever, he could go before his creditors, represented
 
 74 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 by authors, printers, paper-makers, and binders, and 
 declare himself solvent and worthy of their further 
 confidence. 
 
 It seems to me that publishers assume sufficient 
 risk, as it is. Many books, I fancy, just about pay 
 their way, showing very little of either profit or loss ; 
 there may be a small profit resulting from the average 
 book, and the exceptional book shows either a hand- 
 some profit or a large loss. "The Four Horsemen 
 of the Apocalypse," is the most recent of great suc- 
 cesses : edition followed edition in such quick succes- 
 sion that the publishing facilities of New York City 
 were heavily drawn upon to keep up with the demand. 
 On the other hand, many years ago, the publication 
 of "Endymion," by Disraeli, then Earl of Beacons- 
 field, occasioned an enormous loss. His publishers 
 brought out this novel in the then customary three- 
 volume form for, I think, two guineas. No one read 
 into the middle of the second volume. It was a com- 
 plete failure. A few months after publication every 
 second-hand bookshop in London was trying to dis- 
 pose of uncut, and unopened, "library" copies at 
 about the cost of binding. It must be admitted that 
 these are extreme instances : the profit in the one case 
 must have amounted to a small fortune ; the losses in 
 the other might have driven the publisher into 
 bankruptcy. 
 
 The publishing business has always been regarded 
 as extra-hazardous more respectable than the 
 theatrical business and less exciting, but resembling 
 it in that one never knows whether one is embarked
 
 FOUR DISTINGUISHED COLLECTORS 
 
 PROF. C. B. TINKER MR. W. H. ARNOLD 
 
 .MR. R. B. ADAM MR. W. F. GABLE
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 75 
 
 upon a success or a failure until it is too late to with- 
 draw. And it has always been so. Sir Walter Scott, 
 whose career as a publisher is not always remembered, 
 said that the booksellers, as publishers were called in 
 his day, were "the only tradesmen in the world who 
 professedly and by choice dealt in what is called 'a 
 pig in a poke,' publishing twenty books in hopes of 
 hitting upon one good speculation, as a person buys 
 shares in a lottery in hopes of gaining a prize" ; and 
 Sir Walter had reason to know, as had also Mark 
 Twain. 
 
 I remember that, some years ago, a little book, 
 " A Publisher's Confessions," was issued anonymously 
 by Doubleday, Page & Co. It recited the difficulties, 
 financial and other, of a firm of publishers, and is now 
 generally understood to have been written by Walter 
 Hines Page, our late Ambassador to the Court of St. 
 James's. The writer's conclusion was that men of 
 such distinction as those who control the organiza- 
 tions known as Scribners, Macmillans, and others of 
 like standing, could earn very much more by devot- 
 ing their abilities to banking, railroads, or other lines 
 of business; for, he said, "publishing as publishing 
 is the least profitable of all professions, except 
 preaching and teaching, to each of which it is a sort 
 of cousin." And it is to this harassed person, per- 
 plexed, by reason of the nature of his calling, beyond 
 most business men, that Mr. Arnold would add the 
 financing of the countless bookstores, in many cases 
 in incompetent hands, all over the country, from 
 Maine to California. His suggestion is interesting,
 
 76 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 but I doubt if publishers in any large numbers will 
 take kindly to it. They will probably feel that Mr. 
 Arnold, whom I last saw in his own library surrounded 
 by his own priceless books, apparently free from 
 problems of any kind, has suggested a remedy worse 
 than the disease from which they are suffering. 
 
 It is, however, to the bookseller rather than to the 
 publisher that my heart goes out. The publishers of 
 the present day, at least those I know, ride around in 
 limousine cars while the booksellers walk the floor. 
 When Hogg threatened to knock the brains out of 
 a bookseller, Sir Walter Scott cried, "Knock the 
 brains into him, my dear Hogg, but for God's sake 
 don't knock any out." The difficulties from which 
 he is chiefly suffering are two : first, the unfair com- 
 petition of certain department stores, and second, 
 that we, the readers, have deserted him. A rich, in- 
 telligent, and extravagant people, we know nothing, 
 and seemingly wish to know nothing, of the pleasure 
 of buying and owning books. As I see it, the decay 
 of the bookshop set in years ago with the downfall of 
 the lyceum, the debating society, and the lecture 
 platform. We have none of these things now, and if 
 we had not largely given up reading as one of the 
 consequences, I should not be sorry ; but the mental 
 stimulation that comes from personal contact has 
 been lost, and seemingly there is nothing that will 
 take its place. Of course, when I say that we have 
 none of these things, I mean in proportion to our 
 population and wealth. 
 
 When it comes to book-buying, we seem so loath
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 77 
 
 to take a chance. We pay four or six or ten dollars 
 for a pair of tickets for a "show," how I hate the 
 word ! sit through it for an entire evening, and 
 when asked what we thought of it, answer briefly, 
 "Rotten," and dismiss the matter from our minds. 
 Now book-buying is, or ought to be, a pleasure. If 
 one comes in contact with a fairly well-informed sales- 
 man or saleswoman, it may be a delight. And there 
 are such. To speak of those I know, if you care for 
 illustrated or extra-illustrated books, where can you 
 find a more interesting character than George Rigby 
 in Philadelphia ? And there is Mabel Zahn, at 
 Sessler's "Dere Mable," as I sometimes call her: 
 many a time she has shamed me with her knowledge. 
 And there is Leary's, one of the largest and best 
 second-hand bookshops in the country ; you are not 
 importuned to buy, you may browse there by the 
 hour. We in Philadelphia hold its proprietor in such 
 esteem that we made him mayor of our city, and 
 finally governor of our state. He has known me ever 
 since I was a little boy, and it was a proud day for 
 me when I thought I could safely refer to him as my 
 friend Ned Stuart. 
 
 Leary's is one of the few bookshops in which bar- 
 gains may still be found. My friend Tinker dear 
 old Tink never comes to Philadelphia without 
 spending a few hours at Leary's ; and only yesterday 
 James Shields, that astute bookman, dropping in 
 upon me to ask a question, which, naturally, I was 
 unable to answer, showed me a ten-dollar bill he had 
 just extracted from Lawler, Rosenbach's manager, for
 
 78 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 a book he had just "picked up" at Leary's for fifty 
 cents. These things can still be done, but it takes 
 more exact knowledge than I have been able to ac- 
 quire. One thing yet remains to be told : the price at 
 which Lawler sold the book. Who knows ? 
 
 In an effort to escape the blame that should be ours, 
 we sometimes say that Mr. Andrew Carnegie, who 
 scattered public libraries all over the land in an effort, 
 relatively successful, to die poor, is responsible for 
 the plight in which the booksellers find themselves; 
 but I am willing to acquit the libraries of all blame. 
 They do an immense amount of good. I never go to 
 a strange city without visiting its library, and I count 
 many librarians among my friends ; but I am, never- 
 theless, always overwhelmed in the presence of count- 
 less thousands of books, as I might be in the presence 
 of crowned heads ; indeed, I think that, idle curiosity 
 once gratified, crowned heads would not impress me 
 at all. 
 
 And so it is that, not being a scholar, or altogether 
 indigent, I do not much use any library except my 
 own. I early formed the habit of buying books, and, 
 thank God, I have never lost it. Authors living and 
 dead dead, for the most part afford me my 
 greatest enjoyment, and it is my pleasure to buy 
 more books than I can read. Who was it who said, 
 "I hold the buying of more books than one can per- 
 adventure read, as nothing less than the soul's reach- 
 ing towards infinity; which is the only thing that 
 raises us above the beasts that perish"? Whoever 
 it was, I agree with him ; and the same idea has been
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 79 
 
 less sententiously expressed by Ralph Bergengren 
 in that charming little poem in "Jane, Joseph and 
 John," the loveliest book for children and grown-ups 
 since R. L. S. gave us his "Child's Garden of Verses." 
 
 My Pop is always buying books : 
 So that Mom says his study looks 
 Just like an old bookstore. 
 The bookshelves are so full and tall, 
 They hide the paper on the wall, 
 
 And there are books just everywhere, 
 
 On table, window-seat, and chair, 
 And books right on the floor. 
 
 And every little while he buys 
 
 More books, and brings them home and tries 
 
 To find a place where they will fit, 
 
 And has an awful time of it. 
 
 Once, when I asked him why he got 
 So many books, he said, "Why not?" 
 I Ve puzzled over that a lot. 
 
 Too many of us, who are liberal, not to say lavish, 
 in our household expenses, seem to regard the pur- 
 chase of books as an almost not-to-be-permitted ex- 
 travagance. We buy piano-players and talking 
 machines, and we mortgage our houses to get an 
 automobile, but when it comes to a book, we exhaust 
 every resource before parting with our money. If 
 we cannot borrow a book from a friend, we borrow it 
 from a library ; if there is anything I like less than 
 lending a book, it is borrowing one, and I know no 
 greater bore than the man who insists on lending you 
 a book which you do not intend to read. Of course,
 
 80 
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 A Play 
 
 By John Drinkwater 
 
 
 you can cure him, ultimately, by losing the volume ; 
 but the process takes time. 
 
 My philosophy of life is very simple ; one does n't 
 have to study the accursed German philosophers 
 
 or any other to dis- 
 cover that the way to 
 happiness is to get a 
 day's pleasure every 
 day, I am not writ- 
 ing as a preacher, 
 and I know no greater 
 pleasure than taking 
 home a bundle of 
 books which you have 
 deprived yourself of 
 something, to buy. 
 
 "I never buy new 
 books," a man once 
 said to me, looking at 
 a pile on my library 
 table; "I've got 
 to economize some- 
 where, and they are so expensive." 
 
 "And yet," I retorted, "you enjoy reading; don't 
 you feel under any obligation to the authors from 
 whom you derive so much pleasure ? Someone has 
 to support them. I confess to the obligation." 
 
 When I think how much pleasure I get from read- 
 ing, I feel it my duty to buy as many current books 
 as I can. I "collect" Meredith and Stevenson, the 
 purchase of whose books no longer benefits them. 
 
 AwoL iCi 
 
 London: Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd. 
 3 Adam Street, Adclphi. MCMXVIII
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 81 
 
 Why should I not also collect George Moore or Locke 
 or Conrad or Hergesheimer ? which, by the way, I do. 
 And while you may not be able to get such an inscrip- 
 tion in your copy of the first edition of Drinkwater's 
 "Abraham Lincoln" as I have in mine, you should 
 get a copy of the book before it is too late. All these 
 men are engaged in carrying on the glorious tradition 
 of English literature. It is my duty to give them 
 what encouragement I can ; to pay tribute to them. 
 I wish I were not singular in this. 
 
 But to return to the bookshop. In addition to hav- 
 ing to compete with the many forms of amusement 
 unknown fifty years ago, it would be superfluous 
 for me to do more than mention the latest of them, 
 the "movie," the bookshop elects to sell a "na- 
 tionally advertised" article in competition with the 
 department store. The publishers allow what would 
 be a fairly liberal margin of profit, if the bookshops 
 were permitted to keep it ; but the department stores 
 cut that margin to the quick. For reasons that are 
 well known, it is profitable for them to do so : with 
 their immense "turnover" and their relatively small 
 "overhead," they can afford to sell certain popular 
 books at cut prices, for the reason that at the next 
 counter they are selling chocolates, marked "WEEK- 
 END SPECIAL, 70c. Regular Price $1.00," which do 
 not cost over forty cents, perhaps less; and often 
 they do get a dollar for these boxes. And what is 
 true of chocolates is true of practically everything 
 they sell, except books and a few other specialties, 
 which they use as "leaders."
 
 82 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 Books are the only "nationally advertised" spe- 
 cialties that anyone pretends to sell in shops almost 
 exclusively devoted to them. Time was, and it 
 was a sad time, when the monthly magazines, 
 "Atlantic," "Harper's," " Scribner's," and the rest, 
 which cost $28 per hundred, wholesale, were re- 
 tailed in a large store in Philadelphia for 25 cents 
 each. The highest court to which the question can 
 be carried has ruled that the seller can sell at any 
 price he pleases, provided that he does not misstate 
 the facts, as, for example, that his immense purchas- 
 ing power enables him to undersell his competitors. 
 In some few cases the publishers provide " specials," 
 too : they give extra discounts for quantities ; and 
 there are always, alas, "remainders," sold at a loss by 
 the publishers and at quite a tidy little profit by the 
 retailer ; but in general the facts are as I have stated. 
 
 It must be admitted that the department store 
 helps the publisher by selling hundreds of thousands 
 of copies of books like "Dere Mable" and the "Four 
 Horsemen." "The Young Visiters," too, whether it 
 be by Barrie or another, sold enormously ; but just 
 so large as is the sale of books like these, just so small 
 is the sale of books of enduring merit. Perhaps I am 
 wrong, but I fancy that men prefer to buy what I 
 may call good books, while women buy novels and the 
 lighter forms of literature. 
 
 Now, fancy a man going into a certain department 
 store that I have in mind, and asking for a copy of 
 "Tom Jones." He is met by a young lady in a low- 
 cut dress, standing in high-heeled slippers, with her
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 83 
 
 hair gathered up in large puffs which entirely conceal 
 her ears ; her nose has been recently powdered, and 
 she looks as if she might be going to a party. "Tom 
 Jones!" she says; "is it a boy's book? Juveniles, 
 second to the right." "No, it's a novel," you say; 
 and she replies, "Fiction, second to the left." 
 
 You move on, avoiding a table on which is a sign, 
 "The Newest Books Are On This Table," and you 
 meet another young lady, also ready for a party, 
 and repeat your question. "Is it a new book?" she 
 says. "No," you explain ; and she conducts you to a 
 case containing hundreds of volumes of the Every- 
 man's Series and an excellent series it is. But the 
 books have been skillfully shuffled, and what you 
 seek is hard to find. While you and she are looking, 
 someone "cuts in" and inquires for a copy of "Java 
 Head," to which she promptly replies, "One sixty- 
 nine," and conducts her customer to a large pile, 
 behind which she disappears and is seen, by you, no 
 more. 
 
 You keep on looking until someone comes to your 
 rescue, and asks if she can do anything for you. You 
 say "'Tom Jones,'" and she, being an intelligent 
 person, says, "Fielding," and conducts you to the 
 fine-book department, where you are finally shown 
 a set of Fielding flashily bound in what appears to be 
 morocco, marked $40. You demur at the price and 
 explain that you want "Tom Jones" to read, not a 
 set to put upon your shelves ; finally, thanking the 
 "saleslady" for her trouble, you go out empty- 
 handed, having wasted half an hour.
 
 84 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 If this paper should be read by the proprietor of a 
 retail store, or by his intelligent clerk, I can hear him 
 cry, "You are quite right, but we know all this. 
 Have you any remedy?" Certainly I have nothing 
 to suggest which will prove a royal road to fortune ; 
 but I do suggest the selling of good second-hand books 
 along with current publications, and I would stress 
 the second-hand, and call it the rare-book depart- 
 ment, for the profits of that department will be found 
 to be surprisingly large. I would say to the proprietor 
 of the bookshop, "Bring some imagination to bear 
 on your business." Imagination is as necessary to a 
 successful tradesman as to the poet. He is, indeed, 
 only a day-laborer without it. I am reminded of one 
 of the clever bits in Pinero's play, "Iris." A tall dis- 
 tinguished-looking man enters ; his appearance in- 
 stantly challenges attention, and the ingenue inquires 
 who he is, and is told, "That is Mr. Maldonadno, the 
 great financier." Then comes the question, "What is 
 a financier?" and the telling reply, "A financier, my 
 dear, is a pawnbroker with imagination." 
 
 The point is well made. WTiat quality was it in 
 Charles M. Schwab which, while most of the great 
 business men in America were wringing their hands 
 over what appeared to be their impending ruin, when 
 the war broke out, sent him off to England, to re- 
 turn quickly with hundreds of millions of dollars' 
 worth of orders in his pocket ? Imagination ! It was 
 this same quality, working in conjunction with the 
 imagination of the late J. P. Morgan, which led to the 
 formation of the great Steel Corporation.
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 85 
 
 There may be little room for the display of this 
 supreme qualification in the retail book-business, 
 but there is room for some. Be enterprising. Get 
 good people about you. Make your shop-windows 
 and your shops attractive. The fact that so many 
 young men and women enter the teaching profession 
 shows that there are still some people willing to scrape 
 along on comparatively little money for the pleasure 
 of following an occupation in which they delight. It 
 is as true to-day as it was in Chaucer's time that there 
 is a class of men who "gladly learn and gladly teach,'* 
 and our college trustees and overseers and rich alumni 
 take advantage of this, and expect them to live on 
 wages which an expert chauffeur would regard as 
 insufficient. Any bookshop worthy of survival can 
 offer inducements at least as great as the average 
 school or college. Under pleasant conditions you will 
 meet pleasant people, for the most part, whom you 
 can teach and from whom you may learn something. 
 We used to hear much of the elevation of the stage ; 
 apparently that has been given over; let us elevate 
 the bookshop. It can be done. My friend, Chris- 
 topher Morley, 
 
 . . . Phoebus ! what a name 
 To fill the speaking-trump of future fame ! 
 
 in his delightful "Parnassus on Wheels," shows that 
 there may be plenty of "uplift" and a world of ro- 
 mance in a traveling man well stocked with books. 
 Indeed, a pleasant holiday could be planned along 
 the lines of Roger Mifflin's novel venture in book-
 
 86 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 selling. I prophesy for this book, some day, such 
 fame as is now enjoyed by Stevenson's "Travels 
 with a Donkey." It is, in fact, just such a book, 
 although admittedly the plump white horse, Pegasus, 
 lacks somewhat the temperamental charm of R. L. S.'s 
 best-drawn female character, Modestine. 
 
 I was in a college town recently, and passing a shop, 
 I noticed some books in the window and at once 
 entered, as is my habit, to look around. But I 
 stayed only a moment, for in the rear of the shop 
 I saw a large sign reading, "Laundry Received before 
 9 A.M. Returned the Same Day" enterprise, with- 
 out a doubt, but misdirected. If the bookshop is to 
 survive, it must be made more attractive. The buy- 
 ing of books must be made a pleasure, just as the 
 reading of them is ; so that an intellectual man or 
 woman with a leisure hour may spend it pleasantly 
 and profitably increasing his or her store. 
 
 Every college town should support a bookshop. It 
 need not necessarily be so splendid an undertaking 
 as the Brick Row Print and Book Shop at New 
 Haven, over which Byrne Hackett presides with such 
 distinction, or even the Dunster House Book-Shop 
 of Mr. Firuski of Cambridge. And to make these 
 ventures the successes they deserve to be, faculty 
 and students and the public alike should be loyal 
 customers ; but it should be remembered that these 
 shops need not, and do not, depend entirely upon 
 local trade. Inexpensive little catalogues can be 
 issued and sent to customers half-way round the 
 world.
 
 CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 
 
 Whose graceful verses ana charming essays are known to aU who love books ; for whose first volume, 
 
 " Parnassus on Wheels," I have prophesied such fame as is now enjoyed by R. L S.'s 
 
 " Travels with a Donkey "
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 87 
 
 Speaking of catalogues, I have just received one 
 from a shop I visited when I was last in London, 
 called " The Serendipity Shop." It is located in a 
 little slum known as Shepherd's Market, right in the 
 heart of Mayfair. It may be that my readers will 
 be curious to know how it gets its name. "Seren- 
 dipity" was coined by Horace Walpole from an old 
 name for Ceylon Serendip. He made it, as he 
 writes his friend Mann, out of an old fairy tale where- 
 in the heroes "were always making discoveries, by 
 accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in 
 quest of." Its name, therefore, suggests that, al- 
 though you may not find in the Serendipity Shop 
 what you came for, you will find something that you 
 want, although you did not know it when you came 
 in. Its proprietor, Mr. Everard Meynell, is the son 
 of Alice Meynell, who, with her husband, did so much 
 to relieve the sufferings of that fine poet, Francis 
 Thompson, and who is herself a poet and essayist of 
 distinction. Is not every bookshop in fact, if not in 
 name, a Serendipity Shop ? 
 
 I have no patience with people who affect to be 
 fond of reading, and who seem to glory in their ig- 
 norance of editions. "All I am interested in," they 
 say, " is the type : so long as the type is readable, I 
 care for nothing else." This is a rather common 
 form of cant. Everything about a book should 
 be as sound and honest and good ; but it need not 
 be expensive. 
 
 I have always resented William Morris's attitude 
 toward books. Constantly preaching on art and
 
 88 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 beauty for the people, he set about producing books 
 which are as expensive as they are beautiful, which 
 only rich men can buy, and which not one man in 
 a hundred owning them reads. Whereas my friend 
 Mr. Mosher of Portland, Maine, I call him friend 
 because we have tastes in common ; I have, in point 
 of fact, never met him or done more than exchange a 
 check for a book with him, has produced, not a 
 few, but hundreds of books which are as nearly fault- 
 less as books can be, at prices which are positively 
 cheap. As is well known, Mr. Mosher relies very 
 little upon the bookshops for the marketing of his 
 product, but sells practically his entire output to 
 individual buyers, by means of catalogues which are 
 works of art in themselves. We may not fully real- 
 ize it, but when Mr. Mosher passes away, booklovers 
 of another generation will marvel at the certitude 
 of his taste, editorial and other ; for he comes as near 
 to being the ideal manufacturer as any man who ever 
 lived. 
 
 I would not for a moment contend that a man in the 
 retail book-business will in a short time make a for- 
 tune. We are not a nation of readers, but a young 
 and uncultured people. It is not to be forgotten, 
 however, that we graduate every year an immense 
 number of men and women from our colleges. Poten- 
 tially, these are, or ought to be, readers ; they will 
 be readers, if publishers and booksellers do their 
 duty. 
 
 If a library is the best university, as we have been 
 told it is, the bookseller has his cue. Let him make
 
 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 89 
 
 his shop attractive a centre from which culture 
 may be radiated. Customers have to be educated. 
 When a new line of goods, of whatever kind, is being 
 introduced, "missionary work," as we manufacturers 
 call it, has to be done. 
 
 New York City has several fine bookshops : for ex- 
 ample, Brentano's, one of the great bookshops of the 
 world ; but Brentano's has its fine-book department, 
 as have Scribner's and Button's and Putnam's ; and 
 these so-called fine-book departments are doing ex- 
 pensively, as befits New York, what I would have 
 every bookshop do according to its locale, as McClurg 
 is doing in Chicago. 
 
 The advantages that would accrue are several. 
 More readers would be made. The book-business of 
 the department stores would not be interfered with 
 in the least they would remain, as now, the best 
 customers for certain classes of publishers, who might 
 expect to have some day, in addition, a more thriving 
 class of booksellers than now. And better books 
 would be published better, that is, in print, paper, 
 and binding. 
 
 In the fine-book department, which I am urging 
 every bookseller to start without delay, I would keep 
 out trash ; I would admit only good books good, 
 I mean, in every sense of the word except moral. 
 The department should be in charge of the most in- 
 telligent man in the shop, if there be an intelligent 
 man ; and I would get one if I had not one, and in 
 these days of profit-sharing, I would give him an 
 interest in the profit of that department. I would
 
 90 WHAT ABOUT THE BOOKSHOP? 
 
 buy, too, good books from the second-hand English 
 booksellers, who sell very cheaply; and above all 
 things I would not forget the wisdom stored up in the 
 distorted proverb, 
 
 Early to bed and early to rise, 
 Work like h , and advertise.
 
 V 
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 I DON'T think that I was a very bad little boy, as 
 boys go, but the fact is that I ran away from school 
 a boarding-school and never went back. I did, 
 however, apply for a job in a bookstore, got the 
 promise of the next vacancy, and sat down and waited. 
 But not for long. Scanning the advertisements in 
 the Philadelphia "Ledger," I discovered that a man 
 was looking for me, and promptly decided that it was 
 my duty to meet him half-way. "A bright, active 
 boy to address envelopes. $3.00. Reference," was 
 the way the advertisement read. 
 
 Thus it was that I first met Cyrus H. K. Curtis; 
 not head on, not at right angles, but obliquely : we 
 were both going in the same direction; he had not 
 yet struck his gait, and for several months he did not 
 appear to be leading me much ; but gradually he in- 
 creased the very considerable distance there was be- 
 tween us, and finally he passed out of sight. I did 
 not see him again until he had become a national 
 figure. He became this by advertising. Many men 
 have made larger fortunes than he ; with them adver- 
 tising has been incidental, like love in a man's life ; 
 but with Mr. Curtis it has been his whole existence ; 
 and the largest and finest publishing building in the 
 world is a monument to his skill as an advertiser.
 
 92 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 There are people who affect to believe that adver- 
 tising is economic waste; Mr. Curtis is not one of 
 them. He has always taken his own medicine; he 
 may believe in the Trinity ; he may, for aught I know, 
 repeat the Athanasian Creed on occasions; but I 
 know, the whole world knows, that he is a believer 
 in advertising; and he should be, for his success is 
 due largely not entirely, but largely to it. 
 
 The Curtis Publishing Company, then, is admit- 
 tedly the result of an advertising campaign, begun a 
 long time ago, and carried on consistently day after 
 day, month after month, year after year, with special 
 reference to the product it has to sell, which is ad- 
 vertising. Incidentally it delivers something else, 
 several other things, to be exact, and it delivers 
 these at a cost to the "consumer" so trifling in pro- 
 portion to the cost of production, that it almost 
 amounts to a gift. I think I may say without fear of 
 contradiction that the "Saturday Evening Post" is 
 the cheapest piece of merchandise in the world. And 
 if that be the case, what becomes of the theory of the 
 economic waste of advertising ? 
 
 But it is not the object of this paper to sing a hymn 
 of praise, either to Mr. Curtis, or to his company, or 
 to his product. I am interested chiefly in suggesting, 
 if I may be permitted to do so, a campaign of ad- 
 vertising for publishers of another kind, namely, 
 publishers of books. Books interest me enormously ; 
 they always have. They are the best of friends, 
 grave or gay as your humor is, and you can shut 
 them up when you want to. Most people don't care
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 93 
 
 for them much ; they think they do, but they don't ; 
 that is to say, they care for so many other things 
 more that, when it comes to buying them, they have 
 no money left. Now, next to a modicum of food and 
 a patch of clothes, I care more for books than for 
 anything else. 
 
 I should like to digress. I have reached the time 
 of life when Christmas means giving much and re- 
 ceiving little. I make no complaint, I only state the 
 fact. The table on which my presents are placed is 
 a very small one. The last present I received was 
 from my wife; it was a watch. I had a watch and 
 did not need another ; but my wife thought I ought 
 to have a fine watch and she gave me one ; and it was, 
 as I remember, about ten days after Christmas that, 
 in handing me a lot of household bills, she handed me 
 the bill for the watch, with the remark, "And you 
 might as well pay this, too ; I thought I could, but it 
 would cramp me and you '11 never know the differ- 
 ence." So with a sigh I bent my back to the burden, 
 and it was just as she had said. 
 
 A week later, going on a business trip somewhere, 
 I was sitting in a smoking-car, reading, when a man 
 whom I knew slightly asked me if I would not like 
 to sit into a friendly game of poker. I made known 
 to him briefly that I did n't know one card from an- 
 other. Then, he said, "Let us talk," which meant, 
 let him talk ; and talk he did, about everything and 
 nothing, until finally he asked me if I had received 
 any Christmas presents. This gave me a chance to 
 boast of my wife's generosity and to show my new
 
 94 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 watch, with the result that my friend countered by 
 saying that his wife had given him a fine antique 
 bookcase. 
 
 "How very nice," I said. "Are you fond of 
 books ? Have you many ? " 
 
 "No, not many," he replied ; "but it is n't exactly a 
 bookcase ; it 's more like a large upright writing-desk. 
 The top is a closet, with glass doors with a red-silk 
 lining ; makes a nice place to keep whiskey and cigars 
 and things under lock and key." (This was before 
 we had discovered the necessity of keeping our whis- 
 key in a burglar-proof vault.) "Then there's a flap 
 that lets down on which you can write; and under- 
 neath is a place for books. And do you know," he 
 continued, "/ know enough books already I'd like to 
 have, to fill both shelves" 
 
 I shuddered, and the better to conceal my anguish 
 I asked him if he enjoyed reading. 
 
 "Very much," he said; "I don't know anything I 
 like better than to go into my den on Sunday morning 
 after breakfast, and sit and read my newspaper un- 
 disturbed." 
 
 Think of a man staring vacantly at a Sunday 
 paper, under the delusion that he is reading ! 
 
 Now the fact is that many people, most people, 
 have forgotten how to read, if they ever knew ; and 
 they have to be taught, and they can be taught, not 
 only to read, but to buy books, by advertising. The 
 use of tooth-powder has been enormously stimulated 
 by advertising, and I am certain that a demand for
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 95 
 
 books can be created in the same way, but it must be 
 done wisely, systematically, and continuously. We 
 are familiar with the proverb that "It is the first step 
 that counts." Well, it is not so with advertising: 
 in advertising, it is the last ; the effect of advertising 
 is cumulative. It is the last dollar spent that brings 
 results. The first time one sees an advertisement, un- 
 less it is very striking, it has no pulling power ; only 
 after one has seen it repeatedly, does it begin to work. 
 
 The best advertising skill in the world was con- 
 centrated a year or two ago on Liberty Bonds. Most 
 people did not know what a bond was ; they had to be 
 taught ; and it is a thousand pities that, after people 
 had been told that they were the finest investment in 
 the world, they were allowed to decline so in price. 
 We were told to "Buy and Borrow," and to "Buy till 
 it hurts." Such is the effect of a forceful slogan a 
 thousand times repeated, that we finally do as we are 
 told. We bought and borrowed and got hurt, badly ; 
 I speak from experience. 
 
 Millions of people are seduced by the power of ad- 
 vertising to buy automobiles which they have no 
 right to buy, because they are skillfully advertised 
 and look so smart and so free from upkeep in ad- 
 vertisements. 
 
 Advertising as an art or a science is essentially 
 modern, in spite of the fact that Dr. Samuel Johnson, 
 in one of his now little-read Idlers, written in 1759, 
 refers to it as a "trade now so near to perfection that 
 it is not easy to propose any improvement" ; and he 
 continues by saying, referring to the filling up of news-
 
 96 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 papers with advertisements: "The man who first 
 took advantage of the general curiosity that was ex- 
 cited by a siege or battle, to betray the readers of 
 news into the knowledge of the shop where the best 
 puffs and powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a 
 man of great sagacity." It is our silly habit to think 
 of Dr. Johnson, when we think of him at all, as pon- 
 derous and old-fashioned; ponderous he sometimes 
 was, but he is quite up-to-date in calling advertisers 
 "sagacious.'* 
 
 As I cannot suppose that my reader has at hand a 
 newspaper containing such advertisements as called 
 forth Dr. Johnson's encomiums, let me give a few 
 examples taken almost at random from the "Daily 
 Advertiser." 
 
 Mr. Pinchbeck, Senior, Clock and Watchmaker from 
 Tunbridge Wells, having through a long series of repeated 
 Injuries from his neighboring brother, Mr. Edward Pinch- 
 beck, been obliged to alter his Sign, takes this method of 
 informing the Public, that his, the said Pinchbeck senior's 
 Sign is now only his late Father's Head, exactly opposite 
 the Sun Tavern in Fleet Street. 
 
 Trouble was brewing, evidently, in the Pinchbeck 
 family. "Thomas Madge, Watchmaker," was more 
 fortunate : he announced that he was 
 
 Apprentice to the late Mr. Graham, and carries on the 
 business in the same manner Mr. Graham did, at the Sign 
 of the Dial opposite the Bolt and Tun in Fleet Street. 
 
 Dr. Johnson's Dictionary was proclaimed to the 
 world in this fashion, the announcement occupying a 
 space of a little more than an inch, single column :
 
 DR. JOHNSON, BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS 
 
 From n photograph marie by W. Vivian Chappel, from the original portrait, for tins publication.
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 97 
 
 ACCOUNT 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 Dr. GOLDSMITH'S ILLNESS; 
 
 EXHIBITION 
 
 Dr. JAMES'S POWDERS? 
 
 TOOITKH WIT* 
 
 REM AICS OB the USE tod ABUSE of POWEB f UL MzDiciNSl 
 in the Beginning of FEVERS, and other ACUTE DIIZAUS. 
 
 By WILLIAM HAWES, AI-OTHICARY. 
 
 This day is published in Two Volumes Folio Mr. S. 
 Johnson's Dictionary of the English language. In which 
 the words are deduced from their originals, and illustrated 
 in their different significations by Examples from the Best 
 Writers. To which are 
 prefixed aHistory of the 
 Language and an Eng- 
 lish Grammar. Printed 
 for A. Millar. 
 
 And then follows the 
 long list of booksell- 
 ers financially inter- 
 ested in the venture. 
 As might be ex- 
 pected, "cures" for 
 the diseases real 
 or imaginary which 
 plagued our forefa- 
 thers occupied much 
 space in the public 
 prints, and of all the 
 nostrums compound- 
 ed by the apotheca- 
 ries, and their name is legion, nothing was more 
 advertised and consumed in greater quantities than 
 Dr. James's Fever Powders. (Incidentally they killed 
 Oliver Goldsmith, and Horace Walpole said he would 
 take them if the house was on fire.) They were 
 advertised as a "genuine medicine," and genuine 
 medicines were prescribed by the pound or quart, as 
 the apothecaries were not to be outdone in rigor by 
 the surgeons, who "let blood" by the bucket at the 
 
 The THIRD EDITIOKi 
 
 WITH 
 
 CORRECTIONS, ud u APPENDIX. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 Printed for W. BKOWH, and H. GAIDNII, in the Strind, 
 J. HINTOH, T. EVANS, and J. Biw, Ptei nofter-Kaw 
 S. Hoorm, Ludgwe-Hill i J. WILLIAMS. FJcct-fticet> tad 
 W. DATIHHILL. oppofice the Roytl-Ezchuge. 
 MDCCLXXIV. 
 
 [ Price One Shilling. ]
 
 98 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 slightest provocation. Prior to the introduction of 
 Dover's Powders and James's Powders, a man in a high 
 fever, if highly placed, might be considered to be worth 
 as much as sixty pounds to his apothecary. Is it any 
 wonder, then, that well-advertised and fairly effica- 
 cious drugs, to be had for a few shillings, made fortunes 
 for their proprietors ? All the more, since they were in 
 competition with such household remedies as " Syrup 
 of Snails," or a "broth" made of spiders ground fine 
 with opium in a mortar, and reduced to a liquid by 
 the addition of hot wine, to be drunk in bed, " covered 
 up warm and sweating." What constitutions we 
 must have inherited from our ancestors, for only the 
 robust could have survived. 
 
 Such changes as have taken place in English news- 
 paper advertising came slowly, and these have not 
 been to the advantage of the appearance of the news- 
 paper. A generation ago display advertising was 
 almost unknown. Then, if a man wanted to occupy 
 the space of a column, say, he made a brief statement 
 and repeated it several, perhaps as many as a dozen, 
 times. There was, and for aught I know, still may 
 be, a famous remedy, Beecham's Pills, with which 
 was coupled what we should to-day call a slogan, 
 "Worth a guinea a box." No matter where one 
 turned, one read, "Beecham's Pills, Worth a guinea 
 a box" ; or one could, if one preferred, read it, "Worth 
 a guinea a box, Beecham's Pills." A fortune was 
 spent, and a larger fortune made, as one can still 
 make a fortune by advertising, if the article adver- 
 tised has merit, as I presume Beecham's Pills had.
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 99 
 
 But steady ; Mr. Beecham may by now be a knight or 
 a peer or something. Yes, I have just looked him up 
 in "Who's Who." He is now "Sir Joseph Beecham, 
 Kt. cr. 1911 ; J. P., manufacturer and philanthropist," 
 etc., etc. Oh, yes, "It pays to advertise." 
 
 Of that there is no manner of doubt 
 No possible, probable shadow of doubt 
 No possible doubt whatever, 
 
 as the song in "The Gondoliers" goes. 
 
 To-day we are more sophisticated, and what our 
 advertising may become was very cleverly foretold 
 in a recent number of the "New Republic," in an 
 article in which it was suggested that a generation 
 hence every reference in reading matter will be made 
 to call attention to some article advertised. If, for 
 example, a story of an elopement is to be told, the 
 hero, glancing at his watch (opposite the Elgin Watch 
 advertisement), will say that it is time to start. "But 
 am I not to take my trunk?" (opposite the Inde- 
 structo Trunk advertisement) cries Betty. "No," 
 says Jack, "we can buy what we need in New York" 
 (Biltmore Hotel) ; "all we need is money" (American 
 Express Cheques), "and a few necessities" (William's 
 Shaving Stick, Pepsodent, and the rest). He glances 
 at his automobile (Mercer), sees that the tires (United 
 States) are in condition for a fast run, and helping 
 Betty in, lights a cigarette (Camels), and in another 
 moment the car has passed out of sight ("for fine 
 roads use Tarvia"). 
 
 It is, I think, rather curious that it is only recently 
 that the National Association of Booksellers has con-
 
 100 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 sidered advertising in a manner designed to increase 
 the demand, not for any one special book, but for 
 books in general ; not for the product of any one pub- 
 lisher on sale at any particular shop, but advertising 
 the object of which is to stimulate the habit of buying 
 books new books, old books, in a word, " anything 
 that's a book." Of course it can be done. It will 
 take time and money, but it is well worth doing. 
 
 Now for the sake of the discussion let me suggest a 
 slogan Buy a Book a Week. There are millions to 
 whom this slogan will make no appeal, but there are 
 millions who will be attracted by it or a better one ; 
 millions who are not accustomed to buy books, and 
 who will at first regard the slogan with amazement 
 and as not intended for them. The power of itera- 
 tion and reiteration is not yet fully understood : it is 
 worthy of, and doubtless has received, the attention 
 of the psychologist. Gradually it will be made to 
 appear that it is as disgraceful not to buy a book a 
 week as it is to wear a celluloid collar or to use a gold 
 toothpick. At present it occurs to relatively few 
 people to buy books: tell them to, keep on telling 
 them to; and after a while they will. And when a 
 man is by way of forming the habit of buying books 
 and reading them, you may tell him why he is doing 
 so, and what he should buy, and whence. 1 
 
 Why should we read? Book-lovers have spent 
 much time inventing finely flowing sentences in reply 
 
 1 Inspired, perhaps, by the first appearance of this chapter, a well- 
 known Boston bookseller offered a prize for the best poem on its 
 theme. Among the verses submitted in the competition were these:
 
 101 
 
 to this question, which is more frequently answered 
 than asked. Augustine Birrell, that fine old book- 
 man, in a paragraph which betrays no effort at smart- 
 ness, says in the preface to his edition of BoswelPs 
 "Life of Johnson": "Literature is meant to give 
 pleasure, to excite interest, to banish solitude, to 
 make the fireside more attractive than the tavern, to 
 give joy to those who are still capable of joy, and 
 why should we not admit it ? to drug sorrow, and 
 divert thought." There is in this something of sad- 
 ness old age speaks, rather than youth ; but it is a 
 very fine summary of the purpose of literature. 
 
 Before me on my writing-table is a dainty, dumpy 
 volume, bound in white cloth, and very much soiled, 
 having for title, "The Book-Lover's Enchiridion." 
 
 A BOOK A WEEK 
 
 A book a week ! I heave a sigh ; 
 That Slogan's peremptory cry 
 I will not hear, I will not heed. 
 How can They say that I should need 
 The book They bid me weekly buy ? 
 
 But Slogans change, as days go by ; 
 My Psyche listens, fluttering shy, 
 To newer message "Come and Read 
 A book a week." 
 
 To read ! to read ! O wings that fly 
 O'er sun-kissed lands, through clouded sky, 
 That bear us on where Great ones lead ! 
 I too must follow, so I plead 
 For magic wings. I '11 read (or try) 
 A book a week !
 
 102 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 It was given by its compiler, Alexander Ireland, to 
 Mrs. James T. Fields, "with sincere and heartfelt 
 regards" ; and as it contains all of the best things ever 
 said in praise of books and reading, I have, since I 
 had this subject in mind, read it through from cover 
 to cover, hoping that I might get from it a note of in- 
 spiration for this paper ; but I have not done so. No, 
 the "Enchiridion" is designed for the use and delec- 
 tation of those who already understand the love of 
 books. Many a time I have taken it up for ten or 
 twenty minutes when I should have been in bed ; but 
 the excerpts of which it is composed are too exquisite, 
 too dainty, too imaginative, for my present purpose, 
 which is to suggest that a man in the street may be 
 shamed at the thought that he has no books. Of 
 what use is it to tell such a one, as Emerson does, 
 "Consider what you have in the smallest chosen 
 library. A company of the wisest and wittiest men 
 that could be picked out of all countries in a thousand 
 years." I, sitting in my library, am flattered that 
 such a statement appeals to me : it suggests that I 
 feel at home in such company ; but tell the average 
 man in a hurry that, if he will pause for a moment, 
 he may meet " the wisest and wittiest," and he will 
 reply, "I should worry," or some such inanity, and 
 pass on. 
 
 No! a man must be told flatly, peremptorily, to 
 Buy a Book a Week, and not at first, but after a 
 time he will do it. Clubs might be formed and 
 buttons worn ; and long before this point is reached, 
 indeed at the very outset, the whole subject should
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 103 
 
 be turned over to the best expert advertising opin- 
 ion, that the matter may be carefully studied. This 
 will take time and money, but the thing need not be 
 done in a hurry; the book-trade has survived for 
 centuries without such stimulation as I am suggest- 
 ing. A year may well be spent in preparing such a 
 campaign ; as for the money, there should be no diffi- 
 culty : a small fraction of one per cent of the total 
 book-sales of the country should be levied on every 
 bookseller, wholesale as well as retail from such 
 an important publisher as Macmillan in New York 
 to such a high eccentric retailer as George Rigby in 
 Philadelphia. This tax should produce such a sum 
 as would secure the best advertising talent in the 
 country. 
 
 "Do it electrically" has long been a slogan in the 
 game with which I am in some measure familiar. 
 Do what ? Anything : melt copper or freeze cream ; 
 drive a ship or a needle. "Buy a Book a Week" 
 What book? Any book, "The Four Horsemen" 
 or "The Education of Henry Adams," and sooner 
 or later we shall have a book-buying public, not 
 merely a group of scattered individuals, to whom "a 
 home without books is like a room without windows." 
 
 The study of advertising is the study of national 
 
 1 Some time after this "slogan" had been given national publicity, I 
 received a letter from a friend, reading as follows : "That wretched 
 slogan of yours is rapidly working my ruin. Last week I bought a first 
 Shakespeare's Poems for forty-five hundred dollars ; this week I bought 
 a first Paradise Lost for three thousand dollars; next week I shall 
 buy a presentation Hamlet. God knows how much I shall have to 
 pay for it."
 
 104 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 temperaments. Advertising is a form of boasting, 
 and we Americans are the greatest advertisers in the 
 world : the French know little or nothing of it, and 
 the English relatively little. "Privacy" is their 
 watchword; "publicity" is ours. If one wants a 
 thing in England, one has to hunt for it ; with us, the 
 greatest difficulty is to escape from things one does 
 not want. Advertising is, in general, but little under- 
 stood. We all advertise ; a silk hat and a box at the 
 opera are forms of advertising, by such means one 
 advertises one's arrival in society, but a profes- 
 sional man must be more subtle than a tradesman. 
 I have always maintained that a successful tradesman 
 is more to be envied than any other person in the 
 world : he is not obliged to wear a silk hat ; he ad- 
 vertises frankly, "Here are candles, three for a 
 penny" ; the inference is, take them or leave them. 
 
 But we were speaking of slogans. Think for a 
 moment of the force of a catchword or phrase many 
 million times repeated. Politicians spend much time 
 inventing slogans, but no one used them more suc- 
 cessfully than Roosevelt, with his "Predatory Rich" 
 and his "Big Stick" and a hundred others. In gen- 
 eral, slogans stick ; they may be used as a foundation 
 on which a superstructure of publicity may be erected, 
 or as the capstone of an advertising campaign. 
 
 From my point of view, any word or phrase or pic- 
 ture or thing that is identified with or instantly calls 
 to mind another thing is a slogan. Does any Ameri- 
 can, steaming past the Rock of Gibraltar, see it with- 
 out thinking of a certain insurance company, or see
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 105 
 
 the whiff of steam floating from a white marble pyra- 
 mid as he enters New York Harbor without associat- 
 ing it with a trust company of almost limitless re- 
 sources? "You push the button"; "Ask the man 
 who owns one"; "It floats" there are hundreds 
 and thousands of them, bits of property of almost in- 
 calculable value, because they are recorded in the 
 minds of millions, rather than because they are regis- 
 tered in the United States Patent Office. 
 
 I cannot believe that any enlightened association, 
 such as the American Booksellers' Association is, 
 will ever use, whatever advertising method it adopts, 
 the out-of-doors signs which are such blisters upon 
 our landscape. As if to make the approach to our 
 cities and towns more hideous than they already are, 
 "concessions" are secured and immense signs erected, 
 calling attention to the merits of someone's oil as a 
 lubricant, either for one's motor or one's bowels. 
 Such advertising is positively loathsome, and sooner 
 or later it will be stopped. Question my friend Joe 
 Pennell's methods if you will (I have heard him 
 spoken of as one who never said a kind word or did an 
 unkind thing to anyone), he is certainly right when 
 he says that these great signs are a national disgrace 
 and should be taxed out of existence. And in times 
 like these, when lumber for legitimate building is ex- 
 pensive and transportation difficult, it is almost a 
 crime to use millions of feet of lumber in erecting 
 these hideous defilements of our highways. Should 
 a man stand outside my gate and beat a drum night 
 and day, he would ultimately be taken either to a
 
 106 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 hospital or to an undertaker's ; and those who make 
 our country hideous with their shrieking signs should 
 suffer the same fate. As for bill-board advertising, 
 the case of our towns is indeed desperate ; but I am 
 not altogether without hope. 
 
 There are plenty of proper advertising media: of 
 newspapers and magazines, having a total circulation 
 of hundreds of millions, there is no lack; while, hi 
 spite of the fact that the unskilled laborer now has his 
 automobile, many of us still hang on straps in trolley- 
 cars, and our minds might well be stimulated the 
 while. And I do not despair of bookshop windows 
 being made at least as attractive as those displaying 
 what shall I say ? men's hats. Let me expand 
 this idea a little, if idea it is. Shop-windows have 
 an immense advertising value; too frequently they 
 are decorated by the shipping clerk, on a principle 
 which I have never clearly understood. I offer the 
 following suggestion. 
 
 Let a window (always the same window), or a 
 portion of a window (always the same portion), 
 against a background of best sellers, if necessary; 
 but I suggest a silken, sad, uncertain curtain, be 
 devoted always to a display relating to some author, 
 the anniversary of whose birthday or death-day is 
 approaching. 
 
 For example, take Rudyard Kipling with the ex- 
 ception of Thomas Hardy, the most distinguished 
 literary man now living. Suppose that on December 
 30, 1921, we secure a photograph or other portrait 
 and announce on a suitable card, "Rudyard Kipling
 
 JOSEPH PEXXELL, OUR GREAT ARTIST 
 
 Sketched during one of his less cantankerous moods by F. Walter Taylor. While I was debuting whether 
 I could afford to buy this portrait, my son secured it and sent me the bill, thus relieving me of the 
 difficulty of coming to a decision
 
 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 107 
 
 is 56 years old to-day." Then suppose that we sur- 
 round the man with his works first editions, auto- 
 graph letters, souvenirs, etc., if available ; and if they 
 are not in stock, perhaps, if we are in Philadelphia, 
 and on good terms with the owner of such a superb 
 collection as Ellis Ames Ballard's, we may secure the 
 loan for a day or two of a few items that will cause 
 the initiated in such matters to rub his eyes in 
 amazement. 
 
 The idea may be expanded, and details added, to 
 such an extent that, in course of time, that constantly 
 changing exhibit will be a liberal education. It will 
 have a drawing power that people will be unable to 
 resist. They will cross the street to look at it ; they 
 will think of it and speak of it, and be glad to estab- 
 lish relations with its owners. How pleased we are 
 when the head waiter of a well-established restaurant 
 addresses us by name when we enter ! A bookshop 
 may hold the same thrill for us. 
 
 But you may say, " All this costs money and takes 
 time ; I have no one available for such a job." My 
 reply is that such work could be syndicated and its 
 cost divided among many. Miss Bessie Graham, 
 already an honorary member of the American Book- 
 sellers' Association and well known by reason of her 
 classes and papers on Bookselling, is admirably fitted 
 to superintend the preparation and distribution of 
 such suggestions as would be timely, stimulating, and 
 helpful. 
 
 Bookshops can and should furnish a sort of post- 
 graduate course in literature. Let the campaign of
 
 108 A SLOGAN FOR BOOKSELLERS 
 
 education go forward : and let us so carry it on that 
 every he or she who reads may run to the nearest 
 bookshop. I am not an advertising agency. Dr. John- 
 son called advertising a trade ; I should call it a pro- 
 fession, rather. The subject should be carefully studied 
 by someone of special aptitude and training.
 
 AN EARLY KIPLING ITEM "WITH THE FLAP'
 
 VI 
 
 "'TIS NOT IN MORTALS TO COMMAND SUCCESS." 
 
 INDEED it is not, nor has "deserving" anything 
 whatever to do with it. We who, by dint of saving 
 here and scraping there, manage at the end of twenty 
 years or so to have a respectable collection of books, 
 know that the battle is not always to the brave, but 
 generally to the side of the heaviest artillery ; for this 
 is no puny game we collectors are playing, and we are 
 playing it against giants. I am not alluding to those 
 men who, with the instincts and fortunes of the 
 Medici, get their names in the paper every day; I 
 refer to the collector who quietly, almost stealthily, 
 goes on, day after day and year after year, buying in 
 some well-defined line, until at last he and some- 
 times she may be said to have everything. But 
 this is only in the way of speaking, for no collection 
 is ever complete; one may drop dead in the race 
 with the goal not yet in sight ; that 's where the excite- 
 ment lies. 
 
 Such thoughts as these came into my head when, 
 some time ago, I spent several days with a man in 
 Buffalo, a man so modest and retiring that not all 
 of his friends know that he has the greatest collection 
 of Johnson and Boswell material in the world. I refer, 
 of course, to Mr. R. B. Adam. 1 Sixteen years ago 
 
 1 See illustration opposite page 74.
 
 110 'TIS NOT IN MORTALS 
 
 Mr. Adam inherited from his father, the late Robert 
 B. Adam, the finest collection of Johnsoniana in the 
 world. 
 
 As I am accused of being given to exaggeration 
 whenever I speak of Dr. Johnson, let me hasten to 
 say that this is not my opinion only, but that it was 
 the mature judgment of that great Johnsonian edi- 
 tor, Birkbeck Hill. In a paper printed many years 
 ago in the "Atlantic Monthly," and subsequently de- 
 livered in a somewhat changed form before the John- 
 son Club in London, Dr. Hill said : 
 
 "On the shores of Lake Erie, in the flourishing 
 town of Buffalo, I found a finer collection of John- 
 sonian and Boswellian curiosities than exists else- 
 where on our side of the Atlantic." He then went on 
 to describe at length what he saw, adding, " Great as 
 has been the liberality of some of our collectors in 
 letting me see their stores, Mr. Adam in his liberality 
 has far surpassed them all. . . . The devout John- 
 sonian may count on receiving a warm welcome . . . 
 and the shrine will be thrown open to him. ... I 
 shall never join in the lament that is raised among us 
 Englishmen when autographs and rare editions of our 
 great writers are bought by an American." 
 
 With these words in my head and a visiting card in 
 my hand, I presented myself to the present Adam 
 some few years ago. Twenty-seven years have passed 
 since Dr. Hill's experience, but there has been no 
 change in the family manner. Instantly I was made 
 to feel at home, and a warm friendship has been the 
 result of an almost chance meeting. Indeed, I am
 
 TO COMMAND SUCCESS 111 
 
 always suspicious of the man to whom Samuel 
 Johnson does not make appeal, and I have never met 
 a good Johnsonian who was not a good fellow. 
 
 But if there has been no falling off in the kindly 
 hospitality of the Adam family, important additions 
 have been made to the collection by its present 
 owner. A Johnson or a Boswell item of supreme in- 
 terest comes to the surface in London, New York, or 
 elsewhere. It is for a moment conspicuous and then 
 disappears, subsequently to reappear in Buffalo. 
 I am something of a Johnsonian myself. Ever since 
 I first read Boswell's "Life of Johnson" in Napier's 
 admirable edition, in 1884, I have kept a copy near 
 at hand to dip into, always with pleasure and with 
 profit; but when I was given the "freedom of the 
 city," so to speak, of Mr. Adam's collection, I knew 
 there was no place for me in that line, and I turned 
 to Oliver Goldsmith, with the same result ; for I came 
 to know that Mr. William M. Elkins of Philadelphia 
 was on the lookout for first editions of everything 
 that Goldsmith had written, until at last, he got 
 them all all except one item, the " Threnodia 
 Augustalis," of which only two copies are known; 
 and finally one of these two fell before his practi- 
 cally unlimited bid at the Wallace Sale that holo- 
 caust which took place in New York in the winter 
 of 1920. 
 
 I never look at that fine old mezzotint of Gold- 
 smith across the room without thinking of my pur- 
 chase of it from George Rigby, I dropped in on him
 
 112 'T IS NOT IN MORTALS 
 
 one day and saw the print, saw that it was in good 
 condition, and asked him the price. 
 
 "Thirty dollars," said George; "but I have laid it 
 aside for your friend Hawley McLanahan." 
 
 "Has he seen it? Have you told him about it?" 
 I inquired. 
 
 "No," said George, "but he will buy it ; he's rather 
 going in for these eighteenth-century prints." 
 
 The print was worth a hundred. Taking from my 
 pocket three ten-dollar bills, for money talks even in 
 so uncommercial an establishment as Rigby's, I told 
 him to roll up the print. As he was doing so, rather 
 reluctantly, George said, "You won't say anything 
 about it to McLanahan ? " 
 
 "Oh, won't I!" I replied; "you shall hear from 
 him, and promptly." 
 
 When I got back to my office, I called Mac on the 
 phone and told him that if he had any more of that 
 brand of Scotch for which he was famous, I would 
 stop in during the evening and tell him a good story. 
 
 "Come along," he said ; "the bottle shall be on the 
 table by the time you get here." 
 
 With the wisdom of a man from Aberdeen, I let 
 several glasses of the divine liquor trickle down my 
 throat, and then, and not until then, I told him the 
 story of my purchase. 
 
 It did not take me long to discover that I was too 
 late to become either a Goldsmith collector or to 
 write an essay about him, and yet I should like to do 
 both : out of pity and of love. Goldsmith has always 
 been misunderstood in his own day, because he was
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 After the portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds
 
 TO COMMAND SUCCESS 113 
 
 an Irishman, and in ours, on account of that im- 
 promptu epitaph of Garrick, 
 
 Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called "Noll," 
 Who wrote like an angel but talk 'd like poor Poll. 
 
 Nothing can be more damaging to a reputation than 
 a stinging couplet. Crime can be lived down in- 
 deed, certain crimes give one a sort of distinction; 
 but once start a couplet rolling, and it gathers mo- 
 mentum until it crushes all who oppose it. A good 
 example of this is supplied by the epigram of the 
 Earl of Rochester, written on the bedroom door of 
 Charles II : 
 
 Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, 
 Whose word no man relies on ; 
 He never says a foolish thing 
 Or ever does a wise one. 
 
 In vain did Charles attempt the explanation that his 
 words were his own while his acts were his ministers' : 
 it all went for naught. But I am not in the least 
 interested in the reputation of the Royal Charles, 
 whereas Goldsmith's is inexpressibly dear to me. 
 
 Boswell did not like Goldsmith indeed, did not 
 understand him; and Johnson, although he greatly 
 admired him, did not fully understand him, either. 
 The best retort in BoswelTs book is Goldsmith's reply 
 to Johnson when he said that, if he were writing a 
 fable, he would make his animals talk in character : 
 he would make little fishes talk like little fishes. 
 Johnson, whose sides were shaking with laughter at 
 the turn the conversation had taken, could not have 
 been altogether pleased when Goldy said : "Why, Dr.
 
 114 'TIS NOT IN MORTALS 
 
 Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think, for 
 if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk 
 like whales." And it was Goldsmith, too, who, when 
 someone called Johnson a bear, replied, very justly : 
 "He has, to be sure, a certain roughness in his man- 
 ner, but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has 
 nothing of the bear but his skin." And when someone 
 called Boswell a cur, which he certainly was not, 
 Goldsmith at once corrected it to burr, saying he has 
 the quality of sticking. Yet Boswell is constantly 
 talking of Goldsmith's misfortunes in conversation ; 
 and whenever his name is mentioned, one almost un- 
 consciously repeats to one's self Garrick's silly couplet. 
 
 Foiled in the direction of Johnson and Goldsmith, 
 I looked over the field of my favorites. Byron : Mr. 
 Morgan has them all, every one. Shelley : too volu- 
 minous and running into thousands before a fair 
 start is had; when Mr. Thomas J. Wise shows you 
 his " Shelley s," you simply expire with envy. Lamb : 
 Mr. Spoor's carriage blocks the way ; it is a carriage 
 only by courtesy, it being in fact a well-furnished van. 
 Oscar Wilde : it is quite useless ; John B. Stetson has 
 everything. Tennyson : I have not forgotten that rare 
 day I spent in Mr. W. H. Arnold's library, looking 
 over his Tennyson material ; progress in that direc- 
 tion is impossible. Keats : here I collide with Miss 
 Amy Lowell, with the usual result. 
 
 But something may yet be done. Let me recon- 
 noitre a bit. There is Leigh Hunt. It is, of course, a 
 sad falling oft 7 ; but is there a book-lover who has not 
 in his heart a soft spot for him? I admit that his
 
 MASK OF DAVID GARRICK. BY R. E. PINE 
 From rare mezzotint
 
 TO COMMAND SUCCESS 115 
 
 books are patchy and gossipy, but he was a man of 
 taste, if not of learning, and a delightful companion, 
 and who does not know that a delightful companion 
 is harder to find than a scholar ? Scholarship may be 
 taught. He wrote of "Men, Women, and Books" 
 the three things best worth writing about. How I 
 wish I could have paid him for his books, instead of 
 the booksellers ! How pleased he would be to think of 
 himself as "collected." Poor fellow ! fancy having to 
 support a wife in poor health and a constantly in- 
 creasing crop of children by writing such books as 
 "Imagination and Fancy," and "The Old Court 
 Suburb," and "A Jar of Honey" ! Is it any wonder 
 that he was not robust in money matters, and that he 
 regarded a financial transaction as completed when he 
 had given his I. O. U. for it. I have been brought up 
 in a more practical school, but I never close the 
 lid of my desk and, under the plea of important busi- 
 ness, go off to a book-auction, without recalling his 
 remark: "How satisfactory it is to think of others 
 nobly doing their duty while I am following the bent 
 of my own inclinations." 
 
 If not for himself, Leigh Hunt will always be re- 
 membered as an intimate friend of the three poets 
 who made the first quarter of the nineteenth century 
 forever memorable : Byron, with whom he finally 
 quarreled temperamentally they had nothing in 
 common; Shelley, whom he loved and by whose 
 funeral pyre he watched; and Keats, whose genius 
 he was the first to recognize. It was Hunt who, in 
 May, 1816, in his "Examiner," gave Keats his first
 
 116 'TIS NOT IN MORTALS 
 
 appearance in print. During that year Keats and 
 Hunt were close companions, and at the home of the 
 latter in Hampstead, they read and wrote much to- 
 gether and lived in a world of "Imagination and 
 Fancy." On December 1, Hunt published in his paper 
 Keats's now famous sonnet, "On First Looking into 
 Chapman's Homer"; and on that same day Hunt 
 addressed to Keats a sonnet in which he prophesied 
 that he would wear the laurel. Keats kept the poem 
 by him, and it was found by Severn among his papers 
 after his death. The original manuscript is in my 
 possession, and from it I quote. 
 
 TO JOHN KEATS 
 'T is well you think me truly one of those 
 Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things ; 
 For surely as I feel the bird that sings 
 Behind the leaves, or the Kiss-asking rose, 
 Or the rich bee, rejoicing as he goes, 
 Or the glad issue of emerging springs, 
 Or, overhead, the glide of a dove's wings, 
 Or trees, or turf, or midst of all repose : 
 And surely as I feel things lovelier still, 
 The human look and the harmonious form 
 Containing Woman and the smile in ill, 
 And such a heart as Charles's, wise and warm, 
 As surely as all this, I see e'en now, 
 Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow. 
 HAMPSTEAD, Dec. 1, 1816. 
 
 "One of the most interesting personalities I have 
 met in America," is the way a distinguished English- 
 man described Miss Lowell to me after a visit to her 
 in Boston. I can readily understand how he reached 
 this conclusion, for she reminds one only of herself.
 
 SONNET TO JOHN KEATS, BY LEIGH HUNT 
 
 From the original manuscript
 
 117 
 
 She is a busy woman, not altogether easy to approach ; 
 but if she meets you at all, it is with the hearty wel- 
 come of a man with the charm of a woman, for this 
 femme savante is a woman of the world and of many 
 moods. It has been my privilege to see something of 
 her in her lighter hours, to listen and to talk to her, 
 not of her poetry, I am of the school of Pope, but 
 of her library. " Do you want to see my Blakes or my 
 Keats?" and she can hold your attention with 
 either, she will say, leading you into a fine old room 
 overflowing with books. "Let us work up to speed 
 gradually; why start on high?" you will answer 
 only to be told that she is "geared that way." Re- 
 membering my dear old Quaker friend Cadbury, who 
 proudly carries around in his pocket an essay by Miss 
 Lowell in the form of a letter on the "Rollo" books, 
 you suggest that you begin with Rollo on the 
 Atlantic, or elsewhere ; and in a moment you are off 
 "on high" in spite of yourself ; and when a few 
 moments later you look at your watch, it is long after 
 midnight. "No matter," she will say, "there will be 
 a motor for you, and the evening has just begun." 
 And when, the hours being no longer wee, you finally 
 take your leave of her, you bid her, not "Good- 
 night," but "Good-morning." 
 
 Miss Lowell began forming her library many years 
 ago, under the direction of the elder Quaritch ; and I 
 can quite understand that, when she breezed into his 
 shop in Piccadilly, he gave her the run of the place 
 and allowed her to make her own prices. Accustomed 
 as he was to lords and dukes and to the ways of
 
 118 
 
 'T IS NOT IN MORTALS 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 American millionaires, this young girl, so alert and 
 clever and winsome, must have made the old man 
 rub his eyes and wonder whether there were many 
 Boston girls like her. Someone must have told him 
 
 that there were not. I can 
 see him giving her a cup 
 of tea, which she would 
 condescend to sip only be- 
 cause it gave her a chance 
 to wheedle out of the 
 keeping of the shrewd old 
 bookman the three slen- 
 der Keats volumes which 
 with one love-affair 
 made up his entire life. 
 "Here are several son- 
 nets and the original 
 manuscript of 'The Eve of 
 St. Agnes,' " Miss Lowell 
 will say, placing them in 
 your hands ; and you will 
 feel a gentle thrill as you 
 turn the soft pages, re- 
 membering that you are gazing upon immortal poetry. 
 And then she will show the silver medal, with his 
 name engraved thereon, which he won for " voluntary 
 work" when a lad at Mr. Clarke's Academy at 
 Enfield. Finally, you may be permitted to read, 
 perhaps, in her "Lamia," which the poet gave to 
 Fanny Brawne in the whole realm of association 
 books, one of the finest. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 ROTTED FOB 
 
 C. * J. OLLIER, 3, WELBECK STREET, 
 
 CATEBDUH fQUAHC. 
 1817.
 
 JOHN KEATS 
 
 From original portrait by Severn, sometimes referred to as the " lost portrait."
 
 TO COMMAND SUCCESS 
 
 119 
 
 I have always admitted that it was Miss Lowell's 
 enthusiasm for Keats that led me into a financial 
 morass, when the serpent in the shape of Dr. Rosen- 
 bach placed before me for inspection a collection of 
 Keats material that 
 the elder Sabin had 
 been years in as- 
 sembling. In recent 
 years all my finan- 
 cial distress has been 
 connected with Rosy. 
 To be sure, he said 
 very little there 
 was no occasion; he 
 pointed out that this 
 was my opportunity ; 
 in brief, "The ser- 
 pent beguiled me and 
 I did eat." What 
 have I ? Well, with- 
 out boasting, I have 
 faultless first editions 
 of the three slender 
 volumes (but alas, no presentation copies; Mr. 
 Elkins out-bid me on the last lot sold at auction), 
 and two love letters to Fanny Brawne ; the manu- 
 script of one poem and a fine cluster of autograph let- 
 ters from Browning, and Mrs. Browning, Rossetti, 
 Monckton Milnes, Tennyson, and others, relating to 
 the poet ; and the earliest portrait known of Keats, at 
 the age of fifteen a dainty little silhouette height- 
 
 PAGE (MUCH REDUCED) FROM A LETTER 
 OF BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON TO ELIZ- 
 ABETH BARRETT (BROWNING) 1834.
 
 120 'TIS NOT IN MORTALS 
 
 ened with gold, reproduced by Sir Sidney Colvin 
 in his edition of the poet's works. Nor is this all. 
 I have a lovely portrait in colored crayons of the 
 poet, his head leaning on his hand, with an inscrip- 
 tion: "John Keats by J. Severn, from life, found 
 among my father's papers. Walter Severn, 1880." 
 
 The centenary of the death of John Keats, who 
 died on February 23, 1821, lends especial interest to 
 the death-bed portrait by his friend Joseph Severn. 
 Truth to tell, Severn was not a great painter, but his 
 name will ever be remembered as the friend of one of 
 England's greatest poets, by whose death-bed he 
 watched, and near whom he is buried. 
 
 The sketch reproduced is perhaps better known 
 than any other portrait of Keats. It was at once 
 recognized that Severn had caught the spiritual 
 beauty of the poet as he lay dying, and the drawing 
 becoming famous, several copies of the original were 
 made ; one of these is in the Keats-Shelley Memorial 
 at Rome, and another may be seen in one of the great 
 private libraries of New York. 
 
 My reproduction is made from the original drawing, 
 which was secured by a well-known London book- 
 seller some years ago at the dispersal of the effects of 
 Walter Severn, the son of the artist, who had re- 
 tained it, and from which the several replicas were 
 made. The faint wording beneath the sketch reads : 
 " 28 Jany . 3 o'clock Mng. drawn to keep me awake 
 a deadly sweat was on him all this night." 
 
 The grave of Keats in the Protestant Burial 
 Ground in Rome is visited each year by an increasing
 
 
 s , -_. * ~->^ 
 
 DEATH-BED PORTRAIT OF JOHN KEATS, BY JOSEPH SEVERN

 
 TO COMMAND SUCCESS 
 
 121 
 
 number of pilgrims, anxious to do homage to the 
 memory of the poet who desired that his epitaph 
 should be, "Here lies one whose name was writ in 
 water." Shelley's reference to this line is well known. 
 
 By the time I had 
 secured these and 
 several more, I sup- 
 posed that my collec- 
 tion of Keats por- 
 traits left little to be 
 desired, until I re- 
 ceived a letter from 
 Sawyer, the London 
 bookseller, offering 
 me the original plas- 
 ter portrait of Keats 
 by Girometti, which 
 had once belonged 
 to Keats's intimate 
 friend Haslam, with 
 a letter from Sir Sid- 
 ney Colvin testifying 
 to its authenticity. 
 This I was glad to 
 have, as it is the 
 original from which was made the marble medallion 
 that is familiar to those who have made pilgrimages 
 to the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. Something tells 
 me that, when I next meet my friend Nelson Gay in 
 Rome, he will offer to relieve me of the care of some 
 of these treasures ; and if I can ever bring myself to 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. MARK 
 
 From the original manuscript, taken down in short- 
 hand from Keats's dictation to his friend Woodhoiu*
 
 122 'TIS NOT IN MORTALS 
 
 part with any of these, I know of no place more 
 fitting for them than the Keats-Shelley Museum at 
 Rome, for this is one of the few small museums in 
 which treasures of this character would not be swal- 
 lowed up and absolutely lost. There were several 
 interesting Keats letters to Fanny Brawne sold one 
 evening not long ago at the Anderson Galleries in 
 New York, which led to the writing of this sonnet 
 by Christopher Morley, which he gave me leave to 
 reprint rather than what he calls his "youthful indis- 
 cretion," which appears elsewhere. 
 
 IN AN AUCTION ROOM 
 
 "How about this lot?" said the auctioneer, 
 "One hundred, may I say, just for a start?" 
 
 Between the plum-red curtains, drawn apart, 
 A written sheet was held. . . . And strange to hear 
 
 (Dealer, would I were steadfast as thou art), 
 The cold quick bids (" Against you in the rear !") 
 The crimson salon, in a glow more clear 
 
 Burned bloodlike purple as the poet's heart. 
 
 Song that outgrew the singer ! Bitter Love 
 
 That broke the proud hot heart it held in thrall 
 
 Poor script, where still those tragic passions move 
 
 Eight hundred bid ; f ah* warning ; the last call ; 
 The soul of Adonais, like a star. . . . 
 Soul for eight hundred dollars "Doctor R !" 
 
 It so happens that I have the manuscript of Oscar 
 Wilde's sonnet on "The Grave of Keats, as well 
 as the sonnet by Rossetti on "Keats Sixty Years
 
 THE GRAVES OF JOHN KEATS AND JOSEPH SEVERN IN THE PROTESTANT 
 CEMETERY IN ROME
 
 TO COMMAND SUCCESS 123 
 
 Dead." Both of these, in my judgment, are dis- 
 tinctly inferior to the poem given above, which, in 
 addition to doing justice to Keats's song, "that out- 
 grew the singer," is cleverly reminiscent of the 
 auction-room.
 
 VII 
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 LET the scholar or the antiquary decide when 
 English literature begins ; for me it begins, not at the 
 beginning, but with Chaucer. Of what went before, 
 my impressions are vague and uncertain ; but Chaucer 
 sometimes seems almost as alive to me as anyone in 
 "Who's Who," particularly when, after a weary win- 
 ter, spring comes at last, and the birds begin to sing, 
 and the leaves unfold themselves upon the trees. 
 I say to myself, "It was on such a day as this that 
 Chaucer's pilgrims set out." "On such a day as 
 this," whether the sky is blue, flecked with clouds of 
 white, or "Aprille" threatens us with her customary 
 showers ; for when the world was young, as it was five 
 hundred years ago, an "Aprille" shower would surely 
 not have deterred any one of the nine-and-twenty 
 pilgrims frqm mounting his or her palfrey in the yard 
 of the Tabard Inn and journeying on to the shrine of 
 the murdered Archbishop, St. Thomas a Becket, at 
 Canterbury. But the English in which Chaucer wrote 
 makes it more or less difficult for any except the stu- 
 dent to understand him; and while Coleridge says 
 that, after reading twenty pages with a glossary, there 
 will be no further difficulty, reading with a glossary is 
 not reading but studying, and alas, how few of us care 
 to study after our school and college days are over !
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 125 
 
 And after Chaucer, I leap a whole century and a 
 half to Shakespeare, skipping Spenser, the scholars', 
 poets' poet, remembering the lines, 
 
 No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en, 
 In brief, Sir, study what you most affect, 
 
 which I have always done. Of Shakespeare, it is 
 hardly for me to speak except from the viewpoint of 
 the collector; and Shakespeare has now become al- 
 most impossible except for the very rich. Let but a 
 few years pass, and all the desirable quartos, and even 
 the folios, will have passed into that bourne whence 
 no book returns the great public library. How 
 rapidly they are going is, perhaps, understood only by 
 those who are curious in such matters. Of late we 
 have heard much of Mr. Huntington's buying this, of 
 Mr. Folger's buying that, and of Mr. Cochran's buy- 
 ing t 'other, and of the immense sums they are giving 
 for rare books ; but these gentlemen are not spending 
 their money selfishly. Mr. Cochran, we know, buys 
 for that wonderful institution which he has estab- 
 lished and maintains the Elizabethan Club at 
 Yale ; l Mr. Huntington's books have gone to the 
 State of California; and it is safe to say that Mr. 
 Folger's collection will never be dispersed. These are, 
 in effect, public libraries, and in paying seemingly 
 high prices, their owners are making gifts of just so 
 much money to the public. I often ask myself whether 
 the public fully appreciates the value of these gifts. 
 This is an age of libraries, and I never enter such 
 
 1 Mr. Newton was elected an honorary member of the Elizabethan 
 Club hi AprU, 1921.
 
 126 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 buildings as the Congressional Library in Washington 
 and the public libraries of New York, Boston, Chi- 
 cago (I wish I could add Philadelphia), without won- 
 dering whether, in the centuries to come, they will 
 ever have the charm for the student that so many of 
 the old-world libraries have for us to-day ; or whether, 
 after our habit, they will be torn down and larger and 
 even more magnificent buildings erected. 
 
 But I had it in mind to write a page or two on the 
 subject of Shakespeare quartos. Only the initiated 
 understand the feeling that arises in the heart of the 
 collector at the word " quartos " those slender little 
 tracts of thirty pages or so, containing single plays, 
 which are to-day so greatly esteemed that the rarest 
 of them can no longer be had for the hundreds of a 
 few years ago, but now run into thousands of dol- 
 lars or even pounds, if you like that denomination 
 better. I sometimes think the popularity of the 
 quarto is due in no small measure to its size. It is 
 such a handy little book, easily referred to ; it can be 
 collated, or studied, or shown to a friend, without the 
 necessity of clearing off a table. I know a man, John 
 L. Clawson of Buffalo, who, if he did not have so 
 many other rare books, might be said to collect noth- 
 ing but quarto plays ; and he shows them, and rightly 
 too, as if they were Whistler etchings. 
 
 Before me on my writing-table there is a set of 
 proofs of a catalogue soon to be published by the 
 Rosenbach Company, to inaugurate the opening of 
 its new establishment in New York City. There are 
 only twenty-nine items in it, but it is, nevertheless,
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 127 
 
 one of the most remarkable book-catalogues ever 
 printed; for it is entirely devoted to Shakespeare 
 quartos, and the prices for common, or garden, va- 
 rieties range from $500, for a late " Julius Caesar," to 
 $32,500 for an unbound and uncut "Pericles" ; while 
 a "Troilus and Cressida" may yet be had for $12,500. 
 This, we are told, is known as the "Prologue Issue," 
 because of the prophecy expressed therein of the 
 great demand that will ensue for these quartos after 
 Shakespeare's death. It is indeed startling in its 
 aptness ; it reads : " When he is gone and his comedies 
 out of sale, you will scramble for them." With values 
 running to something like a thousand dollars a page, 
 I would say that the scramble is almost over, and 
 that any further proceedings will partake of the 
 nature of a triumphal procession. 
 
 I once heard of a person beginning a conversation 
 by a repartee. In like manner, I find that I have 
 introduced my own almost lonely quarto by an anti- 
 climax. The story of my little book begins in that 
 delicious Old- World library, the Bodleian at Oxford 
 as far removed from the firing-line of affairs as it 
 is possible to get. There, in the splendid collection of 
 quartos, once the property of that distinguished 
 Shakespearean scholar and collector, Edmund 
 Malone, is a rare "Hamlet," on the fly-leaf of which 
 is written by its former owner, "This edition was 
 printed, I believe, in 1607." I have just spent a 
 pleasant hour reading in a copy of this same edition, 
 now generally known as the "undated Hamlet." It 
 is one of my recent acquisitions, and according to
 
 128 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 Bartlett & Pollard's "Census" and there is no 
 higher authority is one of only six copies in pri- 
 vate hands, the few other known copies being safely 
 anchored in public libraries. 
 
 The genesis of such a play as "Hamlet" is one of 
 the most interesting things in bibliographical his- 
 tory. The first edition of "Hamlet" (1603) is very 
 far from being the play as we know it : it has only 
 2143 lines, as against 3719 lines in the second edition 
 (1604), on which, together with the first folio edition 
 (1623), the acting version of to-day is based. Mr. 
 Huntington divides with the British Museum, on the 
 basis of fifty-fifty, the honors of the first edition. His 
 copy, to be sure, lacks the last leaf, but, on the other 
 hand, the British Museum copy lacks the title-page ; 
 so the advantage, if any, is with us. But it is prob- 
 able that, in spite of Malone, the "undated Hamlet" 
 is not the third edition, but rather the edition of 1611. 
 However this may be, my "Hamlet" is a very pretty 
 bibliographical treasure, coming as it does from the 
 Marsden J. Perry collection of Shakespeareana, 
 which Dr. Rosenbach purchased en bloc and dis- 
 persed almost before we knew what he was doing. 1 
 
 1 My Hamlet is unbound ; that is not to say it is in sheets, for it has 
 been bound, probably in a volume of old plays, and closely cropped. 
 Having once been bound, its present appearance is not elegant, and it 
 is desirable that it should be put in substantial covers. So to Mar- 
 guerite Lahey of New York (out of Paris, as a stud-book would say) 
 it shall go, without instructions other than that she is to make the 
 binding worthy of the intellectual and intrinsic value of the book. I 
 seek not to know in advance what the cost will be, or when it will be 
 finished ; for Miss Lahey is one of the world's greatest binders, and is 
 not to be hurried. She is not an accomplished amateur, as some might
 
 I 
 
 TRAGEDY 
 
 Trince of Ttenmarkg. 
 
 Newly Imprinted andinlargcd, according to the true 
 ,. and pcrfea Copy laftly Printed. 
 
 BY 
 WILLIAM SHA.KBS'.FBARB. 
 
 LONDON, 
 
 Primed by W, S. for Itb* Smeth^ickf^ and are to be fold *t hit 
 
 Shop in Saint Dwtft#*t Cb ut- h-y atd. in Fleetftr ces : 
 
 Vnuei thv thill. 
 
 THE RARE QUARTO "HAMLET," KNOWN TO COLLECTORS 
 AS THE "UNDATED HAMLET'
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 129 
 
 When Rosy moves, it is difficult to follow him 
 difficult, nay, it is frequently impossible. 
 
 I have always tried to steer clear of such books as 
 these, regarding them as dangerous rocks lying on 
 either side of the narrow channel which I try to navi- 
 gate, against which my fragile bark may be dashed 
 to pieces in an instant. But "Hamlet" is such a won- 
 derful play ! And I never think of it but I see in 
 imagination those two volumes compact with learn- 
 ing, the variorum "Hamlet" of the late Dr. Furness, 
 beloved by all who knew him ; and I never meet his 
 son but there comes into my mind a line out of 
 Pope's translation of the Iliad, or the Odyssey, I 
 forget which ; I have not read either for more than 
 forty years, 
 
 Few sons inherit the wisdom of their great sires, 
 And most their sires' disgrace. 
 
 Certainly he is of the few. In this Philadelphia 
 family, as in the Adams family of which Boston is so 
 proud, scholarship appears to be a birthright. 
 
 Horace J. Bridges, in his most enjoyable book, 
 "Our Fellow Shakespeare" ("Why here's our fellow 
 Shakespeare puts them all downe!" The Returne 
 Jrom Pernassus, 1606), says: "The child ought to 
 start by loving 'Hamlet* for the sake of the Ghost, 
 the poisoning, the usurpation, the entrapping of 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the fencing-match, 
 
 for a moment suppose, but a woman of learning and great skill in her 
 art, and of impeccable taste. This is not my opinion merely, my 
 opinion in the matter of bindings is almost worthless, but it is the 
 mature judgment of such connoisseurs as Belle da Costa Greene, Miss 
 Thurston, and others expert in such matters.
 
 130 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 the poisoned rapiers, and the envenomed wine-cup." 
 This is exactly the spot at which I began. It was in 
 1876, the year of the Centennial Exposition, and I 
 was twelve years old. I remember the time and the 
 place : it was on a Sunday evening, the family had all 
 gone to church, and I was quite alone in the house ; 
 and when I came to the lines, 
 
 I am thy father's spirit 
 
 Doom 'd for a certain term to walk the night, 
 
 And for the day confin 'd to fast in fires, 
 
 I thought that, if the family did not soon come home 
 from church, a little boy would be missing when they 
 did and yet I could not put the book down. For 
 three centuries, on the stage and in the closet, 
 "Hamlet" has been the supreme play; one never 
 tires of it, one knows it almost by heart, and instead 
 of reading it, one finds one's self reciting those pas- 
 sages which have almost lost their significance, so 
 hackneyed they have become. What a thrill must 
 have passed through lords and groundlings at the old 
 Globe Theatre when these immortal words were ut- 
 tered for the first time : "To be or not to be" ; or 
 The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, 
 That ever I was born to set it right. 
 
 And that 's where I have the advantage of Hamlet, 
 or of any prince whatever ; for I was not so born, and 
 I sometimes wonder whether the time is not always 
 out of joint ; our tune certainly is owing in no 
 small measure, as it seems to me, to the obstinacy of 
 a little group of one willful man ; and if it be objected 
 that one man cannot properly be called a group, let
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 131 
 
 me reply that, when that man is the President of the 
 United States, he counts double or triple, or as many 
 as you will. What page in the last court grammar 
 made him a plural is not for me to inquire. 
 
 And now I remember that I am writing on the 4th 
 of March, 1920. One year from to-day the President 
 will slink out of the White House and pass into his- 
 tory, where his idiosyncrasies can be studied at 
 leisure ; and at the same hour, another man will drop 
 the pleasant cameraderie of the candidate and, as- 
 suming the insolence of office (though in this respect 
 he is unlikely to match the present incumbent), will 
 proceed to govern us in such manner as will redound 
 to his greatest personal advantage and ensure him a 
 second term in office. And to this end, we, every so 
 often, permit ourselves to become enthusiastic, and 
 form clubs, and even march in the streets, wearing 
 silk hats, under the delusion that we are influencing 
 the course of events. 
 
 In times like these, what a relief it is to close the 
 door upon the world, with its wrangling and recrim- 
 ination, and enter that other cosmos the world of 
 books ; that substantial world around which, as 
 Wordsworth says, "our pastime and our happiness 
 will grow." Is there not some scrap of paper, not yet 
 totally destroyed, granting us life, liberty, and an 
 opportunity for the pursuit of that will-o'-the-wisp, 
 happiness ? I sometimes think that I have found it in 
 my library. When I can be sure, I shall announce the 
 fact ; but this much is certain : I am happier here than 
 elsewhere in the world, unless it be in. London ; and
 
 132 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 what is London but a book, in which is written every- 
 thing that can by any possible chance interest an in- 
 telligent person speaking English as his mother- 
 tongue ? 
 
 What a delight it is, at the end of a busy day, to 
 throw one's self into an arm-chair before a wood fire, 
 and think. No, not think ! muse is a better word. I 
 am by no means sure that I've ever thought, and 
 I 'm not certain that I wish to ; looking about me, I 
 see thinkers, and it does not appear that they are 
 either wiser or better or happier than I. What has all 
 the mental truck and sweat of the thinkers of Ger- 
 many amounted to? "The land of the damned pro- 
 fessor ! " Indeed, one does not have to say that Ger- 
 many to a man was wrong; there were probably a 
 few commonplace business men, like myself, who did 
 not like the drift of things ; but certainly their heavy 
 thinkers have made a sad mess of it. By taking 
 thought they seemed to add cubits to their stature ; 
 they thought of themselves as supermen, but it was 
 all a mistake. And now we are aweary from our 
 finally successful effort to teach them that the world 
 is a partnership, not a monopoly. 
 
 Six years have passed since I last saw London, six 
 of the most eventful years in the history of that hoary 
 capital; we have seen the course of empire take its 
 way westward, and the centre of financial gravity 
 shifted to New York. Shall we take advantage of our 
 opportunities? I fear not. For well over a year we 
 have been like a ship without a rudder, keeping our 
 course only through our own momentum; but we
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 133 
 
 have begun to slow down, and in another year we 
 shall be drifting this way and that with the ebb and 
 flow of the tide ; on the rocks perhaps, for since the 
 signing of the Armistice no one has been at the helm 
 of our ship of state. "Ship of state !" Call it rather 
 the "Pinafore," manned by such a crew as has never 
 been seen off the comic-opera stage. 
 
 Forty-odd years ago, the exquisite wit of W. S. 
 Gilbert, working in collaboration with that of a gifted 
 musician, Arthur Sullivan, produced one of the most 
 rollicksome, jolliest, and tunefulest of comic operas. 
 It was so merry, and, with all the humor, was so 
 pointed and obvious, that it swept over the entire 
 world. In our own country there was hardly a church 
 choir that was not provided with the words and 
 music, which were sung upon every possible occasion. 
 
 Mercifully it is not often that what has served to 
 give one generation exquisite amusement should be 
 seriously adopted by another generation as a form of 
 administration during a great crisis in its history. 
 Perhaps it has never been done before; and the re- 
 sults of so doing have been so disastrous that it may 
 never be done again ; but one never can tell we 
 have such a genius for destruction ! Is it not curious 
 that our political rewards go, almost invariably, either 
 to a commonplace man, because he has not made 
 enemies and is for that reason "available," or to one 
 who, ostensibly in the interests of reform, has de- 
 stroyed something. Our methods of rewards and 
 punishments are so unusual as to excite the remark 
 of other nations. If a man achieves distinction in art
 
 134 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 or science, he is completely ignored ; if he does a fine 
 piece of constructive work, whether in railroading or 
 what not, the government seeks to destroy his work 
 and, whether successful or otherwise, holds up to 
 scorn the man who has created it. Such success as 
 we had in the war was almost entirely due to our 
 business men, whom at one time or another the 
 government sought to destroy. 
 
 On the other hand, our politicians, too frequently 
 recruited from our criminal classes, are the raw ma- 
 terial out of which our statesmen are made. We are 
 familiar with the legal axiom that "ignorance of the 
 law is no excuse." We might go further and suggest 
 that ignorance is the passport to authority. Cer- 
 tainly it is no bar to high office. We have permitted 
 ourselves to think that the silliest thing in the world 
 is the plot of a comic opera. There is one thing even 
 sillier, and that is the method by which we select, or 
 have selected for us, those who would govern us. 
 Think of the present Mayor of New York City, or 
 the former Director of Public Safety, so-called, of the 
 City of Philadelphia ! Is it any wonder that a man 
 well born, well educated, honest and conscientious, 
 shrinks from politics as a career? And we are so 
 complacent at this state of things that those who 
 complain are generally regarded as unpatriotic. 
 
 If by chance a man is well equipped for the office 
 he holds, what happens? He looks about him, and 
 too frequently sees his constituents amused by, or 
 indifferent to, his efforts on their behalf. He asks 
 for assistance. Thumbs down !
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 135 
 
 We are the only nation that keeps, if we may be 
 said to keep, an annual Thanksgiving Day, and we 
 have much to be thankful for : we dwell on a great 
 continent, in the enjoyment of its practically un- 
 scratched resources ; but politically we are babes in 
 a wood. It would be proper for the nations of Europe 
 to hold an international thanksgiving day, on which 
 all the inhabitants of Britain, Germany, France, 
 Italy, and Russia, in the order named, should drop 
 on their knees and give thanks to their respective 
 gods for our administrative stupidity. 1 
 
 Meanwhile, the Empire upon which the sun never 
 sets is greater than ever. Not long ago I dropped 
 into Drake's bookshop in 40th Street, New York, to 
 pass half an hour while waiting for a friend who was 
 to join me at lunch at my club near-by. I was blue : 
 it seemed as if I owed money to every bookseller in 
 New York, and there had been a five-point decline 
 in United Kingdom bonds in which I had been inju- 
 diciously investing. 
 
 I had determined to pay my bills and to buy noth- 
 ing, and was about leaving the shop when Drake 
 said, "There is a little book that you ought to buy; 
 fifty dollars." 
 
 I looked at it : Kipling's Poems ; but the value was 
 
 1 For example, Mr. Wilson, or his advisers, caused two terrific pan- 
 ics a buying panic and a selling panic in the sugar trade, to 
 develop in the year 1920. Thousands of business men will carry the 
 marks of this quite unnecessary disaster to their dying day. I am 
 quite sure that my friend Mr. Earl D. Babst, President of the Ameri- 
 can Sugar Company, will be glad to send to anyone interested the de- 
 tails of this remarkable occurrence. 
 
 On the subject of "prohibition" I forbear to speak.
 
 136 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 given it by a verse in Kipling's handwriting, signed 
 by him, reading, 
 
 If England were what England seems, 
 And not the England of our dreams, 
 But made of putty, brass and paint, 
 How quick we'd chuck her But she ain't. 
 
 "No," said I, "I'm not to be tempted." And I 
 went off to my club, ate my lunch meditatively, and 
 finally said to myself, " Don't be a fool ! Go back and 
 buy that book." 
 
 Lighting a cigar, I strolled slowly back to Drake's 
 and, as I entered, met him at the door, saying to a 
 departing customer, "You'll not regret your pur- 
 chase." 
 
 Something told me his customer had the Kipling 
 (I saw that he had a book under his arm) . I stopped 
 him. "Sir," I said, "is it possible that you have 
 bought that volume of Kipling with a verse in it?" 
 
 "Why, yes," he replied. "Did you want it?" 
 
 "I saw it an hour ago, and came back for it," said I. 
 
 "Well," said he, "you are too late; to quote your 
 own words, 'I shall not pass this way again.'" And 
 he went out wearing as cheery a smile as I have ever 
 seen on the face of any man. 
 
 I often wonder whether the English will ever un- 
 derstand us, or we them ; whether the net result of 
 the war, in so far as a better understanding between 
 the two nations is concerned, is not to increase rather 
 than diminish the differences between us. We are so 
 cocky and vulgar, and they are so condescending and 
 supercilious.
 
 JAMES F. DRAKE 
 From an etching by Wall
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 137 
 
 During all the long weary days of the war I never 
 for a moment doubted that England would dictate 
 the terms of peace ; even after we entered and threw 
 our immense resources of men and money into the 
 balance, not even on that dreadful day when Gough's 
 fifth army was destroyed, when Amiens was almost 
 within rifle-shot of the enemy, when Haig made the 
 announcement that would have prostrated any other 
 nation, "Our backs are to the wall," never did it 
 occur to me to doubt that England would dictate the 
 terms of peace; but how completely she would win 
 the war, I began to suspect only when the President 
 made the fatal mistake of going to Paris, there, alone 
 and unaided, for he would have it so, to confront 
 the most astute diplomats of the time. Why did he 
 do it ? Any tyro could have told him that, if he had 
 kept out of the hurly-burly of Paris he could have 
 imposed his will upon the world. If he had but re- 
 mained secluded and detached ! But his vanity got 
 the upper hand, and he made the fatal mistake of 
 showing Europe that he was not the god it, for a 
 moment, thought him, but a man like other men. 
 
 "Politics is adjourned," he cried, meanwhile play- 
 ing the game more coarsely than it has ever been 
 played before in such a crisis, and flagrantly insulting 
 the men with whom he knew that, sooner or later, he 
 would have to work. The one clear and unequivocal 
 statement that came from Paris was the announce- 
 ment of the death of Roosevelt, which we knew of 
 before he did, and with the details of which it was 
 absurd for him to clutter up the cables. And so,
 
 138 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 
 
 surrounded by little men, for he could work with 
 none other, with whom he quarreled and whom he 
 insulted when they disagreed with him, he played a 
 lone hand, and lost. Perhaps it was well for us that 
 he did. Who knows? Certainly he was elected 
 President of the United States and not President of 
 a League of Nations, to which he had no right to 
 commit us without our consent. The little group of 
 "willful men" in the Senate who opposed him simply 
 insisted upon not being deprived of their constitu- 
 tional rights. 
 
 A considered "Life and Times of Woodrow Wilson" 
 cannot be written in our generation ; he has aroused 
 too many antagonisms. 
 
 Only when all the actors in the greatest tragedy 
 the world has ever seen are dead, can such a work be 
 attempted. Such books as are now appearing are 
 merely the timber out of which the final story will be 
 constructed. To me the President appears to be cold, 
 selfish, and self-centred, and although fatally fluent 
 in expression, incapable of speaking generously of 
 either friend or foe, or frankly of anything. Unable 
 to make friends, it would be more exact to say, 
 unable to keep them when made, he has shown his 
 complete incapacity for working with other men at a 
 time when team-work is a prerequisite for success. 
 
 When the old world was in flames, and when it was 
 almost certain that the conflagration would reach 
 these shores, he, in full control of affairs, did not even 
 inquire as to the cost of a chemical engine or order a 
 fire-bucket. When at long last we entered the con-
 
 MEDITATIONS ON A QUARTO HAMLET 139 
 
 flict, it was with a pacifist, who "thanked God that 
 we were unprepared," as Secretary of War, and the 
 editor of a village newspaper as Secretary of the Navy. 
 In our haste we squandered billions. Soon we shall 
 discover that it is easy to borrow but difficult to pay, 
 and our children's children will still be struggling 
 with a burden of debt that his lack of prescience 
 loaded upon us. 
 
 Last in the war, Mr. Wilson wills it that we shall 
 be last in peace also I would not finish the dis- 
 torted quotation, but rather "The rest is silence." 1 
 
 1 In the preparation of these papers for the press, I have allowed 
 my criticism of Mr. Wilson to remain just as it was written a year 
 ago. Occupying for a moment a position exalted beyond his deserts, 
 Mr. Wilson, now a private citizen, may survey that portion of the 
 disaster which, if he did not cause, he could to some extent have pre- 
 vented. History will for some time be busy with the personality of 
 the man who sought to reverse the old adage, "Actions speak louder 
 than words." While he was "matching minds" with men more flex- 
 ible and astute than he, the ship of state which he had sworn to pro- 
 tect was pounding upon the rocks. It will be floated after a time by 
 men abler and kindlier than he. 
 
 The individual lessens and the world is more and more. 
 A man may be wiser than some other men, but rarely wiser than all 
 other men. When he feels that he is so, it behooves him to move 
 carefully. To warnings and to danger-signals, Mr. Wilson paid no 
 attention. As the pen-pictures of him multiply, it is seen that the 
 thumb-nail sketch by John M. Keynes, in The Economic Consequences 
 of the Peace, is likely to become the official portrait.
 
 VIII 
 
 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 I WALKED away from Stan. Henkels's auction-room 
 in Walnut Street one afternoon some time ago in a 
 reminiscent mood. Stan, had just "cried the sale," 
 as he calls it, of a lot of Whitman material formerly 
 the property of my old friend, the late Isaac Hull 
 Platt. Dr. Platt has been dead for some years, and 
 in less than two hours a collection had been disposed 
 of which its former owner had spent years in getting 
 together. It is much easier to disperse a collection 
 than to assemble one; I remember how proud Dr. 
 Platt was of his collection, how complete and valu- 
 able he thought it. "It will be sold some day," he 
 said, "and it will make the boys sit up." I am glad 
 he was not there ; for the boys were not many, and 
 they sat up for a few minutes only and then seemed 
 to fall into a deep sleep, from which the auctioneer 
 roused them with difficulty. 
 
 It was not his fault ; the fault was with the material, 
 or rather, with the quantity of it. An auction sale, if 
 it is to be successful, must have variety, so that vari- 
 ous tastes may be gratified ; only when the items are 
 of very great value, can interest in one subject be 
 sustained for several hundred numbers ; and so, after 
 a few important first editions and manuscripts had 
 been knocked down at good prices, all enthusiasm
 
 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 From a hitherto unpublished photograph
 
 WALT WHITMAN 141 
 
 disappeared, and we sat through the sale more from 
 force of habit than anything else. 
 
 The time was, in Philadelphia, when anyone of any 
 literary taste whatever affected to know Walt Whit- 
 man personally. He was an easy man to know, and 
 commonplace people and others buzzed about 
 him like flies and called him "Walt." Much has been 
 written about him; Dr. Platt himself had perpe- 
 trated the word is his own a short and excellent 
 life of him ; and among other such Whitman material, 
 Horace Traubel brought out three volumes of notes, 
 -"Timber," it might well be called, " With Walt 
 W T hitman in Camden," which will be invaluable when 
 the final life of Whitman comes to be written ; for we 
 are yet too near him in time, and we in Philadelphia 
 are too near him geographically, to view him in 
 proper perspective. His followers are going rapidly 
 now ; Traubel, one of the last and most loyal of them, 
 died only a few weeks ago; and a new generation, 
 which knew not WTiitman in the flesh, has hardly yet 
 come into being. For many years he was a pictur- 
 esque figure in our streets; everyone knew him by 
 sight and regarded him with respectful, if somewhat 
 amused, curiosity. 
 
 But he would be a rash prophet who should declare 
 that Whitman is "outmoded," to use a word coined 
 by Max Beerbohm. Rather, he has not yet come into 
 his own. He may yet be regarded in this country as 
 he is in England, as our one great seer. My own guess 
 is that he will be. The voice of a foreigner is the voice 
 of posterity. Listen to what such a one, Holbrook
 
 142 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 Jackson, if an Englishman may be called a for- 
 eigner, says of him : 
 
 "The great poet of the future will neither be clas- 
 sic nor romantic, materialist nor spiritualist. He will 
 have nothing to do with rhymes and metres, or with 
 pretty allusions to mythological gods and goddesses, 
 which have for so long been so great a part of the 
 media of the poets of Europe. All these have the 
 taint of caste and convention, social distinctions, 
 monasticism, and ecclesiasticism, of which Whitman 
 is the direct antithesis. Therefore, he makes his songs 
 akin to the rugged life of America, nearer to earth, 
 nearer to the quickness of things than that of Europe 
 ever can be." And again he says : "If I were asked to 
 name the most national product of American thought, 
 something more national than the Declaration of 
 Independence, more characteristic than Abraham 
 Lincoln, more individual than Emerson, and more 
 Western than Mark Twain, I should name Walt 
 Whitman. Of all American writings, his are the most 
 native." 
 
 For myself, so far as I am aware; I have only one 
 prejudice, and that is a lifelong aversion to the na- 
 tion that attempted the destruction of England, and 
 by so doing committed suicide; to other things I 
 bring an open mind a small mind if you will, but 
 open. Charles Lamb expressed the same idea in four 
 words: "I have no repugnances." It was, therefore, 
 the lack of repugnance rather than admiration for 
 Walt WThitman which led me to acquiesce when it 
 was suggested that I should assist in an undertaking
 
 WALT WHITMAN 143 
 
 to commemorate the centenary of his birth. Poetry 
 is, with me, a thing of choice, a luxury rather than a 
 necessity, and I own to a preference for the poetry 
 of Herrick, say, over that of Walt Whitman " sound- 
 ing his barbaric yawp over the roof of the world," 
 and in America's name "raising high the perpendic- 
 ular hand" in a salut au monde. But I agreed to go 
 along when, after a conference, it was decided that 
 a bronze medal should be cast under the aegis of the 
 Franklin Inn Club of Philadelphia, and that Dr. R. 
 Tait McKenzie should make the design. The medal, 
 a round plaque five inches in diameter, was greatly 
 admired, and the number of subscribers was very 
 gratifying and testified to what : an increasing in- 
 terest in Whitman or an appreciation of the work of 
 the medalist ? Who shall say ? 
 
 I received one letter, however, from an old friend, 
 who should have known better than to send me such 
 a communication. His name, which I now withhold, 
 will be sent to the curious upon the payment of a 
 small fee. The letter reads : 
 
 "I have been assaulted with a proposal to sub- 
 scribe for a medal of that old vulgarian Walt Whit- 
 man. It seems to have your name upon it. I shall 
 gladly subscribe to anything that you recommend, 
 but when I think of this old four-flusher and his in- 
 consequential companions, who used to hold forth in 
 the rear of Dooner's saloon, where he always drank 
 and never paid, my heart goes out to you as a gen- 
 erous and Christian gentleman. Personally, I would 
 not give the best line that he wrote house-room in a
 
 144 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 stable. The medal itself looks like a very genial rep- 
 resentation of Boreas, and the artist deserves great 
 credit for making such an attractive affair of such a 
 miserable subject. Yours affectionately." 
 
 So it would appear that there are still differences 
 of opinion in regard to Whitman, and it seemed wise 
 for me, as in some measure the sponsor of the Frank- 
 lin Inn Medal, to brush the dust from my dozen 
 volumes or so of the Good Gray Poet, and re- 
 acquaint myself with his work. My opinion of him 
 can be summed up in a sentence. Whitman was a 
 poet only in the sense that he was a prophet. He was 
 a man without taste, and he had no power of selec- 
 tion. He celebrated himself in the first line he ever 
 published, and he continued to do so throughout his 
 life. He has some noble thoughts, but they are 
 thoughts which do not bear transportation; that is 
 to say, they do not pass current. One does not quote 
 WTiitman. His admirers speak of him as "spacious." 
 I should rather say, diffuse. 
 
 I am reminded of the story of the man who, being 
 asked the name of his favorite poet, replied, "Words- 
 worth. Wordsworth without a doubt. I keep a 
 volume of him by my bedside and when I am restless 
 and cannot sleep, I take up the 'Excursion' and am 
 soon in a profound slumber." If Whitman's poetry 
 lacks the fine soporific qualities of Wordsworth, it is 
 equally deficient in that exquisite aptness of word 
 and phrase which we so greatly admire in those poets 
 who have so permanently enriched our language. 
 Nor of humor has he a single trace. One could have
 
 WALT WHITMAN 145 
 
 told Whitman that he was greater than Shakespeare 
 and he would have turned never a hair and he 
 could have turned many. No rhyming dictionary 
 was part of his literary outfit ; on the other hand, he 
 must have written with a gazetteer at his elbow. 
 Listen : 
 
 I see the cities of the earth and make myself at random a part of 
 
 them, 
 
 I am a real Parisian, 
 
 I am a habitant of Vienna, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Constantinople, 
 I am of Adelaide, Sydney, Melbourne, 
 I am of London, Manchester, Bristol, Edinburgh, Limerick, 
 I am of Madrid, Cadiz, Barcelona, Oporto, Lyons, Brussels, 
 
 Berne, Frankfort, Stuttgart, Turin, Florence, 
 I belong in Moscow, Cracow, Warsaw, or northward in Chris- 
 
 tiania or Stockholm, or in Siberian Irkutsk, or in some street 
 
 in Iceland, 
 I descend upon all those cities, and rise from them again. 
 
 It reads like an unskillful parody, but it is not ; it is 
 genuine Whitman. WTiat he means to say is that he 
 is universal ; but think how he has imposed upon the 
 type-setter, to say nothing of the reader. 
 
 Whitman during the later years of his life lived in 
 Camden a depressing city, full of commonplace 
 people whom he affected to love ; and only a genius 
 could so write of Camden as to make one wish to go 
 there, even for an hour. It expresses to me our civil- 
 ization at its very worst. It is an ugly and neglected 
 town, as, unhappily, so many of our towns are. The 
 wretched little house in which Whitman lived, and 
 where he died, 328 Mickel Street, is now a filthy 
 Italian tenement. It is interesting only in PenneU's
 
 146 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 charming little etching of it, which George Gras- 
 burger, the bookseller, generously gave me one day 
 when I dropped in upon him. I met the poet 
 several times once at a meeting of the Contem- 
 porary Club, shortly before his death, at which he 
 read some of his poems; and I went to his funeral, 
 chiefly because I wanted to hear Robert G. Ingersoll 
 deliver an oration at his grave, and was much dis- 
 appointed thereat. Oratory always leaves me cold. 
 So when Ingersoll summoned " the silent sisters of the 
 night to draw with rosy fingers the damask curtains 
 of the dawn," I reached for my hat and crept outside 
 the tent, which had been erected over the grave in 
 the event of bad weather. "I felt as if I had been 
 at the entombment of Christ," wrote one of his dis- 
 ciples, who attended the funeral. I had no such feel- 
 ing. Whitman's funeral was a great event in Cam- 
 den, where little of interest happens. The large tent 
 and the crowd suggested to me a circus, and this im- 
 pression was heightened by the general confusion 
 and by boys in attendance selling peanuts. 
 
 Not long before his death, I wrote to him that I 
 would like to buy several autographed copies of "The 
 Leaves of Grass," and that I could call for them on 
 any day and hour he might name. In reply I re- 
 ceived a note from him, telling me how to come. I 
 followed his instructions and received the volumes. 
 At that time he appeared to be relying upon the sale 
 of his poems for his livelihood, and the ten dollars I 
 then spent was, for me, a very considerable sum. I 
 say "appeared," for, after his death, it developed
 
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 55 =3 
 
 W a 
 
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 O 
 
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 WALT WHITMAN 147 
 
 that, while he was allowing his admirers to pass the 
 hat in his behalf, he was storing up a considerable 
 sum for the handsome and dignified tomb of his own 
 design erected in Harleigh Cemetery. 
 
 Until I attended the sale of Dr. Buck's collection, 
 one hundred and forty-seven items in all, I had no 
 idea how extensive the Whitman literature is. I had 
 long wanted a first edition of the "Leaves of Grass" ; 
 the centenary of Whitman's birth brought several 
 copies to the surface. Dobell, the English book- 
 seller, catalogued a copy in cloth for eighteen guineas, 
 which I at once cabled for; but the book had been 
 sold by the time my cable arrived. Meanwhile, I 
 had declined a copy offered me by a New York dealer 
 for one hundred and twenty-five dollars. The Buck 
 sale gave me the opportunity I wanted, and I secured 
 a copy. 
 
 The story of the publication of the first edition of 
 the "Leaves of Grass" is well told in the admirable 
 reprint, which has just been brought out by Thomas 
 Bird Mosher of Portland, Maine, in which under- 
 taking my friend William Francis Gable of Altoona, 
 Pennsylvania, has had an important part. From 
 him I received a copy with an inscription which makes 
 it very dear to me. 
 
 Camerado, this is no book. 
 
 Who touches this, touches a man. 
 
 Doubtless it is so. His one enduring work is " Leaves 
 of Grass," the first edition of which was published in 
 1855 ; and he kept adding to it and subtracting from 
 it rather adding than subtracting all his life. If
 
 148 
 
 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 Leaves 
 
 G 
 
 S S i 
 
 poets and others would leave their work alone 
 after they have finished it, the task of the book- 
 collector would be much simplified. With the excep- 
 tion of the first, all the editions of the "Leaves" pub- 
 lished during the poet's life-time were both ugly and 
 
 clumsy. Bliss Perry 
 truly says that the 
 wide page of the first 
 edition gave to Whit- 
 man's long lines a dig- 
 nity not approached 
 in any subsequent 
 issue. This is the edi- 
 tion for which Whit- 
 man himself set the 
 type, in the printing- 
 house of the Brothers 
 Rome, in Brooklyn. 
 Neither the name of 
 the author nor that 
 of any publisher is 
 given on the title- 
 page, which reads 
 simply : " Leaves of 
 Grass. Brooklyn, New York : 1855." Opposite the 
 title-page is a steel engraving of the author, and the 
 copyright notice reads, "By Walter Whitman." Its 
 success, or lack of success, was exactly what might 
 have been expected; notwithstanding the fact that 
 the book was freely put out "on sale" and copies sent 
 to all the leading magazines and newspapers, very 
 
 Brooklyn, New York I 
 1855.
 
 WALT WHITMAN 149 
 
 few were actually sold. In his later days Whitman 
 used to talk of the one man who actually bought a 
 copy of the book, not attempting to reconcile this 
 statement with the one made in his open letter to 
 Emerson, in the second edition, of which he said, 
 "I printed a thousand copies" (of the first edition) 
 "and they readily sold." 
 
 Mr. Mosher says, "Of the thousand copies of the 
 1855 edition, some were given away ; most of them 
 were lost, abandoned, or destroyed." The whole 
 edition was not bound at once ; those first bound had 
 the words "Leaves of Grass" stamped in gold on both 
 sides and back of the old fashioned dark-green cloth, 
 three gold lines forming a border around the front 
 and back of the cover. Moreover, these had gilt 
 edges, whereas in those subsequently bound the gilt 
 was entirely omitted, except on the front cover; all 
 the rest of the stamping was "blind," and the gilt 
 edges also were omitted, doubtless to save expense. 
 But the important difference between the first and 
 second issue of the first edition is the inclusion in the 
 latter of eight pages of press notices, set in small type 
 in double column most of them, it is believed, 
 written by the poet himself. 
 
 Not discouraged by the failure of the first, Whit- 
 man at once proceeded with the publication of a 
 second edition. He had sent Emerson a first edition 
 of the "Leaves," and was much pleased to receive 
 from him a letter in which, among other things, he 
 had said, "I greet you at the beginning of a great 
 career." Whitman had a keen advertising sense in
 
 150 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 his early days, indeed, it never deserted him, and 
 he immediately seized upon these words and stamped 
 them in large letters of gold on the back of his second 
 edition. This somewhat disconcerted the Concord 
 Sage, all the more that the book had upon its first 
 appearance been greeted with a loud chorus of abuse 
 in which the words, "vulgarity," "filth," "muck," 
 "obscenity," "nonsense," etc., were distinctly heard. 
 A few favorable notices, indeed, there were, notably 
 one by Edward Everett Hale ; but most of the criti- 
 cisms, except those which Whitman was accused of 
 writing himself, dealt with the work severely. 
 
 If the first edition of the "Leaves" was unusually 
 thin, the second edition, which appeared the year 
 following, was unusually fat and clumsy. It bore, 
 as has been said, by way of a slogan, the sentence 
 from Emerson's letter. It is the cloth binding, there- 
 fore, of the second edition, which gives it its value ; 
 it is quite as rare as the first, and like that edition, it 
 has no publisher 's name, Messrs. Fowler and Wells, 
 "Phrenologists and Publishers," who brought it out, 
 preferring not to have their name associated with the 
 venture, as they had originally intended. Indeed, 
 until quite recently, when Doubleday, Page & Co. 
 took over the copyright of all Whitman's publica- 
 tions, he never had a first-class publisher. Tenny- 
 son has been accused of driving a hard bargain with 
 his publishers. Whitman, it may be presumed, did 
 the same. Most of the editions of the "Leaves" are 
 poorly printed on cheap paper, and the price of five 
 dollars for several of them was justified only by the
 
 WALT WHITMAN 151 
 
 fact that he, as he said, "handled" them himself and 
 autographed them for purchasers. I have several 
 such copies, one as large and clumsy as a good-sized 
 dictionary, another bound in leather, with a pocket 
 and flap, looking for all the world like an engineer's 
 handbook. 
 
 Thayer and Eldridge of Boston were the first pub- 
 lishers to put their name to the "Leaves." Their 
 edition, being the third, was published in 1860-61. 
 Shortly afterwards the war broke out, and Whitman 
 disappears; he did not enlist, "for the eighteen 
 months there is practically no word of him," but 
 that he was deeply moved by the struggle between 
 the North and South, we may believe; and we 
 next hear of him in Washington, nursing back to life 
 and health soldiers from either army. Nothing is 
 more beautiful and touching than this episode in 
 Whitman's life ; and one of his tiny note-books, which 
 he carried with him when he went about the hospitals 
 as wound-dresser, was sold recently at auction in 
 New York for a high price. Bibliographically, WTiit- 
 man has not yet come into his own ; but he is coming, 
 and there will be great advances in Whitmaniana 
 in the next few years, or my judgment is at fault. 
 
 I secured a few months ago a long, clearly written 
 manuscript, signed and dated, in which Whitman 
 gave a succinct account of the Thayer and Eldridge 
 volume. Unlike most of Whitman's manuscripts, 
 it is practically free from erasures and corrections. I 
 believe it has never been printed before, and for this 
 reason I quote it verbatim.
 
 152 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 Nov. 26, 1880. 
 
 R. Worthington, 770 Broadway, New York about a 
 year ago bo't at auction the electrotype plates (456 pages) 
 of the 1860 -'61 edition of my book Leaves of Grass 
 plates originally made by a young firm Thayer & Eldridge 
 under my supervision there and then in Boston, (in the 
 Spring 1860, on an agreement running five years.) A 
 small edition was printed and issued at the time, but in 
 six months or thereabout Thayer & Eldridge failed, and 
 these plates were stored away and nothing further done 
 till about a year ago (latter part of 1879) they were put 
 up in N. Y. City by Leavitt, auctioneer, and bought in 
 by said Worthington. (Leavitt before putting them up, 
 wrote to me offering the plates for sale. I wrote back that 
 said plates were worthless, being superseded by a larger 
 & different edition that I could not use them, the 1860 
 ones, myself, nor would I allow them to be used by any 
 one else I being the sole owner of the copyright.) \ 
 
 However, it seems Leavitt did auction them & Worth- 
 ington bo 't them (I suppose for a mere song) W. then 
 wrote to me offering $250. if I would add something to the 
 text & authenticate the plates to be published in a book 
 by him. I wrote back (I was in St. Louis at the time, 
 helpless, sick) thanking him for the offer, regretting he had 
 purchased the plates. 
 
 Then & since I thought the matter had dropt. But I 
 have to add that about September 1880 (I was in London, 
 Canada at the time) I wrote to Worthington referring to 
 his previous offer then declined by me, and asking whether 
 he still had the plates & was disposed to make the same 
 offer ; to which I received no answer. I wrote a second 
 time ; and again no answer. 
 
 I supposed the whole thing dropt & nothing done, but 
 within a week past I learn that Worthington has been 
 slyly printing and selling the volume of Leaves of Grass
 
 WALT WHITMAN 153 
 
 from those plates (must have commenced early in 1880) 
 and is now printing and selling it. On Nov. 22, 1880, I 
 found the book (printed from those plates) at Porter & 
 Coates* store, Cor. 9th & Chestnut Sts., Philadelphia. 
 P & C told me they procured it from Worthington & had 
 been so procuring it off and on for nearly a year. 
 
 First, I want Worthington effectually stopt from issu- 
 ing the book. Second, I want my royalty for all he has 
 sold, (though I have no idea of ever getting a cent). 
 Third, I want W. taken hold of, if possible, on criminal 
 proceeding. 
 
 I am the sole owner of the copyright & I think my copy- 
 right papers are all complete I publish and sell the book 
 myself it is my sole means of living what Worthing- 
 ton has done has already been a serious detriment to me. 
 Mr. Eldridge (of the Boston firm alluded to) is accessible 
 in Washington, D. C. will corroborate first parts of the 
 foregoing (is my friend). 
 
 WALT WHITMAN, 431 Stevens Street, 
 
 Camden, New Jersey. 
 
 Later editions are largely without bibliographical 
 interest ; and with the poems that had their origin 
 in the war and in Lincoln, Whitman's work was done. 
 His "Specimen Days" and "November Boughs" 
 and the rest have never found the readers they de- 
 serve, except warm admirers and students; they 
 are, and will probably remain, neglected. 
 
 Leaving Washington, he drifted to Camden, where 
 his mother lived and where she died. After her 
 death, he "just staid on." The New York "Sun" 
 my favorite newspaper once described Camden as 
 the refuge of those who were in doubt, debt, or de- 
 spair. It seems pertinent to ask why Hoboken has
 
 154 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 been overlooked? Whitman was not in doubt 
 never for a moment : he was a cocksure person ; he 
 was not in debt, his friends saw to that ; nor was he 
 in despair. He "loafed and invited his soul." In 
 the disorder of his tiny sitting-room in the Mickel 
 Street house, he received his friends who were loyal 
 to him to the last and in his dogmatic and rather 
 vulgar way laid down the law to his commonplace 
 retainers. 
 
 One curious incident in his life came fully to light 
 only when Thomas B. Harned, one of his literary 
 executors, published a few years ago "The Letters of 
 Anne Gilchrist to Walt Whitman." They are re- 
 markable not so much for what they reveal as for 
 what they suggest ; indeed, considering the ages and 
 respective positions of the writer and the recipient, 
 they are rather bewildering. 
 
 Whitman had early found his greatest admirers, 
 not in the crowded streets of New York and Phila- 
 delphia, but in England. It may be that the rough, 
 the rather uncouth sentiments of democracy acted 
 like a tonic upon those accustomed to the somewhat 
 vitiated atmosphere of London drawing-rooms and 
 Chelsea studios. Indeed, if the beauty of anything 
 is increased by distance, democracy is that thing. 
 Swinburne and the two Rossettis early professed 
 allegiance to Whitman, and through them and Madox 
 Brown, Mrs. Gilchrist became acquainted with his 
 work. William Michael Rossetti had selected and 
 edited an edition of the "Leaves/' and to him she 
 writes : " Since I have had it, I can read no other
 
 WALT WHITMAN 155 
 
 book; it holds me entirely spellbound, and I go 
 through it again and again with deepening delight 
 and wonder." 
 
 To which Rossetti replies : "That glorious man, 
 Walt Whitman, will one day be known as one of the 
 greatest of the sons of earth, a few steps below Shake- 
 speare on the throne of immortality." 
 
 Mrs. Gilchrist was a widow of mature years, the 
 mother of four children, when she fell under the spell 
 of Whitman's verbal fascination. Perhaps more 
 than anyone else, she, in her "Estimate of Walt 
 Wliitman," and an excellent and judicial estimate 
 it is, printed in the "Radical" for May, 1870, 
 voiced the belief generally held in England as to the 
 value of his work. Praise was ever sweet to Whit- 
 man ; it could not be too sweet. Few souls have the 
 rugged strength of character of Sam Johnson, who 
 once said to a lady who was buttering him, "Con- 
 sider, madame, what your flattery is worth before 
 you choke me to death with it." The correspon- 
 dence, which began as a result of her public apprecia- 
 tion of Whitman, continued to grow more personal 
 and impassioned until, in spite of his efforts to pre- 
 vent it, Mrs. Gilchrist announced that she was com- 
 ing to this country, in order that she might be near 
 the object of her passion. It was her wish to be "full 
 of sweet comfort to her beloved's soul and body 
 through life, through and after death." "I do not 
 approve!" screamed Whitman across the Atlantic; 
 but to no avail; and the lady, being then a grand- 
 mother and approaching her fiftieth year, with her
 
 156 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 household impedimenta and several children, took 
 passage for Philadelphia on August 30, 1876. 
 
 It was the year of the Centennial Exposition, and 
 Philadelphia was overcrowded and was experiencing 
 such heat as is unusual even in our torrid town. 
 Nevertheless, the lady came and stayed. For al- 
 most two years, from a commonplace house in a 
 commonplace section of our city, 1929 North Twenty- 
 second Street, the lady besought the poet unsuccess- 
 fully. She then raised the siege and, after a little, 
 sailed away. 
 
 Whitman carried himself through this trying ordeal 
 rather as a gentleman than as a poet; undoubtedly 
 age had something to do with it. He was growing 
 old, was in poor health, and in no humor to take part 
 in such an intrigue as would have delighted him at an 
 earlier period in his career. He became a courteous, 
 constant, and attentive visitor at Mrs. Gilchrist's 
 house, and her affection for and interest in him did 
 not lessen with propinquity. Her letters to him 
 after their parting are respectful and affectionate. 
 When, after her death, her son Herbert, while pre- 
 paring the biography of his mother, asked to see the 
 letters, Whitman with proper delicacy declined. He 
 said: "I do not know that I can furnish any good 
 reason, but I feel to keep these utterances exclusively 
 to myself; but I cannot let your book go to press 
 without at least saying and wishing to put it on record 
 that, among the perfect women I have met, I have 
 known none more perfect in every relation than my 
 dear, dear friend, Anne Gilchrist."
 
 WALT WHITMAN 157 
 
 I wish that he had destroyed the letters. Someone 
 has said that biographies are of three sorts : biog- 
 raphies, autobiographies, and ought-not-to-be-ogra- 
 phies. Love-letters it seems to me are of this latter 
 kind. Only when they are as wonderful and beau- 
 tiful as those of Heloise to Abelard, and when they 
 have been purified, as it were, by time, can they be 
 read without a pitying or a scornful smile. I once, 
 years ago and absentmindedly, dropped into a letter- 
 box a railway ticket and my sleeping-car reservation 
 for Chicago, and later sought to board my train with 
 a love-letter as my passport. I learned something 
 at that time which has been of use to me since. 
 
 From contemplation one may become wise, but 
 knowledge comes only by study. It was the future 
 rather than the past that interested Whitman, and 
 he prophesied in a large and ample way, carefully 
 avoiding details. The names of the world's great 
 men came glibly to his tongue as needed, but I 
 suspect that he knew little of them besides. His 
 literary judgments and pronouncements were fre- 
 quently foolish. Listen to this nugget of criticism 
 which especially offends me : " We are no admirer of 
 such characters as Dr. Johnson. He was a sour, 
 malicious, egotistical man. He was a sycophant of 
 power and rank, withal ; his biographer narrates that 
 he * always spoke with rough contempt of popular 
 liberty.' His head was educated to the point of plus ; 
 but for his heart might still more unquestionably 
 stand the sign minus. He insulted his equals . . . 
 and tyrannized over his inferiors. He fawned upon
 
 158 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 his superiors, and, of course, loved to be fawned upon 
 himself. . . . Nor were the freaks of this man the 
 mere ' eccentricities of genius ' ; they were probably 
 the faults of a vile, low nature. His soul was a bad 
 one." 
 
 As has been truly said, Whitman requires to be for- 
 given more generously than any other great writer. 
 He does, indeed. 
 
 Whitman had his Boswell in the person of Horace 
 Traubel, whom we all greatly respected and admired. 
 Traubel had at least a trace of what Whitman lacked 
 entirely, namely, a sense of humor. I once called him 
 an inspired lead-pencil and he took no offense; nor 
 was any intended; I had in mind his biographical 
 work, "With Walt Whitman in Camden," rather 
 than his poems (?) in his "Conservator." I re- 
 member that he used to publish at the head of one of 
 his columns in that paper a criticism: "Horace is 
 certainly a lovely fellow ; but there is no use talking, 
 he writes rotten poetry." I entirely agree. Trau- 
 bel's devotion to his hero much resembled Boswell's 
 to Johnson. This misled people into likening Whit- 
 man to the great Cham of Literature, whom he re- 
 sembled just as little as Camden resembles London. 
 Dr. Johnson was the intimate friend of the most dis- 
 tinguished men and women of his time. In the 
 greatest city of the world he was its dominating 
 literary figure. 
 
 From time to time Whitman had important 
 visitors from abroad, but distinguished men and 
 women in this country left him largely alone. WTtien
 
 WALT WHITMAN 159 
 
 the second centenary of his birth rolls around, I ven- 
 ture to prophesy that Whitman will be more truly 
 honored than he was at the meeting at the Elks' 
 Hall in Camden on the one hundredth anniversary 
 of his birth.
 
 IX 
 
 "20" 
 
 WE were in London, a maiden uncle and a pre- 
 sumably maiden aunt and I, and I was showing my 
 relatives the town, which I knew well, with a fine air 
 of proprietorship. It happened years ago. There 
 were omnibuses in those days not huge, self-pro- 
 pelled motor-busses, driven at a breakneck pace 
 through the crowded streets, but gayly painted, lazy, 
 rotund coaches, like huge beetles, driven by men who 
 bore a strong family resemblance to the elder Weller. 
 
 With my party I had been climbing from the top 
 of a bus going east to the top of another going west, 
 when the suggestion was made that the next sight 
 should be a bit of the roast beef of Old England. We 
 were- for a moment off the beaten track of the busses, 
 and the only vehicle in sight was a disreputable-look- 
 ing four-wheel cab, usually denominated a "growler," 
 no doubt from the character of the driver. Rather 
 against my judgment, we entered it and I gave the 
 order, "Simpson's, in the Strand." The driver 
 roused himself and his beast, and we started; but 
 we had gone only a short distance when, in some inex- 
 plicable way, the man, who was subsequently dis- 
 covered to be drunk, locked the wheels of the cab in 
 attempting to make a sharp turn, and completely 
 upset the ramshackle vehicle. Within, there was
 
 A LONDON "GROWLER," DISSATISFIED WITH HIS FARE 
 From a water-color in the possession of the author
 
 "20" 161 
 
 great confusion. Just how it happened I never knew, 
 but in some way my foot got outside the broken win- 
 dow ; the horse moved ; I heard something snap, felt 
 a sharp pain, and knew that my leg was broken. 
 
 A crowd gathered, but the omnipresent policeman 
 was on the spot in a moment, and order was quickly 
 brought out of confusion. My companions were un- 
 hurt, but it was instantly realized that I was in real 
 trouble. More policemen arrived, numbers were 
 taken, explanations demanded and attempted; but 
 accidents happen in the crowded streets of London at 
 the rate of one a minute or so, and the rules are well 
 understood. A shrill blast on a whistle brought sev- 
 eral hansoms dashing to the scene. I had become the 
 property of the Corporation of the City of London in 
 general, and of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in par- 
 ticular. The custom is, when one is hurt in the 
 streets of London, that he is taken at once to the 
 nearest hospital. His not to reason why: "it's an 
 'ard, faast rule." 
 
 Fortunately, the hospital was near at hand, and in a 
 very few moments, I found myself lying on a bench 
 in the casualty ward, writhing in agony, and sur- 
 rounded by a crowd of young men curious to know 
 how it happened. The general opinion, as voiced by 
 a young cockney, who seemed to be in authority, was 
 that I had had a "naasty one," and that Mr. Peter- 
 son would probably "take it hoff at the knee." It 
 was my intention to expostulate with Mr. Peterson 
 when he arrived and I hoped he would come quickly ; 
 but when he appeared, he seemed so intelligent and
 
 162 "20" 
 
 sympathetic, that I indulged myself in the hope that 
 I and "it" would be safe in his hands. The entrance 
 of a seriously injured man into a London hospital 
 confers no distinction upon him he is regarded, not 
 as an individual, but simply as another casualty, 
 making six, or sixteen, taken to the operating room 
 that morning. My arrival, therefore, was taken 
 quite as a matter of course. A few questions were 
 asked by a recorder, and as soon as I had told him 
 who I was, where I lived, my age and best friend, I 
 was picked up, placed upon a stretcher, and carried 
 away, I knew not whither. 
 
 Within the hospital there was neither surprise, 
 confusion, nor delay. They might have been expect- 
 ing me. Almost before I knew it, I was being rapidly 
 but skillfully undressed. I say undressed, but in 
 point of fact my trousers and one shoe were being 
 removed, with the aid of several pairs of shears in 
 skillful hands. I was curious to see for myself the 
 extent of the injury that seemed so interesting to 
 those about me, but this was not permitted. Some- 
 one ventured the opinion, for which I thanked him, 
 that as I was young and clean, I had more than an 
 even chance to save my leg ; another remarked that 
 there was no place in the world like "Bart's," for 
 fractures, and that with luck my wound might begin 
 to heal "by first intention." 
 
 Meanwhile I divined rather than saw that prep- 
 arations for a serious operation were under way. 
 Nurses with ominous-looking instruments wrapped 
 up in towels made their appearance, and I heard the
 
 "20" 163 
 
 word "chloroform" used several times ; then a rubber 
 pad was put over my face, I felt someone fumbling 
 at my wrist and I was told to take a deep breath. In 
 a moment I was overcome by a sickening sensation 
 occasioned by something sweetish; I felt lifted 
 higher, higher, higher until suddenly something 
 seemed to snap in my head, and I awoke, in ex- 
 quisite pain and very sick at the stomach. 
 
 Several hours had elapsed ; I found myself quite 
 undressed and in a bed in a large room in which were 
 many other beds similar to mine, most of them occu- 
 pied. Leaning over me was a white-capped nurse, 
 and at the foot of the bed was a very kindly-looking 
 woman, a lady of mature years, wearing an elaborate 
 cap, whom I heard addressed as "Sister." I had 
 lost my identity and had become merely "20," Pit- 
 cairn Ward, St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London 
 one of the oldest and, as I was to discover, one of the 
 best hospitals in the world. 
 
 I was in great agony and very lonely. Things had 
 happened with such rapidity that I could scarcely 
 realize how I came to be where I was. I inquired 
 for my relatives, and was told that they would "be 
 here presently." I asked for Dr. Peterson, and was 
 told that he, too, would be here "presently." From 
 the pain I felt I made no doubt that he had after all 
 taken "it" off at the knee, as prophesied. 
 
 "Presently" I heard outside the door a great 
 scuffling of feet, as of the approach of a considerable 
 crowd; then the door opened and there entered a 
 group of students, led by an elderly and distinguished-
 
 164 "20" 
 
 looking man who, visiting a row of cots in turn, 
 finally came to mine and, without speaking to me, 
 took my chart from a nurse and studied it attentively. 
 A moment later Mr. Peterson came up and explained 
 what he had done, to all of which the distinguished 
 man, addressed as Mr. Willett, listened attentively, 
 expressing his satisfaction and saying "exactly" 
 several times. 
 
 Finally, Mr. Willett addressed the crowd gathered 
 in a semi-circle about my bed. "The patient is suf- 
 fering from a compound comminuted fracture of the 
 tibia and fibula ; he was fished out of an overturned 
 four-wheeler just by the Charterhouse Gate. Mr. 
 Peterson has just performed an operation. He has 
 Here followed a rapid and technical account of 
 what had been done to me, and it seemed ample, 
 what complications might ensue, and what was hoped 
 for 1 , ending with congratulations to Mr. Peterson on 
 having done a very good job. "Six hundred yards 
 of plaster bandage, eh ? good, very good." 
 
 I was in great pain and too ill to listen with much 
 attention to what more he said. At last, as an after- 
 thought, Mr. Willett again took the chart from the 
 nurse and, glancing at it indifferently for a moment, 
 said, "Ah, an American, eh ? " Then, turning to me 
 he added, "They've brought you to the right shop 
 for fractures, my lad ; there 's no place in the world 
 where you would be better off than just where you 
 are, and Mr. Peterson has made as clean a job as the 
 best surgeon in" glancing at the chart again 
 "Philadelphia could have done."
 
 "20'* 165 
 
 "But, doctor," I piped (I did not then know that 
 surgeons in England are always addressed as Mister), 
 " it 's not to be forgotten that Dr. Peterson has been 
 working on excellent American material.'* 
 
 Mr. Willett almost dropped the chart in amaze- 
 ment and Sister told me to "Sh-h, don't talk back." 
 Such a thing was unheard of, for a poor devil lying on 
 a cot in a great charity hospital of London to bandy 
 words with one of the greatest surgeons in England. 
 Mr. Willett was too surprised to say anything; he 
 simply turned on his heel and walked away, followed 
 by his students and the Sister, leaving the nurse to 
 tell me that I must never, never talk back to Mr. 
 Willett again. "He's never to be spoke to 'nless he 
 aasks a question." 
 
 At half -past five supper was served. I did n't get 
 any, didn't want any. By eight o'clock we were 
 being prepared for the night. How I dreaded it ! 
 We were a lot of poor, forlorn men and boys, twenty- 
 four of us, all more or less broken somewhere, all 
 suffering; some groaning and complaining, some 
 silently bearing their agony. In the cot next to mine 
 there was a great burly fellow, who called me Matey 
 and said I was in luck. I did n't care much to pursue 
 the subject, but asked him how he made that out. 
 
 " You've had one leg broke twice Hi 'ear: that 
 haain't nuthin'. Hi 've 'ad both legs hoff at the knee, 
 and Hi 've a missus and six kiddies." 
 
 I was inclined to agree with him; but a Susan- 
 Nipper-like person said, "No talking," and I was 
 glad she did.
 
 166 "20" 
 
 The pain was dreadful. I wanted a great many 
 little attentions, and got them, from a nurse whose 
 name after all these years I here record with respect 
 and affection Nurse Hare. Midnight came ; I was 
 suffering terribly. Finally I asked Nurse if I could 
 not have a hypodermic. She said she thought I 
 could, and presently came and jabbed a little needle 
 into my arm, at the same time telling me to be very 
 quiet in order that the drug might take effect. At 
 last, I fell into a troubled sleep, only to start out of it 
 again. Still, I got a little sleep from time to time, 
 and finally morning came. A few days later, when 
 Nurse Hare and I were exchanging confidences, she 
 told me the hypodermic was of cold water only. "I 
 could n't 'ave given you a 'ypodermic without orders," 
 she said. 
 
 Morning comes slowly in London; sometimes in 
 December it can hardly be said to come at all ; but 
 breakfast comes. By six o'clock the gas was lit, and 
 hot water and basins and towels were passed about 
 to those who could use them. Confusion took the 
 place of comparative quiet. I had not tasted food 
 for almost twenty-four hours. I was hungry. The 
 pain in my leg was a deep throbbing pain, but it 
 could be borne. I began to look about me. Some- 
 one said, "Good-morning, Twenty," and I replied, 
 "Good-morning, Seventeen. What kind of a night 
 did you have?" "Rotten, 'ad the 'ump." It oc- 
 curred to me that I had always wanted to talk to a 
 pure and undefiled cockney and that I now had an 
 excellent opportunity to learn. Breakfast, which
 
 SMITHFIELD ENTRANCE TO SAINT BARTHOLOMEW'S HOSPITAL
 
 "20" 167 
 
 came to me on a tray, was delicious : porridge and 
 milk, tea, bread, butter, and jam. I wanted a second 
 round, but something was said about temperature, 
 and I was forced to be content, 
 
 Late in the day, as it seemed, but actually about 
 nine o'clock, my uncle came to see me. Poor fellow, 
 he too had passed a sleepless night and showed it. 
 What could he do for me ? There was just one man 
 I wanted to see above all others my friend Hutt, 
 or as he pronounced it, 'Utt, the bookseller in Clem- 
 ents Inn Passage. Would my uncle go and bring him 
 to me ? He would ; he did not say so, but he would 
 have fetched me a toothpick from the f urtherest inch 
 of Asia if I had asked for it. He had never seen Mr. 
 Hutt, he had been in London only some forty-eight 
 hours, he did not know his way around, and was as 
 nervous as a hen. I told him as well as I could where 
 Hutt's shop was and he started off; as he went, I 
 noticed he was carrying my umbrella, which had a 
 rather curious horn handle studded with round- 
 headed silver tacks quite an unusual-looking 
 handle. I am telling the exact truth when I say 
 that my uncle promptly lost his way, and an hour 
 later, my friend Hutt, hurrying along the crowded 
 Strand, saw a man wandering about, apparently 
 looking for someone or something, and carrying my 
 umbrella. He went up and, calling my uncle by 
 name (he had heard me speak of him), asked if he 
 could direct him anywhere. My uncle was amazed, 
 as well he might be, and conducted my friend, or 
 rather was conducted by him, to my bedside.
 
 168 "20" 
 
 When Mr. Willett came in on his rounds later in 
 the day, my uncle entered upon a rather acrimonious 
 discussion with him on the subject of my being a 
 charity patient in a public ward. Mr. Willett ex- 
 plained very patiently that I should have every at- 
 tention, but as for private rooms, there were none. 
 Whatever I needed, the hospital would supply, but 
 under the rules nothing could be brought in to me, 
 nothing of any kind or character, and no tips or fees 
 were permitted. Finally my uncle, dear old man, 
 broke down and cried; and then Mr. Willett, like 
 the gentleman he was, said, "I tell you what I '11 do. 
 There are no private rooms, but so sure I am that 
 your nephew would not in a week's time go into one 
 if there were, that I promise that, when he can be 
 moved without danger, I will personally put him in 
 a nursing home and take care of him myself if he 
 wishes it; but I know from experience that your 
 nephew will find so much of interest going on about 
 him that he will wish to remain here. We have had 
 gentlemen here before why, sir, nobility even." 
 
 With this we were forced to be content, and it 
 turned out exactly as Mr. Willett prophesied. 
 
 My greatest discomfort arose from my being com- 
 pelled to remain always in one position. With my 
 leg in a plaster-cast, in which were two windows 
 through which my wounds were observed and dressed, 
 and securely fastened in a cradle, I was compelled to 
 remain on my back and could move only my upper 
 body without assistance. At first I found this des- 
 perately irksome, but I gradually became accus-
 
 "20" 169 
 
 tomed to it. I was greatly helped by a simple device 
 which I thought at the time a great blessing ; I have 
 never seen it elsewhere, and wonder why. In the 
 wall about eight feet above the head of each bed was 
 set a stout iron bracket, a bracket strong enough to 
 bear the weight of a heavy man. From the end of 
 the bracket, about thirty inches from the wall, hung 
 a rope, perhaps five feet long; a handle-bar with a 
 hole in it, through which the rope passed, enabled 
 one to adjust the handle at any height desired above 
 the bed. A knot at the end of the rope prevented 
 the handle slipping off and fixed the lower limit of its 
 travel, but it could be adjusted by another knot at 
 any higher point desired. The primary object of 
 this device, which was called a pulley, was to enable 
 the patient to lift himself up in bed without subject- 
 ing his lower body to strain of any kind. But it had 
 many other purposes. From it one could hang one's 
 newspaper, or watch, or handkerchief, and it served 
 also as a harmless plaything. Have you seen a kitten 
 play with a ball of wool ? In like manner have I seen 
 great men relieve the monotony with their pulley, 
 spinning it, swinging it, sliding the handle up and 
 down, for hours at a time. 
 
 Without suggesting that I was in any way a con- 
 spicuous person in the ward, I am bound to say that 
 my fellow patients treated me as a "toff" in other 
 words, a swell. This was due solely to the fact that I 
 had a watch. Such a possession in a public ward of 
 a London hospital is like keeping a carriage or a gig ; 
 to use Carlyle's word, it is a mark of respectability.
 
 170 "20" 
 
 Frequently during the night I would hear some poor 
 helpless sufferer say, "Hi siay, 20, wot time his hit ?" 
 It occurred to me that it would be a nice thing to have 
 one of my friends go to Sir John Bennett's, the famous 
 clockmaker, and buy a small clock with a very soft 
 strike, which would mark the hours without disturb- 
 ing anyone. I spoke to Nurse Hare about it, and she 
 to someone in authority. The answer came : no gifts 
 could be accepted while I was in the hospital. After 
 my discharge any gifts I might see fit to make should 
 be sent to the hospital, to be used as the authorities 
 thought best, and not to any ward in particular. 
 Another " 'ard, f aast rule," and a good one. 
 
 Before a week had passed, Christmas was upon us. 
 The afternoon before, I sent out for a copy of "The 
 Christmas Carol," which I had read so often before, 
 and have read so often since, on Christmas Eve. 
 Through this little book Dickens has, more than any 
 other man, given Christmas its character of cheer and 
 good-will; but it reads better in London than else- 
 where. 
 
 "How's the weather outside ?" I asked, looking up 
 from my book, of a "dresser" who had just come in. 
 
 "There's snow on the ground and a regular 'Lon- 
 don particular' [fog], and it's beginning to sleet." 
 
 I thanked my lucky stars that I was in bed, as 
 warm as toast, and wondered what I would get for a 
 " Christmas box," that is to say, a Christmas pres- 
 ent, for we were all looking forward to something. 
 There was to be a tree in the adjoining ward, but, as 
 I could not be moved, I was to have my presents
 
 "20" 171 
 
 brought to me. I can still see the gifts I received from 
 kindly disposed ladies ! Useful gifts ! A little game of 
 cards played with Scripture texts; a handkerchief 
 primarily intended for mental stimulation, with the 
 alphabet and numbers up to ten printed thereon; a 
 pair of socks, hand-knitted, of a yarn of the consist- 
 ency of coarse twine ; a pair of pulse-warmers, and a 
 book, a copy of "The British Workman," and 
 last, but not least, a pair of stout hobnailed shoes. 
 Ladies, too, came and offered to read to me, assum- 
 ing that I could not read to myself, and in other ways 
 showed their kindness of heart. God bless them every 
 one. 
 
 No one ever worked harder at a foreign language 
 than I did at learning cockney. I drawled my o's and 
 i's, and broadened my a's, and dropped my A's and 
 picked 'em up again and put them in the wrong 
 place ; and I had the best instructors in London. A 
 few in the ward could read, but more could not ; and 
 almost without exception they spoke that peculiar 
 dialect which is the curious inheritance of the Lon- 
 doner. Those of us whose memories go back twenty- 
 five years or so remember it as the medium of that 
 great music-hall artist, Albert Chevalier. His songs 
 were then all the rage, as were, too, Gus Ellen's. As 
 we became better acquainted, we sang them together, 
 and I then acquired an accomplishment which has 
 even yet not entirely deserted me. (I should have 
 said that it was the custom for the surgical wards of 
 St. Bartholomew's Hospital to take in accident cases 
 continuously until all the beds were full ; as a result,
 
 172 "20'* 
 
 most of the patients entered about the same time, 
 and we came to know one another, by number, very 
 intimately in the two or four or six weeks' residence.) 
 
 Mr. Willett was quite right : I would not have been 
 moved into a private room for something handsome. 
 There were so many men worse off than myself, that 
 I forgot myself in thinking of others. "Twenty-one" 
 had lost both feet; I certainly was fortunate com- 
 pared with him. " Seventeen," while cleaning a plate- 
 glass window from a ladder, had slipped and plunged 
 through the window, damaging himself horribly in 
 half a dozen ways; I certainly was lucky compared 
 with him. "Eight" had undergone three serious op- 
 erations and another one was contemplated. In 
 short, as soon as I became reasonably comfortable I 
 began to feel quite at home. I had my books and 
 papers and magazines, and spent hours in playing 
 checkers for a penny a game with a poor chap who 
 had lost an arm. He almost always beat me, but a 
 shilling was not much to pay for an afternoon's 
 diversion. 
 
 No one could spend two months or so in St. Bar- 
 tholomew's Hospital, "Bart's," as it is affection- 
 ately called, without seeking to know something of 
 its history. Its origin is shrouded in antiquity. In the 
 church of St. Bartholomew the Great, wedged into a 
 corner of Smithfield just outside the gate, is the tomb 
 of its founder, Rahere, a minstrel, or court jester, 
 of Henry I. While on a pilgrimage to Rome, he was 
 stricken with a serious illness, during which he made 
 a vow that, if he lived to get back to London, he
 
 TOMB OF RAHERE, THE FOUNDER OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S HOSPITAL : ONE OF 
 THE OLDEST MONUMENTS IN LONDON
 
 "20" 173 
 
 would build a hospital in thanksgiving. Thus it was 
 that, in the year 1102, a priory and hospital were 
 founded. Thanks to the protests of the citizens of Lon- 
 don, it not only escaped the attentions of Henry 
 VIII, when he entered upon his period of destruc- 
 tion, but it was even said to have been reestablished 
 by him. Thenceforth it came to be regarded as the 
 first of royal hospitals. In receipt of a princely income, 
 it has from time out of mind been the scene of great 
 events in surgical and medical science. Harvey, phy- 
 sician of Charles I, the discoverer of the circulation 
 of the blood, was chief physician of the hospital for 
 more than thirty years. A roll of the distinguished 
 names would be tedious ; but Mr. Willett was quite 
 right when he said that I had come to the right shop 
 for fractures. "We make a specialty of fractures" 
 might have been adopted as a slogan, had slogans 
 been in vogue when the famous surgeon, Percival Pott, 
 was thrown from his horse and sustained a com- 
 pound fracture, and with difficulty prevented a 
 brother surgeon from giving him first aid with a knife 
 and saw. How he directed the treatment of his own 
 case and saved his leg is one of the many legends of 
 the place. 
 
 But to return to Pitcairn Ward. It was a large 
 room, with a high ceiling, and with two rows of beds, 
 twelve to a row, on either side of a wide aisle. It was 
 heated by a soft-coal-burning device, something like 
 a range, but with a large open grate, the smoke from 
 which curled lazily up the chimney. One morning it 
 was discovered that the fire was out; and as this
 
 174 "20" 
 
 seemed to indicate neglect, and certainly meant work 
 for the ward-maid, each patient as he woke and made 
 this discovery sang out cheerily, "Fire's out." To 
 these remarks the maid usually replied by asking the 
 speaker to mind his own business ; or perhaps she 
 contented herself by making faces or sticking her 
 tongue out at him. 
 
 Presently a curious sound was heard from the 
 chimney, as of a fluttering of birds, followed by a 
 curious cry, "Peep, peep, peep," which was instantly 
 recognized by those familiar with it as being the pro- 
 fessional call of the chimney sweep. Someone cried, 
 "Sweeps!" The effect was instantaneous. As when 
 one discovers a ship in mid-ocean and announces the 
 fact, all rush to the rail, so all who could crowded in 
 wheel-chairs around the fireplace, only to be told to 
 "Be hoff " by the ward-maid. 
 
 Presently the sounds grew louder, until, at last, a 
 tall, slender lad, black with soot from head to foot, 
 armed with brushes and brooms, slid down into the 
 grate, leaped out, gave a little scream, bowed, and 
 disappeared, almost before we could clap our eyes 
 upon him. My intention had been to ask the little 
 urchin to get into a bed next to mine, at that moment 
 vacant, and give an imitation of Charles Lamb's 
 chimney-sweep "asleep like a young Howard in the 
 state bed of Arundel Castle." I probably saved 
 myself a lot of trouble by being so surprised at his 
 quick entrance and get-away that I said not a single 
 word. "A chimney-sweeper quickly makes his way 
 through a crowd by being dirty."
 
 "20" 175 
 
 Anything kinder, anything more considerate than 
 the authorities of the hospital, from Mr. Willett down 
 to the ward-maid, could hardly be imagined. There 
 was, however, one ordeal against which I set my face 
 like flint namely, shaving. Shaving was I think an 
 extra ; its cost, a penny. Every day a man and a boy 
 entered the ward, the boy carrying a small tub filled 
 with thick soapsuds, the man with a razor incredibly 
 sharp. One cried, "Shaves?" and perhaps from two 
 or half a dozen beds came the word, " Yus." No time 
 was lost in preliminaries. A common towel was tied 
 around one's neck, and a brush like a large round 
 paint-brush was dipped into the thick lather. With 
 a quick movement, the result of much practice, the 
 boy made a pass or two from ear to ear ; with a twist 
 and a return movement, the cheeks, lips, mouth, and 
 chin were covered with soap. The man wielded a 
 razor in much the same manner, and the victim spent 
 the next hour or two patting his face with his hands, 
 then withdrawing them and looking at them, as if he 
 expected to see them covered with blood. The opera- 
 tion was complete. I use the word "operation" ad- 
 visedly; although chloroform was not administered, 
 I always insisted that it should have been. The first 
 surgeons were barbers ; at least the two trades were 
 closely allied, and in England they seem to be allied 
 still. Thanks to the kindness of one of the "dressers," 
 when I became well enough to be shaved, I had a real 
 barber in from a near-by shop. It cost me half a crown, 
 and was a prolonged agony rather than a brief one ; 
 that was the chief difference ; in essentials the opera-
 
 176 "20" 
 
 tion was the same. Is it surprising that in England 
 gentlemen invariably shave themselves ? 
 
 Some men make excellent patients, I am told, when 
 they are very ill, and allow their bad traits to come 
 to the surface as they become convalescent. It was 
 so in my case. I grew tired of the life and began in- 
 quiring how much longer my leg was to be kept in 
 plaster. Fortunately I had no idea of the ordeal of 
 removing a plaster-cast which reached from one's toes 
 to one's hip. At last the day came, and I shall never 
 forget it. I had first been permitted to limp around 
 the ward on crutches for a few days, and soon learned 
 to manage them very nicely ; and when a time was set 
 for my leg to come out of plaster, I was very thankful. 
 It was the work of hours : every tiny hair on my leg 
 was firmly set in plaster of Paris, and the removal of 
 the cast occasioned such continuous pain that sev- 
 eral times I thought I should faint. At last, however, 
 the task was accomplished and I looked down at the 
 leg which had been the subject of so much discussion, 
 which had been dressed so often. It was a poor 
 thing, but mine own ; no one else would have had it ; 
 a poor, shrunken, shortened, emaciated member, but 
 whole, thank God ! I did not then know that a year 
 after the accident happened I should be walking as 
 well as ever ; and let me say that I have never had a 
 twinge of pain in it since. Mr. Willett and Mr. Peter- 
 son, and "Sister" and Nurse Hare, I doff my hat 
 to you. 
 
 Measurements were taken for a leather stocking, 
 which was a work of art ; and finally a date was set
 
 "20" 177 
 
 for my dismissal. A room had been secured for me in 
 a not-distant lodging ; for I still had to go to the hos- 
 pital once or twice a week to have the rapidly healing 
 wounds dressed. I made my departure from the hos- 
 pital early one afternoon, in what was called a pri- 
 vate ambulance ; but I am certain that the vehicle was 
 usually used as a hearse. The stretcher on which I 
 was laid was on casters and was pushed into the rear 
 door of a long low contrivance with glass sides. As 
 we prepared to drive away from the hospital gate, an 
 effigy, that of Henry, the Eighth of that name, looked 
 down upon me from his niche over Smithfield Gate. 
 A crowd gathered, and from my horizontal position 
 the unusual sight of so many people moving about in 
 perpendicular made me dizzy. I closed my eyes and 
 heard someone inquire, "Is he dead?" I was very 
 unhappy, and still more so when, half an hour later, 
 I found myself in a very tiny bedroom, as it seemed 
 to me, and in a bed with no pulley. I could have cried ; 
 indeed, I think I did. I wanted to go back to the 
 hospital ; I felt that I was being neglected and should 
 die of suffocation. 
 
 A maid came in and asked if I wanted anything. 
 "Want anything !" I certainly did, and I gave her a 
 list of things I wanted, in the most approved cockney. 
 As she left my room, I heard her say to another maid 
 just outside the door, " 'Ave you 'card that bloke hin 
 there talk? Faancy 'im tryin' to paass hisself hoff 
 has comin' from New York !"
 
 X 
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 IF one elects to live well out in the country, going 
 to the opera presents serious difficulties. One can't 
 very well go home to dress and go in town again ; and 
 if one decides to stay in town at a hotel, there is a 
 suitcase to be packed in the morning an operation 
 the result of which I abhor, as I always forget some- 
 thing essential. On one occasion, some years ago, I, 
 like a dutiful husband, had agreed to go to the opera, 
 and having packed my bag and sent it to my hotel, 
 dismissed from my mind the details of my toilet, until 
 I came to dress in the evening ; when I discovered to 
 my horror that I had absentmindedly packed a col- 
 ored neglige shirt instead of the white, hard-boiled 
 article which custom has decreed for such occasions, 
 and that several other little essentials were missing. 
 I was quite undressed when I made this discovery; 
 it was already late, and my temper, never absolutely 
 flawless on opera nights, was not improved by my 
 wife's observation that we would surely miss the over- 
 ture. I thought it altogether likely, and said so 
 briefly. 
 
 It was, as I remember, my Lord Chesterfield who 
 observed that when one goes to the opera one should 
 leave one's mind at home; I had gone his Lordship 
 one better, I had left practically everything at home,
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 179 
 
 and I heartily wished that I was at home, too. I shall 
 not, I think, be accused of misstatement when I say 
 that it is altogether probable that most married men, 
 if they could be excused from escorting their wives to 
 the opera, would cheerfully make a substantial con- 
 tribution to any worthy or even unworthy 
 charity. 
 
 Thoughts such as these, if thoughts they may be 
 called, surged through my head, as I rapidly dressed 
 and prepared to dash through the streets in search of 
 any "gents' furnishing goods" shop that might chance 
 to be open at that hour. I needed such articles of 
 commerce as would enable me to make myself pre- 
 sentable at the opera, and I needed them at once. It 
 was raining, and as I dashed up one street and down 
 another, I discovered that the difference between a 
 raised umbrella and a parachute is negligible; so I 
 closed mine, with the result that I was thoroughly 
 drenched before I had secured what I needed. I have 
 the best of wives, but truth compels me to say that 
 when, upon my return, she greeted me with the re- 
 mark that what she wanted especially to hear was the 
 overture and that we would certainly be late, I al- 
 most I say I almost lost my temper. 
 
 Is it necessary for me to remark that we do not go 
 to the opera frequently? It was my wife's evening, 
 not mine ; and as I sat on the side of a bed, eating a 
 sandwich and struggling to insert square shirt pegs 
 in round holes, to the gently sustained motif that we 
 would surely miss the overture, I thought of home, of 
 my books, of a fire of logs crackling, of my pipe, and
 
 180 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 I wondered who it was who said, when anything 
 untoward happened, "All this could have been 
 avoided if I had staid at home." 
 
 Finally, after doing up my wife's back, "hooking 
 them in the lace," I finished my own unsatisfac- 
 tory toilet, feeling, and doubtless looking, very much 
 as Joe Gargery did when he went to see Miss 
 Havisham. But at last we were ready, and we 
 descended to the lobby of our hotel, having in the 
 confusion quite overlooked the fact that we should 
 require a taxi. It was still raining, and not a taxi or 
 other conveyance was to be had ! I was quite non- 
 plussed for the moment, and felt deeply grieved when 
 my wife remarked that it was hardly worth while now 
 to leave the hotel we were so late that we should 
 miss the overture anyway ; to which I replied but 
 never mind specifically what I said; it was to the 
 effect that we would go to the opera or bust. 
 
 But how? Standing at the door of the hotel, I 
 waited my chance, and finally a taxi arrived; but 
 quite unexpectedly a man appeared from nowhere 
 and was about to enter it, saying, as he did so, in a 
 fine rolling English voice, "I wish to go to the opera 
 house." 
 
 There was no time to lose; quickly brushing the 
 man aside, I called to my wife and passed her into 
 the taxi, and then, turning to the stranger, I ex- 
 plained to him that we, too, were going to the opera 
 and that he was to be our guest. I pushed the as- 
 tonished man into the machine, told the driver to go 
 like h (to drive rapidly), and entering myself,
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 181 
 
 pulled to the door and heaved a sigh of relief. We 
 were off. 
 
 For a moment nothing was said. We were all more 
 or less surprised to find ourselves together. I think 
 I may say that my newly discovered friend was 
 astonished. Something had to be said, and it was up 
 to me to say it. "My name is Newton," I said ; and 
 gently waving toward Mrs. Newton a white-kid- 
 gloved hand, which in the darkness looked like a 
 small ham, I explained that Mrs. Newton was very 
 musical and was particularly anxious to hear the over- 
 ture of the opera, and that I was unavoidably late. 
 I added that I hoped he would forgive my rudeness ; 
 then, remembering that I was speaking to an English 
 gentleman who probably thought me mad, I in- 
 quired if he were not a stranger in Philadelphia. 
 
 "Yes," he replied; "I only arrived in the city this 
 evening." 
 
 "And have you friends here?" I asked. 
 
 His reply almost disconcerted me: "Present com- 
 pany excepted, none." 
 
 "Oh, come now," I said; "I took you for an Eng- 
 lishman, but no Englishman could possibly make so 
 graceful a speech on such short notice. You must 
 be either Scotch or Irish ; whenever one meets a par- 
 ticularly charming Englishman, he invariably turns 
 out to be Scotch or Irish." 
 
 "Well, the fact is, I'm Scotch," my friend replied ; 
 "my name is Craig, Frank Craig. I'm an artist." 
 
 "Don't apologize," I said; "you are probably not 
 a very great artist. I'm a business man, and not a
 
 182 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 very great business man either ; and as we are the 
 only friends you have in the city, you shall have 
 supper with us after the opera. Don't decline. I'm 
 very much at home in our hotel, as perhaps you no- 
 ticed. Ask for me at the door of the supper-room. 
 Don't forget my name. Here we are at the opera 
 house, in good time for the overture, after all." 
 
 And I passed my friend out of the taxi, and he, 
 assuring me that he would join us at supper, went his 
 way and we ours. 
 
 During the performance, which was miserable, I 
 chuckled gently to myself, and wondered what my 
 Scotch friend thought of the affair and whether he 
 would keep his appointment. The opera was late, 
 there was the usual delay in getting away, and it was 
 almost midnight when the head waiter conducted my 
 new-found guest to our table. Then for the first time 
 we had a good look at each other, and told each other 
 how funny it all was, and how unexpected and de- 
 lightful. After an excellent supper and a bottle of 
 champagne, followed by a fine brandy and cigars, 
 for I determined to do the thing well, we grew 
 confidential. We talked of life and of travel, and 
 finally, of course, about books and authors. 
 
 "Have you ever met Booth Tarkington?" my 
 friend inquired. I had. Did I know him ? I did not. 
 Craig had been staying with him in Indianapolis. 
 Had I ever heard of Arnold Bennett ? I had. Did I 
 care for his books ? I did. He also had been staying 
 with Booth Tarkington in Indianapolis; in fact, 
 Bennett and he were traveling together at the pres-
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 183 
 
 ent time. "Bennett is doing a book for the Harpers, 
 to be called 'Your United States,'" Craig explained, 
 and he, Craig, was doing the illustrations for it. 
 
 "And where is Arnold Bennett now?" I asked. 
 
 "Upstairs, in bed and asleep, I hope." 
 
 "What are you doing to-morrow?" 
 
 "Well, Bennett is lunching with the literati of the 
 city, and I'm going to take photographs and make 
 sketches for our book ; we are each on our own, you 
 know." 
 
 "But the literati of the city," I repeated doubt- 
 fully ; " that would be Agnes Repplier, of course, and 
 Dr. Furness, and Weir Mitchell, and who else?" We 
 were rather shy of literati at the moment, as we still 
 are, and I hoped these would not fail him. 
 
 Craig did n't know ; he had not been invited. 
 
 "And after the luncheon, what next ?" I inquired. 
 
 "Well, I believe that we are to go to the picture 
 gallery of a Mr. Weednaar, with a friend who has 
 secured cards for us. I 'm not invited to the luncheon, 
 but I'm keen to see the pictures." 
 
 "Very well," I said; "let me make plans for you; 
 I tell you what we '11 do. I '11 make it a holiday ; I will 
 get my motor in from the country, and go around 
 with you and show you the sights. You want to 
 see ' Georgian ' Philadelphia you say we call it 
 ' Colonial ' ; I know it well. I '11 be your guide ; you 
 shall take your photographs and make your sketches, 
 and in the afternoon we, too, will go out and see Mr. 
 Widener's pictures, his name, by the way, is 
 Widener, not Weednaar, and if I can find Harry
 
 184 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 Widener, a scion of that house and a friend of mine, 
 I'll get him to ask us out for lunch, and we will be 
 there to welcome Bennett and his friend with their 
 cards on their arrival. What, by the way, is the 
 name of your friend to whom you owe your intro- 
 duction to Mr. Widener?" 
 
 "A Mr. Hellman of New York; a bookseller, I 
 believe ; perhaps you know him, too." 
 
 "Perfectly," I said; "I probably owe him money 
 at this very minute." 
 
 With this understanding and much pleased with 
 each other, we parted for the night. 
 
 The next morning, at half -past nine, we met in the 
 lobby, and I was presented to Arnold Bennett. At 
 that time I do not remember that I had ever seen a 
 photograph of him, and I was quite disillusioned by 
 seeing a person quite lacking in distinction, in ill- 
 fitting clothes, with two very prominent upper teeth 
 which would have been invaluable had he taken to 
 whistling, professionally. 
 
 "And you are the man," he said, "who has so cap- 
 tivated my friend Craig ? He told me all about your 
 escapade last night, over the breakfast-table, and in 
 the excitement of narration he ate my eggs." 
 
 "No matter," said I ; "you are going to lunch with 
 the literati of the city you ought not to worry 
 over the loss of your eggs. But what is quite as im- 
 portant, who is giving the luncheon?" 
 
 "George Horace Lorimer," he replied. 
 
 "Then," said I, "you certainly need not worry over 
 the loss of a pair of eggs. In an hour or two you'll be
 
 GLORIA DEI (OLD SWEDES') CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 185 
 
 glad you did not eat them, for Lorimer understands 
 ordering a luncheon no man better. I'm sorry for 
 Craig, for he's lunching with me; but we shall join 
 you during the afternoon at Mr. Widener's." 
 
 This seemed to upset Bennett completely. "But 
 we are going to Mr. Weednaar's by appointment 
 we have cards " 
 
 " I know, from George Hellman," I interrupted. " I 
 don't need any cards. If Harry Widener is at home, 
 we will lunch with him ; if not, we will join you some 
 time during the afternoon." 
 
 Bennett looked at me with astonishment. He had 
 doubtless been warned of bunko-steerers, card- 
 sharks, and confidence men generally. I appeared to 
 him a very finished specimen, probably all the more 
 dangerous on that account. We left him bewildered. 
 He evidently thought that his friend would be the 
 victim of some very real experiences before he saw 
 him again. As we parted, he looked as if he wanted 
 to say to Craig, "If you play poker with that man, 
 you are lost " ; but he did n't. 
 
 We Philadelphians do not boast of the climate of 
 our city. During the summer months we usually tie 
 with some town in Texas Waco, I believe for 
 the honor of being the hottest place in the country ; 
 but in November it is delightful, and we have the 
 finest suburbs in the world. If it were not for its out- 
 lying districts, Philadelphia would be intolerable. 
 But the day was fine, we were in high spirits, like boys 
 out for a lark, which indeed we were, and I deter-
 
 186 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 mined that our sightseeing should begin at the "Old 
 Swedes Church," or, to give it its proper name, 
 " Gloria Dei," and work our way from the south- 
 ern part of the city to the northern, stopping at such 
 old landmarks as would seem to afford material for 
 Craig's pencil. 
 
 What a wonderful day it was; agreeable at the 
 time and in retrospect delightful, if somewhat tinged 
 with melancholy ; for I chanced to read in an English 
 newspaper not long ago of the death of my friend 
 Craig, in some way a victim of the war. But looking 
 back upon that day, everything seemed as joyous as 
 the two quaintly carved and colored angels' heads, 
 a bit of old Swedish decoration, which peered down 
 upon us from the organ-loft of the old church, about 
 which Craig went into ecstasies of delight ; as well he 
 might, for it is a quaint little box of a church, almost 
 lost in the shipping and commerce that surrounds it. 
 Built by the Swedes before the coming of William 
 Penn, it stands on the bank of the Delaware, on the 
 site of a block-house in which religious services had 
 been held more than half a century before its erection. 
 
 Too few Philadelphians know this tiny toy church 
 or attend its services : it is out of the beaten track of 
 the tourist. But some of us, not entirely forgetful of 
 old Philadelphia, love to visit it occasionally ; and if 
 the sermon gets wearisome, as sermons sometimes 
 do, we can creep out stealthily and spend a few min- 
 utes prowling around the graveyard, in which inter- 
 ments are still made occasionally, looking at the 
 tombstones, on which are curiously cut the now
 
 ST. PETER'S CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 187 
 
 almost illegible names of devout men and women who 
 departed this life in faith and fear almost two cen- 
 turies ago. 
 
 "But come now," I at last had to say, "this is our 
 first, but by no means our best, church ; wait until 
 you see St. Peter's." 
 
 The ride from Old Swedes Church to St. Peter's has 
 nothing to recommend it ; but it is short, and we were 
 soon standing in one of the finest bits of Colonial 
 church architecture in America. 
 
 "Why," exclaimed Craig, "we have nothing more 
 beautiful in London, and there is certainly nothing 
 in New York or Boston that can touch it." 
 
 "Certainly, there is n't," I said; "and if you were 
 a Philadelphian and had an ancestor buried in this 
 church or within its shadow, you would not have to 
 have brains, money, morals, or anything else. Of 
 course, these accessories would do you no harm, and 
 in a way might be useful ; but the lack of them would 
 not be ruinous, as it would be with ordinary folk." 
 Then I spoke glibly the names of the dead whom, had 
 they been living, I should scarce have dared to men- 
 tion, so interwoven are they in the fabric of the social, 
 or, as some might say, the unsocial life of Philadelphia. 
 
 "And these people," said Craig, "do they look like 
 other people? do you know them?" 
 
 It was a delicate question. It was not for me to 
 tell him that a collateral ancestor was a founder of 
 the Philadelphia Assembly, or to boast of a bowing 
 acquaintance with that charming woman, Mrs. John 
 Markoe, whose family pew we were then reverently
 
 188 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 approaching. Craig could, of course, know nothing of 
 what a blessed thing it is to be a member, not of St. 
 Peter's, but of "St. Peter's set," which is a very dif- 
 ferent matter. But he fully appreciated the archi- 
 tectural charm of the building; and as we strolled 
 about, he observed with the keenest interest the curi- 
 ous arrangement of the organ and altar at one end of 
 the church, and the glorious old pulpit and reading- 
 desk at the other, with a quite unnecessary sounding- 
 board for the church is not large surmounting 
 them like a benediction. 
 
 "How dignified and exclusive the square pews are," 
 said Craig, "looking for all the world like the lord of 
 the manor's, at home." 
 
 "Yes," said I, "and not half so exclusive as the 
 people who occupy them. You could have made a 
 very pretty picture of this church crowded with 
 wealth and fashion and beauty a hundred and fifty 
 years ago, if you had been lucky enough to have been 
 born when there was color in the world ; now we all 
 look alike." 
 
 "I know," said Craig. "It's too bad." 
 
 I could have told him a good deal of the history of 
 Christ Church, which we next visited. It is only a 
 short distance from St. Peter's, indeed, in the early 
 days Christ Church and St. Peter's formed one par- 
 ish. The present structure was built in 1727, of bricks 
 brought over from England. Architecturally, it is the 
 finest church in Philadelphia, and so expensive it was 
 for the congregation of two hundred years ago that, 
 in order to finish its steeple and provide it with its
 
 -I 
 
 CHRIST CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 189 
 
 fine chime of bells, recourse was had to a lottery ! 
 Indeed, two lotteries were held before the work was 
 completed. Philadelphians all felt that they had a 
 stake in the enterprise, and for a long time the bells 
 were rung on every possible occasion. Queen Anne 
 sent over a solid silver communion service, which is 
 still in use ; and the rector, Dr. William White, after 
 the Revolution became the second bishop of the Epis- 
 copal Church in the United States of America, having 
 finally been consecrated at Lambeth after years of 
 discussion as to how the Episcopacy was to be car- 
 ried on. So "Old Christ," as it is affectionately called, 
 may properly be regarded as the Mother Church in 
 this country. When Philadelphia was the capital of 
 the nation, Washington attended it, as did John 
 Adams, and Benjamin Franklin, occasionally per- 
 haps not often enough. 
 
 But our time was limited and there was much to 
 see: Carpenter's Hall, and the State House with its 
 beautiful windows, which Craig called Palladian, and 
 its splendid Colonial staircase, from which I was quite 
 powerless to draw his attention to the far-famed 
 liberty bell. 
 
 "I know all about that," said Craig; "I've been 
 reading it up ; but if you can tell me in what single 
 respect an Englishman has n't just as much liberty 
 as an American, I shall be glad to listen." 
 
 I changed the subject ; one always hates to discuss 
 liberty with an Englishman, they have so many more 
 "rights" than we have. 
 
 Having forgotten to point out the grave of our
 
 190 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 greatest citizen, Benjamin Franklin, who, we love to 
 tell Bostonians, was born in Philadelphia at seven- 
 teen years of age, we retraced our steps if one can 
 be said to retrace one's steps in a motor to the 
 Christ Church burying-ground at Fifth and Arch 
 streets. There, peering through the iron railing, we 
 read the simple inscription carved according to his 
 wish on the flat tomb : " Benjamin and Deborah 
 Franklin, 1790." I have always regretted that I did 
 not avail myself of the opportunity once offered 
 me of buying the manuscript, in Franklin's hand, of 
 the famous epitaph which he composed in a rather 
 flippant moment, in 1728, for his tombstone. The 
 original is, I believe, among the Franklin papers in 
 the State Department at Washington, but he made 
 at least one copy, and possibly several. The one I 
 saw reads : 
 
 THE BODY 
 
 of 
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
 PRINTER 
 
 ( Like the cover of an old book 
 
 Its contents torn out 
 And stript of its lettering and gilding) 
 
 Lies here, food for worms. 
 But the work shall not be lost 
 For it will (as he believed} appear once more 
 
 In a new and more elegant edition 
 
 Revised and corrected 
 
 ^/ 
 
 THE AUTHOR
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 191 
 
 No doubt the plain marble slab, with the simple 
 name and date (for Franklin needs no epitaph in 
 Philadelphia), is more dignified, but I have always 
 wished that his first idea had been carried out. 
 
 As we were only a stone's throw from the Quaker 
 Meeting-House, we paid it a hasty visit, and I con- 
 fessed, in reply to a question, that, often as I had 
 passed the austere old brick building, I had never 
 entered it before, although I had always intended to. 
 
 At last I looked at my watch unnecessarily, for 
 something told me it was lunch-time. We had had 
 a busy morning. Craig had made sketches with in- 
 credible rapidity, while I bought photographs and 
 picture-postals by the score. We had not been idle 
 for a moment, but there was more to be seen : Fair- 
 mount, not the Park, there was no time for that, 
 and all parks are more or less alike although ours is 
 most beautiful, but the old-time "water-works," 
 beautifully situated on the hillside, terraced and tur- 
 reted, with its three Greek temples, so faultlessly 
 proportioned and placed as to form what Joe Pennell 
 says is one of the loveliest spots in America and which, 
 he characteristically adds, we in Philadelphia do not 
 appreciate. But Craig did. It was a glorious day in 
 mid-November; the trees were in their full autumn 
 regalia of red and gold ; the Schuylkill glistened like 
 silver in the sun, and in the distance tumbled, with a 
 gentle murmur of protest at being disturbed, over its 
 dam into the lower level, where it becomes a river of 
 use if not of beauty. 
 
 I thought how seldom do we business men pause
 
 192 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 in the middle of the day to look at anything so free 
 from complications as a "view." My factory was 
 within ten minutes' walk; there, penned up amidst 
 dirt and noise, I spend most of my waking hours, 
 discussing ways and means by which I may increase 
 the distance between myself and the sheriff, and 
 neglecting the beauty which unfolds itself at my very 
 door. I determined in future to open my eyes oc- 
 casionally ; but hunger put an end to my meditations. 
 Food is required even on the most perfect day; by 
 this time the literati must have met and parted. 
 Back to the city we sped, lunched at my club, thence 
 to "Lynnewood Hall," the palatial residence of Mr. 
 Widener, some miles from the centre of the city. 
 
 On our arrival we were ushered, through the main 
 entrance-hall, beautifully banked with rare flowers, 
 into the gallery in which is housed one of the finest col- 
 lections of pictures in America. Bennett and George 
 Hellman were already there, and Mr. Widener, the 
 old gentleman who had formed the collection, was 
 doing the honors. Harry, his grandson, was there, too, 
 and, to the amazement of Bennett, welcomed me 
 with outstretched arms. "I got your telephone mes- 
 sage, but too late to connect with you ; I 've been in 
 New York. Why did you not come to lunch ? You 
 were not at your office. I left messages for you every- 
 where." 
 
 Bennett looked greatly relieved: so I was not an 
 intruder after all, and, wonderful to relate, nothing 
 had happened to Craig. 
 
 Mr. Widener seemed relieved to see me, and I soon
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 193 
 
 understood the reason. He did not know who his 
 guest was. " Who is this man ? " he whispered to me. 
 
 "Arnold Bennett, the distinguished English au- 
 thor," I replied. 
 
 "Does he know anything about pictures?'* he 
 asked. 
 
 "I have no doubt he does," I replied. "Here is a 
 man who certainly does." 
 
 I presented Craig who, to the great relief of his 
 host, was vocal. And then I saw how things had 
 been going. Bennett, with his almost uncanny power 
 of observation, had seen and doubtless understood 
 and appreciated everything in the gallery, but had 
 remained mute ; an "Oh !" or an " Ah !" had been all 
 that Mr. Widener had been able to extract from him. 
 The old gentleman had seemingly been playing to an 
 empty house, and it irked him. Craig had the gift of 
 expression ; knew that he was looking at some of the 
 masterpieces of the world, and said so. 
 
 We strolled from one gallery to another, and then 
 it was suggested that perhaps we would care to see 
 But the afternoon was going ; the party had to be in 
 New York at a certain hour ; it was time to move on. 
 
 "Spend another night in Philadelphia," I said to 
 Craig; "you must not go without seeing Harry's 
 books. After a while, there will be tea and toast and 
 marmalade and Scotch and soda; life will never be 
 any better than it is at this minute." 
 
 Craig did not require much urging. Why should 
 he? We were honored guests in one of the finest 
 houses in the country, in a museum, in fact, filled to
 
 194 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 
 
 overflowing with everything that taste could suggest 
 and money buy ; and for host we had the eldest son of 
 the eldest son of the house, a young man distinguished 
 for his knowledge, modesty, and courtesy. We went 
 to Harry's apartment, where his books were kept, and 
 where I was most of all at home. Finally his mother 
 joined us. In the easy give-and-take of conversation 
 time passed rapidly, and finally it was time to go, and 
 we said good-bye. It was my last visit to "Lynne- 
 wood Hall" as Harry's guest. Five months later, 
 almost to a day, he found his watery grave in the 
 Atlantic, a victim of the sinking of the Titanic. 
 
 On our way back to our hotel, we agreed that we 
 would go to the theatre and have supper afterward ; 
 there was just time to change, once again gnawing a 
 sandwich. By great good fortune there was a real 
 comedy playing at one of the theatres; seats were 
 secured without unusual difficulty, and we were soon 
 quietly awaiting the rise of the curtain. After the 
 performance we had supper, which had been ordered 
 in advance. We were at the end of a perfect day, a 
 red-letter day, a day never to be forgotten, Craig 
 said. We had known each other something like 
 twenty-four hours, yet we seemed like old friends. 
 
 "I can't hope to give you such a day as we have 
 had, when you come to London, but you'll look me 
 up, won't you?" 
 
 "Yes, of course, and meanwhile I want you to do 
 something for me." 
 
 "Anything, my dear boy; what is it?" 
 
 "I want a presentation copy of 'Buried Alive' with
 
 11 
 
 H .
 
 LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY 195 
 
 an inscription in it from Arnold Bennett, and on a 
 fly-leaf I want a little pencil sketch by you." 
 "Righto, I'll send it directly I get to New York." 
 But I had to wait several days before I received a 
 small package by express, which, on opening, I found 
 to be a beautiful little water-color painting by Craig 
 of the picturesque old stone bridge over the Thames 
 at Sonning ! and in another package, the book, 
 "Buried Alive," with a characteristic inscription. 
 The author was doubtful of my identity to the last, 
 for he wrote : "To Mr. Newton of Philadelphia, I be- 
 lieve, with best wishes from Arnold Bennett."
 
 XI 
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 FOR a long time I hesitated over this title. It is 
 very daring, and it may be misleading. Who shall 
 say that I am sane and that William Blake was not ? 
 The fact that the policeman on the street-corner 
 leaves me unmolested, and that the president of my 
 bank receives me politely when I call upon him, 
 proves nothing. I am not deceived by the fact that 
 the pastor of my church I have n't a church, and 
 if I had, it would n't have a pastor nods pleas- 
 antly when we meet. Nor is the statement of my 
 friends, that I am mad, convincing least of all, to 
 me. Most of our friends are mad, but they are not 
 dangerous. To say that a man is mad is merely a 
 way we have of saying that his opinion does not 
 coincide with ours, that is all. The question, Was 
 Blake mad? has been too much stressed; it is not 
 important; certainly he was not more mad than 
 many who have written about him. Let us leave the 
 question for later discussion ; it may be that we shall 
 not return to it ; it may be that our paper, or your 
 patience, will give out first. 
 
 Let me begin again. It is now almost, if not quite, 
 thirty-five years ago that, in company with one of my 
 oldest friends, the Reverend Lawrence B. Ridgley, I 
 visited Walden Pond, and as was then the custom, 

 
 WILLIAM BLAKE 
 From frontispiece to Blair's Grave
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 197 
 
 and may still be, for aught I know, threw a stone 
 upon the pile which marks the spot on which Thoreau 
 built his hut, in which he lived for something over 
 two years. The throwing of the stone was an act of 
 reverence ; in an instant it was not recognizable : it 
 was just one more stone, not increasing perceptibly 
 the size of the pile ; but the fact that I had added a 
 stone gave me pleasure, and this paper on William 
 Blake may properly be regarded as another tiny stone 
 erected to his honor. It can chiefly affect one person 
 only, namely, the writer. I can neither add to nor 
 detract from Blake's fame. 
 
 Nor have I any theory to propound in regard to the 
 so-called prophetic or mystical books; I have read 
 most of them with such care as I could, but they 
 have made no lasting impression on my mind. I 
 come to the surface gasping for breath, confused, 
 bewildered, and convinced that any literary merit 
 they may have is not worth the effort required in at- 
 tempting to comprehend the thoughts, if thoughts 
 they are, so involved, so contradictory, so curiously 
 strung together, and dealing with the personification 
 of emotions rather than with ideas. That these emo- 
 tions masquerade under uncouth names, hard to pro- 
 nounce and troublesome to remember, only adds to 
 my difficulty, and having said this much, let me say 
 that I, for one, would not have them different : their 
 very obscurity only adds to their interest. As works 
 of art, to which tags of some sort must be given, they 
 are just what is indicated. 
 
 The mythology that Blake created was, so to speak,
 
 198 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 the overflow, the waste product, of his mind, and may 
 be regarded as relatively unimportant. We should 
 look at the pages of "Urizen," "Thel," "Milton," 
 "America," "Europe," and the rest, as the greatest 
 works of art produced in England and among the 
 greatest in the world, and let us not seek to know too 
 much. When we look at Rodin's statue, The Thinker, 
 we do not ask, " WTiat was he thinking of ?" we bend 
 the knee. In like manner, let us bow in reverence 
 before these great works of Blake's imagination. I 
 am not sympathetic with explanations which only 
 increase our bewilderment. To be told that every 
 gesture, every pose, has a meaning, detracts from my 
 enjoyment. I have tried to be sympathetic with the 
 views held by some of his admirers, but without suc- 
 cess. If the right leg of Palamabron or Urizen is ad- 
 vanced, benign spirits are in the ascendant : if Rahab 
 raises her left arm, evil spirits have sway, you tell me. 
 Here we part company. It may be so ; I do not know, 
 I do not care ; with Browning, I would say, 
 Did Shakespeare so, then the less Shakespeare he. 
 I am treading on delicate ground. Here, you see, 
 the personal equation comes in. I am not a student 
 or a mystic, but a twentieth-century man of affairs, 
 a manufacturer of electrical machinery, having prob- 
 lems of my own to solve which leave me little time to 
 deal with the anfractuosities this was a favorite 
 word of my friend Dr. Johnson of the minds of the 
 critics. For them the earth trembles and the sky is 
 overcast. I am not of their world ; their atmosphere 
 I cannot breathe. I see lightning but no light, smoke
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 199 
 
 but no fire ; I grasp nothing. Even Swinburne, pos- 
 sessed of a most far-fetched if not actually unsound 
 judgment, admits that he cannot always understand ; 
 and to the destination at which Swinburne fails to 
 arrive, I am reluctant to set out. 
 
 But it is time for me to begin. Dr. Johnson pub- 
 lished his great dictionary in 1755. Two years later, 
 near Golden Square in London, William Blake was 
 born. There is no relation between the two events 
 other than that they both took place in pretty nearly 
 the dead centre of the eighteenth century. 
 
 Some would say that the words "dead centre" are 
 particularly applicable to the period under discussion. 
 Pope was dead. He died in 1744, and few would have 
 had the temerity to inform Dr. Johnson that poetry 
 was dead, too. In conversation with Boswell, he said, 
 "Sir, a thousand years may elapse before there shall 
 appear another poet like Pope." My friend Amy 
 Lowell would doubtless exclaim, "Let us hope so!" 
 But to Dr. Johnson, Pope and poetry were synony- 
 mous terms. 
 
 In these days of many small reputations and no 
 single dominating figure, it is difficult for us to under- 
 stand the immense vogue and following of a poet who 
 could write such a couplet as 
 
 Why has not man a microscopic eye ? 
 For this plain reason man is not a fly. 
 
 But Pope, if he had little sweetness, certainly com- 
 pacted wisdom in a most extraordinary manner. 
 
 Know then thyself, presume not God to scan ; 
 The proper study of mankind is man.
 
 200 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 Lines from Pope or perhaps it would be more 
 exact to say, couplets intrude themselves on us 
 unconsciously. Bartlett has page after page of quo- 
 tations from Pope, and from Blake not a single one ; 
 and Pope's poetry, which so delighted Dr. Johnson 
 that he said, "If Pope is not a poet, it is useless to 
 look for one," is largely typical of the verse that dis- 
 tinguished the eighteenth century. I do not forget 
 Gray, but it was reserved for a later period fully to 
 appreciate the author of the "Elegy Wrote 1 in a 
 Country Churchyard." If you think that I detain 
 you unnecessarily with these details, it is because the 
 background against which Blake appeared, and the 
 nature of his surroundings, are most important for 
 any appreciation of him. 
 
 Blake's father was a small but respectable trades- 
 man a Dissenter, probably a Swedenborgian. His 
 son received little or no education and was early 
 apprenticed to an engraver, one Basire, from whom 
 he learned his trade. We hear of him making draw- 
 ings of the statues and monuments in Westminster 
 Abbey, and we know that he was influenced all his 
 life by these studies and that he preferred to draw 
 from the artistic abominations in the Abbey rather 
 than from life ; this explains much. 
 
 A perfectly proportioned male or female figure had 
 little charm for Blake, if one can judge from those he 
 drew. He could not see what we see, but, on the 
 
 1 The word "Wrote" is indicative of the first edition, which is now 
 worth five thousand dollars. When "wrote" became "written," as it 
 did in the later editions, the value sinks to a few shillings.
 
 SAMUEL, SAUL AND THE WITCH OF ENDOR 
 
 (1 SAMUEL Xxviii, 12-21) 
 From original painting. No. 149 of the W. M. Rossetti Catalogue
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 201 
 
 other hand, we cannot see what he saw ; and who of 
 us shall say that we can see as much as Blake ? His 
 figures are, for the most part, out of drawing, exag- 
 gerated, usually elongated. If a man or woman 
 crouching on the ground should suddenly stand up, 
 he, or she, would stand seven feet tall. Yet he is not 
 a caricaturist, as my words might suggest ; for some- 
 how, somewhere, he learned to develop his mind, his 
 imagination, so that, if he ever remained eccentric as 
 a draughtsman and dry and hard as an engraver, he 
 became the greatest imaginative artist that England 
 ever produced. 
 
 England is supreme in poetry rather than in paint- 
 ing. The average Englishman, if he cares for painting 
 at all, outside of portraiture, wishes a picture that 
 tells a story ; and the sillier the story, the better he 
 likes it. I chanced to see in the window of a shop not 
 long ago a picture that illustrates what I mean. A 
 simpering woman, without a stitch of clothes on, was 
 coming down a short flight of marble steps, holding 
 in front of her a bit of red-plush curtain. Is it Susanna 
 preparing to entice the elders ? No. A horse in the 
 distance supplies the clue ; and now we know that we 
 are playing Peeping Tom, and that Lady Godiva is 
 preparing to ride. The picture is characteristic of 
 English art at its very worst; as yet Blake has in- 
 fluenced it very little. But listen to an extract from 
 a letter which I received a few months ago from 
 Japan. 
 
 "A friend is asking me to send you a copy of my 
 book on William Blake. It is not a small pleasure for
 
 202 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 ine if I could add my humble book to your splendid 
 collection of Blake's original works. The book, which 
 appeared in 1914, however, has been all sold out and 
 is out of print, and I can get it neither from the pub- 
 lisher nor from the bookshops, and it becomes almost 
 impossible to obtain it even in the second-hand. 
 Only one copy of it is left in my hands now. But the 
 second enlarged edition, at which I am engaging now, 
 will appear by the end of this year, so I decided to 
 send the latter to you. Perhaps you will be surprised 
 if you understand that Blake, who has been neglected 
 so long by his countrymen, is now one of the most 
 favorite artists in our young public here in Japan." 
 
 But this is a digression. 
 
 Blake, when he was twenty-five years old, married 
 Catherine Boucher, a girl poorer than himself and of 
 no education whatever. At the time of their marriage 
 she was unable either to read or write. Enough has 
 been said : they lived happily together, she merged 
 her life in his, and his work constituted his life. 
 Never was genius more industrious ; whether in Lon- 
 don, or in Lambeth, or in Felpham with his friend 
 Hayley, never was he for a minute idle. It is one 
 thing to write volume after volume ; it is another 
 thing to write, illustrate, engrave, print, illuminate, 
 and himself sell a long series of volumes for which we 
 should have to invent the phrase, "which must be 
 seen to be appreciated," were it not already in use. 
 It has been a great misfortune for Blake's fame, and 
 a still greater misfortune for the world, that he must 
 be studied in first editions. During his lifetime he
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 203 
 
 was almost entirely neglected. After he died in 1827, 
 he was for a time forgotten ; so much so that Alex- 
 ander Gilchrist, to whom we are chiefly indebted for 
 what we know of him, called him "Pictor Ignotus." 
 
 Now first editions 
 of Blake are excess- 
 ively rare in these 
 days ; their prices 
 run into , not hun- 
 dreds, but thousands 
 of dollars. They can 
 be seen only here 
 and there, in muse- 
 ums or in the private 
 collections of rich 
 men. That I have 
 a few proves nothing 
 have I not been 
 called mad ? Well, 
 about Blake, I am. 
 
 POETICAL 
 
 SKETCHES. 
 
 W B. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed in the Year M DCC ixxxitt. 
 
 There are, to be sure, 
 
 the reprints of that great student and enthusiast, 
 William Muir, who about thirty-five years ago elect- 
 ed to bring out, through Bernard Quaritch, a number 
 of exquisite facsimiles ; but they were published in 
 very limited editions, only fifty copies, they are 
 now out of print and costly, and it is no exagger- 
 ation to say that such reproductions of Blake's pages 
 in black and white as are available bear the same 
 resemblance to the originals that a charcoal sketch 
 does to an oil painting.
 
 204 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 JBlake's first literary work was his "Poetical 
 Sketches," 1783 a slender volume of the greatest 
 poetical significance. It ushered in a kind of poetry 
 unknown since the immediate followers of the Eliz- 
 abethans ; and if you think of Burns at this moment, 
 as you may, I would remind you that the Kilmarnock 
 edition, the first edition of Burns, appeared in 1786. 
 
 You have read how the fakirs in India put a little 
 earth in a flower-pot, dropped in a few seeds, covered 
 the flower-pot with a paper funnel, made a few pray- 
 ers and incantations, removed the paper, and lo ! a 
 miracle had been performed a rose tree in full 
 bloom was revealed. Such a miracle was performed 
 by William Blake. Out in the sordid streets of Soho 
 he gathered a nosegay of lyrics such as had not blown 
 in a century or more, and he called them "Poetical 
 Sketches." This volume, printed but never pub- 
 lished, is so rare that Gilchrist said of it : "After some 
 years of vain attempt I am forced to abandon the 
 idea of myself owning the book. There is, of course, 
 none where at any rate there should be one in the 
 British Museum." This in 1863. I feel sure there 
 is one there now ; nevertheless, this little volume is of 
 the utmost rarety. 
 
 In considering the poetical work of Blake, one must 
 keep the background against which it appeared well 
 in mind, and remember that the verse in this slender 
 volume was written by a boy between his twelfth 
 and twentieth years. I shall not detain you with the 
 fragment of a drama in blank verse, remarkable as 
 it is ; but I must be allowed to give a few lines from
 
 A. SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 205 
 
 several lyrics, than which there are none finer. The 
 quantity is small, but the quality is supreme. 
 
 TO SPRING 
 
 O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest down 
 Thro ' the clear windows of the morning ; turn 
 Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, 
 Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring ! 
 
 And reminding us of Herrick, of whom I am sure 
 Blake never heard, is his song, "My silks and fine 
 array," and "I love the jocund dance"; and then 
 his fourteen-line poem, it is not a sonnet, which 
 reads, in part : 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, 
 Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light 
 Thy bright torch of love ; thy radiant crown 
 Put on, and smile upon our evening bed ! 
 Smile on our loves ; and, while thou drawest the 
 Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew 
 On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes 
 In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on 
 The lake ; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, 
 And wash the dusk with silver. 
 
 But you will not, I am sure, long wish to see a 
 middle-aged book-collector washing the dusk with 
 silver or, indeed, with anything else. But how many 
 were there who, in 1783, took this for poetry? The 
 non-success of this volume made it difficult, if not 
 impossible, for Blake to secure a publisher for his 
 next volume, and this fact influenced his entire life. 
 
 We now come to the "Songs of Innocence" (1789), 
 and to the "Songs of Experience" (1794), of some-
 
 206 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 what lesser merit. In regard to these, I have a 
 theory; namely, that Blake got his inspiration, or 
 rather the idea of writing these lovely verses, from a 
 paragraph in Dr. Watt's "Divine Songs." He must 
 have known that remarkable book, of which its careful 
 bibliographer, Wilbur Macey Stone, asserts that over 
 five hundred editions have been printed in England 
 and America. I was examining some time ago a 
 presentation copy of the first edition of this exces- 
 sively rare little book it was published in 1715 and 
 only two copies are known in the Pierpont Morgan 
 Library, under the watchful eye of Miss Thurston, 
 who presides over the English books in this wonderful 
 collection, Miss Greene busying herself with some 
 such matter as Coptic manuscripts the while ! 
 when this paragraph met my eye. Referring to the 
 slight character of the "Divine Songs," Dr. Watts 
 said : "I wish some happy and condescending genius 
 would undertake [to write] for the use of children and 
 perform much better [than I have been able to do]." 
 Here then, if I am not at fault, in such verses as " Let 
 dogs delight to bark and bite," and "How doth the 
 little busy bee," Blake found the raw material which 
 his "happy and condescending genius" transmuted 
 into such exquisite verses as "Little Lamb, who made 
 thee?" and "Tiger, tiger, burning bright." 
 
 Be this as it may, Blake wrote his songs with so 
 much genius that no publisher would touch them, 
 and we owe the Blake that we know best to the fact 
 that he decided to become his own publisher. Let 
 me tell the story over again of how a vision came to
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 207 
 
 him in the night, and revealed to him a method by 
 which he could produce his songs ; and fittingly the 
 first song so produced was "The Piper." 
 
 Piping down the valleys wild, 
 
 Piping songs of pleasant glee, 
 On a cloud I saw a child, 
 
 And he laughing said to me : 
 
 "Pipe a song about a lamb." 
 
 So I piped with merry cheer. 
 "Piper, pipe that song again." 
 
 So I piped ; he wept to hear. 
 
 "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 
 
 Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 
 So I sung the same again, 
 While he wept with joy to hear. 
 
 "Piper, sit thee down and write 
 
 In a book that all may read" 
 So he vanish'd from my sight ; 
 And I pluck'd a hollow reed, 
 
 And I made a rural pen, 
 
 And I stain'd the water clear, 
 And I wrote my happy songs 
 
 Every child may joy to hear. 
 
 The story is told by Gilchrist that, sending Mrs. 
 Blake out with half-a-crown, all he had in the world, 
 he expended Is. and IQd. for the simple materials 
 necessary for putting into practice the revelation. 
 
 "Upon that investment of Is. and 10d., he started 
 what was to prove a principal means of support 
 through his future life the series of poems and 
 writings illustrated by coloured plates, often highly
 
 208 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 finished afterwards by hand, which became the most 
 efficient and durable means of revealing his genius 
 to the world. This method, to which he henceforth 
 consistently adhered, of multiplying his works, was 
 quite an original one. It consisted in a species of en- 
 graving in relief both words and designs. The verse 
 was written and the designs and marginal embellish- 
 ments outlined on the copper with an impervious 
 liquid, probably the ordinary stopping-out varnish 
 of engravers. Then all ... the remainder of the 
 plate was eaten away with acid, so that the outline 
 of letter and design was left prominent, as in stereo- 
 type. From these plates he printed off in any tint, 
 yellow, brown, blue, required to be the . . . ground 
 colour in his fac-similes ; red he used for the letter- 
 press. The page was then coloured up by hand in 
 imitation of the original drawing, with more or less 
 variety of detail in the local hues." 
 
 May I give another song still of innocence ? 
 
 THE IAMB 
 
 Little lamb, who made thee ? 
 Dost thou know who made thee, 
 * Gave thee life and bid thee feed 
 
 By the stream and o'er the mead ; 
 Gave thee clothing of delight, 
 Softest clothing, woolly, bright ; 
 Gave thee such a tender voice 
 Making all the vales rejoice ? 
 
 Little lamb, who made thee ? 
 
 Dost thou know who made thee ? 
 
 Little lamb, I'll tell thee, 
 Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
 
 
 S. 
 
 .p fe
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 209 
 
 He is called by thy name, 
 For He calls himself a Lamb. 
 He is meek and He is mild, 
 He became a little child. 
 I a child and them a lamb, 
 We are called by His name. 
 
 Little lamb, God bless thee, 
 
 Little lamb, God bless thee. 
 
 And one more, from " Experience," which Lamb called 
 glorious, as indeed it is. 
 
 THE TIGER 
 
 Tiger, tiger, burning bright, 
 In the forests of the night. 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 
 Burnt the fire of thine eyes ? 
 On what wings dare he aspire ? 
 What the hand dare seize the fire ? 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art, 
 Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
 And when thy heart began to beat, 
 What dread hand and what dread feet ? 
 
 What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
 In what furnace was thy brain ? 
 What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
 Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 
 
 When the stars threw down their spears, 
 And water'd heaven with their tears, 
 Did he smile his work to see ? 
 Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 
 
 Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
 In the forests of the night,
 
 210 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 There are to-day no two opinions as to these poems : 
 they are exquisite; and with these "Songs," Blake 
 had, in my judgment, delivered his message. What 
 he wrote afterward, if we except the lovely poem 
 on England, which I forbear to quote, in the " Milton " 
 (1804), although in bulk ten times greater than 
 what had gone before, has little value. Published in 
 the same manner as the "Songs," and growing more 
 elaborate as Blake came to feel more at home with 
 the medium he had chosen, his prophetic or mystical 
 books are supreme as works of art. Of some of them 
 very few copies are known, and no two copies are 
 alike, for the reason that, after an impression had 
 been pulled from the copper plate in some color, like 
 dull red or brown, they were worked over by hand, 
 tints and backgrounds were added. In some cases, 
 where Blake had secured a generous or opulent cus- 
 tomer, gold and brilliant colors were used so freely 
 that the text is greatly obscured, and one almost for- 
 gets that the lovely work of art before him was in- 
 tended to be read as a printed page as well as studied 
 as a picture. For this reason his books are difficult 
 to describe or to evaluate. Another difficulty is that 
 they are scattered broadcast over the world, and a 
 man writing on Blake in London would be crippled 
 without the knowledge that would be afforded by 
 consulting the great private collections of this coun- 
 try; in like manner, a man writing here would be 
 helpless unless he had studied the treasures in the
 
 -2 I 
 05 ^
 
 British Museum, the Tait Gallery, and such private 
 collections as Captain Stirling's and Mr. Graham 
 Robertson's. 
 
 Collectors are awaiting with the keenest interest 
 the publication of a Blake bibliography, which, it is 
 an open secret, is being prepared by my friend Mr. 
 Geoffrey Keynes, of London, for the Grolier Club. 
 It will no doubt settle many controversial points 
 and as certainly raise many others which supposedly 
 had been settled years ago. 
 
 Blake's prophetic books so-called, can be read, I 
 contend, only as task-work, or by the enthusiast seek- 
 ing, as the old colored preacher said, to unscrew the 
 unscrewable. To them largely is due the prevalent 
 belief that Blake was unsound in mind, if not actu- 
 ally mad. Throughout them, and here and there in 
 his writings, are curious little couplets or jingles, epi- 
 grams and the like, which might have come from the 
 pen of Benjamin Franklin of all men in the world ! 
 
 I was angry with my friend, 
 
 I told my wrath, my wrath did end. 
 
 I was angry with my foe, 
 
 I told it not, my wrath did grow. 
 
 Or 
 
 A truth that's told with bad intent 
 Beats all the lies you can invent. 
 
 Or the line that Margot has placed on the title-page 
 of her autobiography : " Prudence is a rich ugly old 
 maid wooed by incapacity." In "The Marriage of 
 Heaven and Hell," Blake has several pages of these 
 curious proverbs.
 
 212 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 My own interest in Blake dates from 1893, during 
 which year Herbert Gilchrist, the son of the man to 
 whom all Blake lovers are so greatly indebted, came 
 to Philadelphia and exhibited at our Academy of the 
 Fine Arts a large and thoroughly bad picture of 
 Cleopatra. Not to digress needlessly, I saw a good 
 deal of him, and purchased from him several small 
 Blake sketches, notably one which William Michael 
 Rossetti refers to in his "Descriptive Catalogue," 
 Death and Hell teem with Life ; and about that time 
 I got into correspondence with William Linnell, the 
 son of the man who did so much to keep Blake's 
 body and soul together during the last years of his 
 life, relative to a set of proofs I had purchased of 
 Blake's last, and by many regarded as his greatest, 
 work, his illustrations of the Book of Job. At the 
 Buxton Forman sale in New York several winters 
 ago, I was fortunate enough to secure the ten original 
 India-ink sketches, six of which appeared in the first 
 edition of Mary Wollstonecraft's "Original Stories 
 From Real Life, with Conversations calculated to 
 Regulate the Affections and Form the Mind to Truth 
 and Goodness" as the title goes. The frontispiece 
 is characteristically Blakian, and is a good example of 
 the curiously elongated figure of which Blake was so 
 fond. As these plates were engraved as well as de- 
 signed by him, it will be interesting to give several 
 reproductions side by side. 
 
 WTiat difference does it make that these drawings, 
 like so much of Blake's work, are out of focus. It 
 would have been an easy thing for the artist to
 
 WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG TOGETHER 
 From a photograph taken from the original drawing for this publication. Neier before photographed
 
 ORIGINAL STORIES 
 
 LIFEi 
 
 CONVERSATIONS, 
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 213 
 
 represent the human body with reasonable perfection, 
 but he was more interested in the idea that his work 
 suggests than in technical accuracy. In other words, 
 he drew for the mind rather than for the eye. 
 
 In the course of 
 years I came to have 
 most of the impor- 
 tant books about 
 Blake, and gradually 
 the less important 
 and expensive books 
 for which he designed 
 or engraved the illus- 
 trations. Finally, a 
 fine copy of the 
 "Songs" came my 
 way, followed by a 
 ' ' Marriage of Heaven 
 and Hell." Just 
 about this time Mr. 
 Huntington became 
 interested and I side- 
 stepped, quickly ; for 
 when Mr. Hunting- 
 ton takes up a sub- 
 ject, it is a case of 
 "all hope abandon." When his appetite was 
 momentarily appeased, I ventured into the open 
 again ; and about that time Mr. Herschel V. Jones's 
 books came on the market. I felt that I was going 
 to succumb to temptation ; I tried to steady myself, 
 
 REGULATE THE AFFECTIONS, 
 
 FORM THE MIND 
 
 TRUTH AKO GOODNESS. 
 BY MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. 
 
 I Q N D ON: 
 
 rilHTID rOK J. JOHNSOH, NO. 
 PAUt'i CHUlCH-TAtD.
 
 214 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 but came down with a crash. I think Mitchell 
 Kennerley was to some extent responsible for my 
 fall, because in his private office he called my partic- 
 ular attention to the "Gates of Paradise," talked 
 
 learnedly about the "Keys 
 to the Gates," in Mr. 
 White's possession, showed 
 me the "America," "Eu- 
 rope," and "Thel," and, 
 hi brief, stimulated me be- 
 yond endurance. I feared 
 John L. Clawson of Buf- 
 falo, feared and hated him ; 
 but he was momentarily 
 engaged with Restoration 
 dramatists, and that's a 
 subject well calculated to 
 keep one's mind occupied 
 and one's purse empty, as 
 even he knows. Finally the 
 day of the sale came : luck 
 was with me, and when the smoke of battle cleared 
 away, I had as nice a little cluster of Blakes as any man 
 may hope to see. But my bank account was a ruin. 
 On the wall just opposite my desk hangs a fine copy 
 of Blake's Canterbury Pilgrims. No finer story 
 was ever told than that of the Pilgrims setting out 
 from the Tabard Inn for the shrine of Thomas a 
 Becket at Canterbury. It is an epitome of the life 
 of the time, and Stothard's painting was exhibited 
 far and near, and was deservedly popular, whereas 
 
 JVxnfrJ I want! 
 
 THE MOON 
 
 From a tiny and very rare plate by Wil- 
 liam Blake. From the " Gate* of Paradise."
 
 ONE OF THE FAMOUS PLATES IN BLAKE'S BOOK OF JOB 
 Printed for comparison with the reproduction from the original draining
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 215 
 
 poor Blake, whose idea it originally was, found his pic- 
 ture scoffed at. l Few persons came to his little exhibi- 
 tion and bought for half a crown (which also included 
 admission) his "Descriptive Catalogue"; still fewer 
 paid the four-guinea subscription for the engraved 
 plate. The failure of the enterprise would have 
 broken the artist's heart, had his heart been of the 
 breaking kind. 
 
 Notwithstanding its faulty technique, the engrav- 
 ing makes a strong intellectual appeal. It has a medi- 
 aeval look, in keeping with the subject; and Lamb, 
 with unerring taste, preferred it to the more popular 
 picture by Stothard. Time works wonders in mat- 
 
 1 My copy was a Christmas present from my wife several years ago. 
 It came about in this way. My Blake enthusiasm was by this time 
 no longer a secret. It was Christmas eve ; my wife, faithful soul, had 
 been decorating a Christmas tree in one of our city squares for the 
 fatherless children of France. It had been, and was, raining ; she was 
 wet, cold, disheveled, and discouraged. Suddenly it occurred to her : 
 "Why, I've bought no presents for the family; we shall have no 
 Christmas at home no wreaths, no tree, nothing." It was growing 
 dark ; there was no time to lose. In a few moments, with armlets of 
 Christmas wreaths, some parcels, and a dripping umbrella, she pre- 
 sented herself at the door of the Rosenbach Galleries in Walnut Street, 
 and inquired for my friend, the doctor. "I think he's busy," wisely 
 observed the boy at the door, not liking the appearance of the cus- 
 tomer, and reaching out his hand for her umbrella. "No doubt he 
 is," was her reply, "but he will see me for a moment. Doctor, I 
 want a present for Mr. Newton, something handsome, something he 
 wants." "I have the very thing," said Rosy. (Of course he had, he 
 always has.) "This," he continued, "is just what he wants for his 
 Blake collection : it's a magnificent proof on India paper of The Can- 
 terbury Pilgrims; it's expensive, but very rare." "I don't care 
 about the price, for I shall hand the bill to him when it comes in." 
 (This to Rosy of all men ; the most astute bandit out of Wall Street !) 
 And that's how this rare engraving comes to hang right alongside 
 Stothard's print on the same subject, which came from the Halsey 
 collection.
 
 216 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 ters of art, as in other things. Stothard is by way of 
 being forgotten, while Blake has at last come into 
 his own. 
 
 By 1808 Blake was practically through with his 
 prophetic books, and was busying himself making 
 sketches illustrating Blair's "Grave." It was his 
 intention to cut the plates himself, but in some way 
 the original designs passed into the possession of one 
 Cromek, an art publisher, who thought that the 
 artist was sufficiently recompensed by the payment 
 of a guinea and a half each for these magnificent 
 drawings. Cromek employed the graceful and pop- 
 ular engraver, Schiavonetti, to engrave the plates, 
 and the publication was very successful; but poor 
 Blake, defrauded of his work, made nothing by its 
 success. He has pilloried the publisher for all time 
 in the couplet : 
 
 A petty, sneaking knave I knew : 
 Oh, Mr. Cromek ! how do you do ? 
 
 Another work, of less merit, but of value as evi- 
 dence of Blake's immense industry and originality, is 
 the series of designs for Young's "Night Thoughts." 
 The original drawings are in the possession of my 
 friend Mr. W. A. White of New York. They num- 
 ber 537, and were completed, with much other work, 
 in two years ! What imagination ! Wliat industry ! 
 
 We now come to his Illustrations of the Book of 
 Job, which is perhaps the best known of all his works. 
 These "inventions," as he called them, were en- 
 graved on copper by the artist himself, somewhat 
 smaller in size than the original drawings, which are
 
 a g 
 
 4 
 
 i? 
 
 H
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 217 
 
 in the most delicate and exquisite water-color. There 
 are two sets of these drawings ; how many people 
 have seen either of them ? As the Grolier Club Cat- 
 alogue of the Blake Exhibition of 1905, in speaking 
 of the set first made, says, "There is something 
 pathetic in the picture of this solitary, unappreciated 
 old man (he was now well on to seventy years of age) 
 at work upon the noble story of Job and his suffer- 
 ings." Both sets of drawings are now in this coun- 
 try : the original set finally passed from the Earl of 
 Crewe's collection into Mr. Morgan's library, and 
 the replicas are at this moment in the hands of 
 Gabriel Wells, the dealer, where they await, for only 
 a small fraction of their value, a discriminating pur- 
 chaser. Perhaps no art object now on sale in New 
 York is so well worth buying. Why it has not passed 
 into the possession of the Metropolitan Museum, or 
 some other, is a mystery. It would be a rare priv- 
 ilege to examine the two sets side by side. Both, so 
 Gilchrist says, are finely drawn and pure in color; 
 necessarily very much finer than the engravings of 
 the same subjects. Much was lost in translation to 
 copper. "If, therefore," as Gilchrist says, "the en- 
 gravings are the best that Blake ever did, the draw- 
 ings would seem by inference to be his greatest work." 
 Now think of it! Here is one of the great art 
 works of the world, which can be seen only by those 
 who are privileged to enter Mr. Morgan's library in 
 New York, or who attend from time to time the 
 public exhibitions of Blake's work. The tragedy 
 is that they are executed on so small a scale that an
 
 218 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 ordinary letter-sheet would cover the whole design; 
 and so delicately and exquisitely colored are they, 
 that they cannot frequently be exposed to the light. 
 The series consists of 21 numbered plates; one of 
 them, "When the morning stars sang together," is 
 considered to be the finest thing Blake ever did. 
 
 I am not greatly impressed with Blake as an en- 
 graver, even in his universally admired Job plates ; 
 his work is mannered, hard, and dry ; he did not, I 
 think, love copper as an engraver should ; the work 
 progressed too slowly, his hand only being employed, 
 his imagination shriveled, and he was unhappy. 
 Neither in Job nor in the Canterbury Pilgrims is 
 Blake's best engraving to be seen, but rather, as it 
 seems to me, in his designs to illustrate Hayley's 
 "Ballads," and in his fine large plate after Hogarth's 
 painting of the "Beggar's Opera." 
 
 Of the relative merits of the drawings, frequently 
 very elaborately colored, in his prophetic books, it is 
 difficult to speak ; it depends so much upon the par- 
 ticular book that may be under the observation of the 
 critic. Muir, who may be presumed to have seen 
 them all, says, "I consider the * Songs of Innocence 
 and of Experience' the most beautiful book that has 
 ever been produced in England." All things con- 
 sidered, I agree with him, although in my judgment 
 "Urizen" is the most powerful, the most Michel- 
 Angelesque of all the works of his imagination. Mr. 
 White has a copy, unique, so far as is known, in this 
 country ; and I am the proud owner of a full-page 
 original drawing for that book, reproduced as a
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 219 
 
 frontispiece to this publication. I own, too, the 
 original sketches for the title-page to "America," as 
 well as the book itself, which is very fine; but I 
 think no drawing in it compares with the title-page of 
 "Europe," which Blake himself regarded as one of 
 his best designs. And so it goes. 
 
 We know into what verbal rhapsodies relatively 
 unimportant examples of his work sometimes threw 
 such writers as Gilchrist, Rossetti, Swinburne, and 
 others, who attempted to translate Blake's indefin- 
 able art into words. What they failed in doing, I 
 shall not attempt. And I have confessed that I can- 
 not understand or follow his peculiar and personal 
 mythology : I inspect his work whenever oppor- 
 tunity offers, praise it when I think I understand it, 
 and keep silence when I do not. The creation of an 
 imagination infinitely superior to that of Dore and 
 comparable with that of Michael Angelo or Dante, 
 whom alone he may be said to resemble, is more than 
 enough for me ; I do not expect fully to understand. 
 
 It is a great misfortune for the world that his can- 
 vas, his paper, his copper, was too small adequately 
 to display the tremendous inventions of his genius. 
 He who should have covered the dead walls of St. 
 Paul's with frescoes was forced to content himself 
 with bits of copper or scraps of paper smaller than 
 this on which I write. It is hardly surprising that 
 the greatest artist England ever produced should 
 have been so completely neglected in his own lifetime. 
 
 Again I come back to Blake, the man. All his 
 life he was misunderstood, ridiculed, insulted, and
 
 220 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 almost starved ; yet listen to his words to a little girl 
 shortly before he died: "May God make this world 
 to you, my child, as beautiful as it has been to me." 
 Blake died in his seventieth year, and was buried hi 
 
 Bunhill Fields Burying- 
 Ground, that crowded 
 Campo Santo in which 
 were already interred 
 two other great Noncon- 
 formists, Bunyan and 
 Defoe. It is one of the 
 ironies of fate that Blake, 
 whose genius from his 
 early youth to the day 
 of his death was con- 
 cerned with mortuary 
 design, should lie in an 
 unmarked and forgotten 
 grave. In his work he 
 
 
 
 repeated again and again 
 an idea which was an 
 
 especial favorite of his, that of an old man entering 
 a tomb ; he called it Death's Door. The germ of 
 this exists in a pencil-sketch hardly larger than 
 a postage-stamp, in the Rossetti manuscript, now the 
 property of Mr. W. A. White. He used this design 
 again and again, in "The Gates of Paradise,'* in 
 "America," and finally in Blair's " Grave " ; and I was 
 fortunate enough to secure a large India-ink drawing 
 of it about a year ago, when it came up for sale in 
 London. Such a design, carved on stone, would have 
 
 DEATH'S DOOR. 
 From an early engraving by William Blake,
 
 MAGNIFICENTLY COLORED TITLE-PAGE TO "AMERICA," BY WILLIAM BLAKE
 
 A SANE VIEW OF WILLIAM BLAKE 221 
 
 suitably marked his grave for all time ; but it was not 
 to be. Blake, ignored and neglected in his life, was 
 destined to be forgotten for a time after his death ; 
 indeed, until Gilchrist, a full generation later, opened 
 the Gates of Paradise and set free the soul of him 
 who, unknown to his contemporaries, had put on 
 immortality. 
 
 From one of Blake's last works. Mr. Geoffrey Keynes thinks that it was 
 intended for a bookplate
 
 XII 
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 I ONCE heard a charming woman say at dinner, " I 
 don't think I ever had quite as much fresh asparagus 
 as I wanted." In like manner, I don't think I shall 
 ever get as much of London as is necessary for my 
 complete happiness. I love it early in the morning 
 before it rouses itself, when the streets are de- 
 serted ; I love it when throngs of people the best- 
 natured and politest people in all the world crowd 
 its thoroughfares ; and I love it, I think, best of all at 
 sunset, when London in some of its aspects may be 
 very beautiful. If I were a Londoner, I should never 
 leave it, except perhaps for a day or two now and 
 then, so that I could enjoy coming back to it. 
 
 The terrible world-upheaval through which we 
 have just passed is responsible for my not having been 
 in London for six years, and I greatly feared that 
 those years might have left some unhappy imprint 
 upon the Old Lady. She may, indeed, have lost a 
 tooth or a wisp of hair ; but aristocratic old ladies 
 know how to conceal the ravages of time and cir- 
 cumstance, and as I looked around the railway 
 station while my belongings were being stowed away 
 in the "left-luggage" room, I saw only the usual 
 crowd quietly going about its business ; and then, as 
 I stepped into my taxi and said, "Simpson's in the
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 223 
 
 Strand," and was being whirled over Waterloo Bridge, 
 I said to myself, "Nothing has changed. Nothing 
 has changed except that the fare, which was once 
 eightpence, is now a shilling." 
 
 I said it again, with not quite the same certainty, 
 when, after eating my piece of roast beef and a little 
 mess of greens and a wonderful potato, I called the 
 head waiter and complained that the meat was tough 
 and stringy. "It is so," said that functionary; and 
 he continued: "You see, sir, during the war we ex- 
 hausted" (with careful emphasis upon the h) our 
 own English beef, and we are now forced to depend 
 upon " I looked him straight in the eye ; he was 
 going to say America, but changed his mind and said, 
 "the Hargentine." 
 
 "Very neatly done," I said, ordering an extra half- 
 pint of bitter and putting a sixpence in his hand; 
 "to-morrow I'll have fish. I'm very sure that 
 nothing can have happened to the turbot." 
 
 It was only a little after one when, leaving Simp- 
 son's, I lit a cigar and turned westward in quest of 
 lodgings. As the Savoy was near at hand, I thought 
 no harm would be done by asking the price of a large 
 double-bedded room overlooking the river, with a 
 bath, and was told that the price would be five 
 guineas a day, but that no such accommodation was 
 at that moment available. "I'm glad of it," I said, 
 feeling that a temptation had been removed; for I 
 have always wanted a room which looked out on the 
 river. 
 
 I continued westward, inquiring at one hotel after
 
 224 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 another, until, just as I was beginning to feel not 
 alarmed but a trifle uneasy, I secured, not just what 
 I wanted, but a room and a bath that would serve, 
 at the Piccadilly. 
 
 I had been kept waiting quite a little time in the 
 lobby, and as I looked about me there seemed to be a 
 good many foreigners in evidence a number of 
 Spaniards and, I suspected, Germans. A fine manly 
 young fellow with only one arm (how many such I 
 was to see !), who manipulated the lift and to whom 
 I confided my suspicions, replied, "Yes, sir ; I believe 
 they is, sir; but what are you going to do? They 
 calls themselves Swiss ! " 
 
 But in my anxiety to get to London I have for- 
 gotten to say a word about the Imperator, on which 
 I crossed, or about the needless expense and delay to 
 which one is subjected in New York, for no reason 
 that I can see but that some of what Mr. Bryan called 
 "deserving Democrats" may be fed at the public 
 trough. 
 
 After being photographed and getting your pass- 
 port and having it vised by the consul of the country 
 to which you are first going, and after assuring the 
 officials of the Treasury Department that the final 
 installment of your income tax will be paid, when due, 
 by your bank, though where the money is to come 
 from, you don't in the least know, you finally start 
 for New York, to be there one day before the steamer 
 sails, so that you may again present your passport at 
 the Custom House for final inspection. I know no 
 man wise enough to tell me what good purpose is
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 served by this last annoyance. With trunks and 
 suitcases, New York is an expensive place in which 
 to spend a night, and one is not in the humor for it : 
 one has started for Europe and has reached New 
 York. 
 
 But, fearful that some hitch may occur, you wire 
 on for rooms and get them, and on " the day previous 
 to sailing," as the regulation demands, you present 
 yourself and your wife, each armed with a passport, 
 at the Custom House. Standing in a long line in a 
 corridor, you eventually approach a desk at which 
 sits a man consuming a big black cigar. Spreading 
 out your passport before him, he looks at it as if he 
 were examining one for the first time ; finally with a 
 blue pencil he puts a mark on it and says, "Take it 
 to that gentleman over there," pointing across the 
 room. You do so; and another man examines it, 
 surprised, it may be, to see that it so closely resem- 
 bles one that he has just marked with a red pencil. 
 He is just about to make another hieroglyph on the 
 passport, when he observes that the background of 
 your photograph is dark, and the regulations call for 
 light. He suspends the operation ; is it possible that 
 you will be detained at the last moment ? No ! with 
 the remark "Get a light one next time," he makes a 
 little mark in red and scornfully directs you to 
 another desk. Here sits another man these are 
 all able-bodied and presumably well-paid politicians 
 with a large rubber stamp ; it descends, and you 
 are free to go on board your ship to-morrow. 
 
 The Imperator made, I think, only one trip in the
 
 226 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 service of the company that built her ; during the war 
 she remained tied up to her pier in Hoboken ; and 
 when she was finally put into passenger service, she 
 was taken over, pending final allocation, by the Cu- 
 nard Line. She is a wonderful ship, with the excep- 
 tion of the Leviathan the largest boat afloat, magnifi- 
 cent and convenient in every detail, and as steady as 
 a church. The doctor who examines my heart oc- 
 casionally, looking for trouble, would have had a 
 busy time on her ; I fancy I can see him, drawing his 
 stethoscope from his pocket and suspending it in his 
 ears, poking round, listening in vain for the pulsation 
 of her engines ; no doubt fearful that he was going to 
 lose his patient, he would have prescribed certain 
 drops hi water at regular intervals, and, finally, he 
 would have sent her in a very large bill. 
 
 I am quite sure that I owe my comparatively good 
 health to having been very abstemious in the matter 
 of exercise. But it was my habit to take a constitu- 
 tional each day before breakfast; this duty done, I 
 was able to read and smoke thereafter with a clear 
 conscience. Four and a half times around the prom- 
 enade deck was a mile, the steward told me, and I can 
 quite believe it. To relieve the monotony of this 
 long and lonely tramp, I tried to learn by heart a 
 letter which came to me just as we were sailing, in 
 the form of a merry jingle, written by a master, or, 
 should I say, a mistress of laughing rhyme, who loves 
 to make fun of her friends. I never quite succeeded, 
 but it reads this way :
 
 A HANSOM CAB; SOON TO BE SEEN ONLY IN THE LONDON MUSEUM 
 
 From a water-color in the possession of the author
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 227 
 
 Somewhere in Connecticut. 
 Somewhere in September, 1920. 
 A. EDWARD NEWTON : Dear Friend and Philosopher : 
 Also your wife (tho' you'll never be boss of her !) 
 So you're to sail on the good Imperator 
 O 'er Byron's justly famed deep, dark blue water. 
 As I sat musing, up here in Connecticut, 
 Your letter reached me, and you can just bet I cut 
 Down to the shops of this hamlet Berkshirian, 
 Seeking a draught from the old spring Pierian. 
 For, I opined, no flowers or confections 
 Only a book for the Man of Collections. 
 Certain conventions admit of no lenities, 
 Only a book for the Man of "Amenities." 
 Down to the village I went with celerity, 
 Said to the Shopman with eager asperity, 
 " I want a book for one A. Edward Newton 
 Something high-priced and a bit hifalutin. 
 For it 's a parting gift sort of a souvenir ; 
 No modern novel, dolled up in a new veneer ! 
 Rather some old tome all leathery and lacquery, 
 Some First Edition of Dickens or Thackeray 
 Something that 's truly a worth-while memorial 
 To one the Atlantic in lines editorial, 
 Says is 'of Letters a Doctor and Ornament' !" 
 (And I admit you 're a handsome adornament !) 
 "Give me," I begged, "some unique Enchiridion, 
 Some precious copy of 'Epipsychidion,' 
 Some ancient Horn Book, or rare Incunabula," 
 Right here, his jaw dropped, his eyes became globular ; 
 "Show me," I went on, "a binding Zaehnsdorfian, 
 To please this Minotaur Anthropomorphian ; 
 A tall Shakespeare quarto, an Omar Khayyam, 
 An early edition of Bacon or Lamb " 
 "Oh, say," his eyes shone, "there's a butcher next door 
 A quarter of Lamb you can get at his store !" 
 More hi sorrow than anger, I murmured, "Good day." 
 Bookless, helpless, and hopeless, went sadly away.
 
 228 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 And that is the reason, O A. Edward Newton, 
 No rare Rabelais, Rasselas or Rasputin 
 To you as a parting remembrance I send. 
 From my over-full heart I can merely commend 
 Your soul to your Maker, your luggage to Cook, 
 And waft you "Bon Voyage" in place of a book. 
 May your buys over there be far more than your sells, 
 Is the wish of yours faithfully, 
 
 CAROLYN WELLS. 
 
 Coming back to earth, or rather sea, after this 
 flight into the empyrean, I am bound to admit that 
 the Germans knew how to build and run ships. And 
 the beautiful part of the Imperator was that, though 
 you saw a German sign occasionally, not a German 
 word was heard. How completely, for the time being 
 at any rate, the German nation has been erased from 
 the sea ! I sometimes doubt the taste of the English 
 singing "Rule, Britannia," it is so very true now. 
 
 As we entered Southampton Water after a pleas- 
 ant and quite uneventful voyage, we saw almost the 
 only sign of the war we were destined to see. A long 
 line, miles long, of what we should call torpedo-boat 
 destroyers, anchored in mid-stream, still wearing their 
 camouflage coloring, slowly rusting themselves away. 
 We landed on a clear warm September afternoon and, 
 Southampton possessing no charm whatever, we at 
 once took train for Winchester, which we reached in 
 time to attend service in the austere old cathedral. 
 The service was impressive and the singing better 
 than in most cathedrals, for the choir is largely re- 
 cruited from the great school founded centuries ago 
 by William of Wykeham. After the service we stood
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 229 
 
 silently for a moment by the tomb of Jane Austen ; 
 nor did we forget to lift reverently the carpet that 
 protects the tablet let into the tombstone of Isaak 
 Walton. After tea, that pleasant function, we drove 
 out to the Hospital of St. Cross, beautiful and always 
 dear to me, being, as it is, the scene of Trollope's 
 lovely story, "The Warden." 
 
 Seated at home in my library, in imagination I love 
 to roam about this England, this "precious stone set 
 in the silver sea," which, now that the air has been 
 conquered, no longer serves it as a defensive moat; 
 but directly I find myself there, the lure of London 
 becomes irresistible, and almost before I know it I 
 am at some village railway station demanding my 
 "two single thirds" to Waterloo, or Victoria, or 
 wherever it may be. So it was in this case. I did, 
 however, take advantage of the delightful weather 
 to make a motor pilgrimage to Selborne, some fifteen 
 miles across country from Winchester. A tiny copy 
 of White's "Natural History of Selborne" came into 
 my possession some forty years ago, by purchase, at 
 a cost of fifteen cents, at Leary's famous bookshop 
 in Philadelphia ; and while I now display, somewhat 
 ostentatiously perhaps, Horace Walpole's own copy 
 of the first edition, I keep my little volume for read- 
 ing and had it with me on the steamer. "The 
 Wakes," the house in which Gilbert White was born 
 and in which he died, is still standing on what is by 
 courtesy called the main street of the little village, 
 which is, in its way, I suppose, as famous as any set- 
 tlement of its size anywhere.
 
 230 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 The church of which he was rector, and in which 
 he preached when he was not wandering about ob- 
 serving with unexampled fidelity the flora and fauna 
 of his native parish, stands near the upper end of a 
 tiny public square called the Plestor, or play place, 
 which dates only from yesterday, that is to say, from 
 1271 ! Originally an immense oak tree stood in the 
 centre, but it was uprooted in a great storm some two 
 centuries ago and a sycamore now stands in its place. 
 Encircling it is a bench on which the rude fore- 
 fathers of the hamlet may sit and watch the children 
 at play, and on which we should have sat but that we 
 were more interested in the great yew which stands 
 in the near-by churchyard. It is one of the most 
 famous trees in England a thousand years old 
 they say, and looking old for its age; but it is so 
 symmetrical in its proportions that its immense size 
 is not fully realized until one slowly paces round it 
 and discovers that its trunk is almost thirty feet in 
 circumference. 
 
 The church, which has luckily escaped the restora- 
 tions so many parish churches have been compelled 
 to undergo, is in no wise remarkable. Many Whites 
 are buried therein ; but our particular White, the one 
 who has made Selborne notable among the villages 
 of England, lies outside in the churchyard near the 
 north wall of the chancel, the grave being marked by 
 a half-sunken headstone on which one reads with 
 difficulty two simple letters, "G. W." and a date, 
 "26th June 1793"; but a tablet within the church 
 records at greater length his virtues and distinctions.
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 231 
 
 There is nothing more exhausting than the ele- 
 gance of a big hotel, and to move from a fashionable 
 caravansary in Philadelphia to another in London or 
 Paris is to subject one's self to the inconvenience of 
 travel without enjoying any of its compensations. 
 One wants to enjoy the difference of foreign coun- 
 tries rather than their somewhat artificial resem- 
 blances. At the end of a busy day, when one is tired, 
 one wants peace, quiet, and simplicity at least 
 this one does ; and so, when our attention was called 
 to a small apartment in Albemarle Street, from the 
 balcony of which I could throw a stone into the 
 windows of Quaritch's bookshop. I closed the bargain 
 instantly, and was soon by way of being a house- 
 holder on a very small scale. 
 
 We had been told that "service" in England is a 
 thing of the past, that it has disappeared with the 
 war ; but this was only one of the many discouraging 
 statements which were to be entirely refuted in the 
 experience. No one could have been better cared for 
 than we, by a valet and maid, who brushed our clothes 
 and brought us our breakfast ; and shortly after ten 
 each morning we started out upon our wanderings in 
 whatever direction we would, alert for any adven- 
 ture that the streets of London might afford. This is 
 an inexpensive and harmless occupation, interesting 
 in the event and delightful in retrospect. Is it Liszt 
 who conjures us to store up recollections for consump- 
 tion in old age ? Well, I am doing so. 
 
 I know not which I enjoy most, beating the pave- 
 ments of the well-known streets, which afford at every
 
 TRIVIA: 
 
 OR. THE 
 
 ART of WALKING 
 
 THE 
 
 STREETS of LONDON. 
 
 By Mr. GAT. 
 
 <$*o te Mvrifedcs ? An, quo via Jucit, in 1}rktm ? 
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 turn scenes that recall some well-known historic or 
 literary incident, or journeying into some unexplored 
 region, which opens up districts of hitherto un- 
 suspected interest. Years ago, when slumming first 
 
 became fashionable, 
 one never used to 
 overlook Pettycoat 
 Lane in far-off White- 
 chapel; of late years 
 it has been cleaned up 
 and made respectable 
 and uninteresting. 
 But how many people 
 are there who know 
 that there is a very 
 pretty slum right in 
 the heart of things, 
 only a short distance 
 back of Liberty's fa- 
 mous shop in Regent 
 Street? If interested 
 in seeing how the 
 other half lives, look 
 it up when you are 
 next in London, and you will be astonished at the way 
 in which the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness 
 unfolds itself in a maze of little streets and courts all 
 jumbled together. London has always been a city in 
 which extremes meet: where wealth impinges upon 
 poverty. Nowhere can greater contrasts be obtained 
 than in that terra incognita, which lies just to the south 
 
 Printed for Bernard Lintott , at the Cnft-Rtjt 
 / between the Temflt Gates in Fltetjlrett.
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 233 
 
 of Soho. The world lives, if not in the open, at least in 
 the streets, and food, fruit, fish, and furbelows are ex- 
 posed for sale on barrows and trestles in what appears 
 to be unspeakable confusion. I had discovered this 
 curious slum years before my friend Lucas, that sympa- 
 thetic wanderer in London, called attention to it in his 
 delightful volume, "Adventures and Enthusiasms." 
 
 But there is, to my mind, an even choicer little 
 backwater, just off Fleet Street Nevill's Court, 
 which I first visited many years ago, during a mem- 
 orable midnight ramble, in company with David 
 Wallerstein, a Philadelphia lawyer and an old friend, 
 who, by reason of his wide reading, retentive mem- 
 ory, and power of observation, seemed able to better 
 my knowledge of London even in a district where I 
 had thought myself peculiarly at home. 
 
 Nevill's Court runs east from Fetter Lane. One 
 enters it by an archway which may easily be passed 
 unnoticed, and to one's great surprise one comes sud- 
 denly upon a row of old mansions, one of which was 
 pointed out to me as once having been the town resi- 
 dence of the Earl of Warwick. " It was a grand 'ouse 
 in its day, sir," said a young woman in an interesting 
 condition, who was taking the air late one afternoon 
 when I first saw it, " but it 's let out as lodgings now. 
 Keir Hardie, M.P., lodges here when he's in London ; 
 he says he likes it here, it's so quiet." 
 
 "And how long have you lived here?" I inquired. 
 
 " Oh, sir, Hi Ve always lived about 'ere in this court 
 or close to ; Hi like living in courts, it's so quiet ; it's 
 most like living in the country."
 
 234 
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 All the houses look out upon ample, if now sadly 
 neglected, gardens, through the centre of which flow- 
 er-bordered paths lead to the front doors. Push open 
 one of the several gates, some one is certain to be 
 
 unlocked, or peer 
 through the cracks of 
 an old oaken fence 
 which still affords 
 
 A N 
 
 (0 
 
 ACT 
 
 FOU THE 
 
 Preventing of the Multiplicity of 
 
 BUILDINGS 
 
 In and about the Suburbs of 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 AND 
 
 VVi hin Ten Miles thereof. 
 
 Reread t&e Czeat anD 
 Dumber of tyonto, ebtfices, 
 *Dut-l)o afes anD<ottagts met* 
 f D anD ncib boat to and about tije 
 
 <6>UbUtbS Of t!K Clip Of London, 
 fine the pat rstnereunto adopting, CSfounD 
 to Hi DC iv tmfc!)ictoous anD fneontoenlent, and 
 a great annoyance anbjftufanctto thcConu 
 uiomfcealtl) ; 3nD UJlietcas nottbittJfUnDmg 
 biDrts pjoljibinons 6*retofoje tjaD anD mate 
 to t&e contrary , ptt tl)t faio gro u>mg et& t& 
 of late fo much maltfpUeo anD tncceafrb , ttjat 
 rticrc IE a ncccffi tp of rafting Tome f urtljet anD 
 fpcctv^onrfcfo} tDr ficti:cfs tftncof : 21nD 
 iDtKr cas b? tDc 2. avD tfic falb ^toufts anD 0* 
 fanccs on 01)t t o be abate D, a no tl)t KntlDtrS, 
 Occupiers, Continuers anD 1 mants tljtrtof 
 on gt) t to wafer fines f oj t!je fame , fo tt)at (f 
 
 it ftfinU) tenoto ti>e onBoaigrof 
 MMM 
 
 AN ACT PASSED IN 1656 IN A FUTILE EF- 
 FORT TO PREVENT THE FURTHER 
 GROWTH OF LONDON. 
 
 some measure of the 
 privacy dear to the 
 heart of every Eng- 
 lishman, and you 
 will see a bit of van- 
 ishing London which 
 certainly can last but 
 a short time longer. 
 The roar of the city 
 is quite unheard; one 
 has simply passed 
 out of the twentieth 
 century into the 
 seventeenth. 
 
 Those of us who, 
 like the writer, when 
 we visit London love 
 to lose ourselves in 
 the past, sometimes 
 forget that London 
 very much so. We who, on 
 a few weeks or months in 
 
 is "a going concern 
 
 pleasure bent, spend 
 
 this great city, may not sufficiently understand that
 
 ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, FROM THE BOTTOM OF LUDGATE HILL 
 After a colored etching by Liiigi Kaaimir
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 235 
 
 London is intensely modern as well as hoary with 
 age. The six or eight millions of men and women who 
 pass their lives there demand modern conveniences 
 and get them. Their postal and telegraph service is 
 well-nigh perfect ; their telephone system is not good, 
 chiefly for the reason that the people, temperamen- 
 tally very deliberate, are loath to interrupt a conversa- 
 tion, or whatever they may be doing, to answer the 
 bell. Too often the telephone is regarded as a nuisance 
 rather than as the greatest of modern conveniences. 
 
 Once fully understood, their system of transporta- 
 tion is the best in the world: whether by under- 
 ground, by motor-bus, or taxi, one is rapidly conveyed 
 over a wide area, with the minimum of inconvenience. 
 To accomplish this, it has been necessary to spend 
 immense sums ; and if the various systems are gener- 
 ally in a semi-bankrupt condition, as with us, we do 
 not hear of it. 
 
 During my lifetime, London has been practically 
 rebuilt; the old inconvenient, if picturesque, build- 
 ings have been destroyed, and modern and commodi- 
 ous mansions, as they are called, have been erected 
 in their stead. The main thoroughfares the Strand, 
 and Oxford Street, and Holborn have been practi- 
 cally rebuilt, and Regent Street is rebuilding. The 
 glorious view of St. Paul's from Fleet Street still re- 
 mains ; but thousands of old dilapidated rookeries, 
 formerly the haunts of poverty and vice, and grimy 
 with the dirt of centuries . which knew nothing of 
 sanitation, have given way to noble avenues like 
 Kingsway and Aldwych. The exigencies of transpor-
 
 236 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 tation have caused these great gashes to be made, 
 and fine hotels and government buildings now line 
 them on either side. 
 
 Holywell Street, characteristic of the London of the 
 eighteen-eighties, once given over to second-hand 
 bookshops, and others of a more questionable char- 
 acter, now exists only in memory and in Pennell's 
 drawing; and the Black Jack tavern, one of the 
 haunts of the notorious Jack Sheppard, survives only 
 in the pages of Harrison Ainsworth's novel. Once, 
 almost forty years ago, I spent an hour in this Clare 
 Market thieves' rendezvous, under the protection of 
 my friend Hutt, whose bookshop was near by. 
 
 Oxford Street is to me one of the least interesting 
 streets in London. It is a great modern thoroughfare, 
 always crowded with people going east in the morn- 
 ing, and west in the evening when their day's work is 
 done. I was walking along this street late one after- 
 noon when my eye caught a sign, "Hanway Street," 
 which instantly brought to mind the publishing busi- 
 ness conducted in it more than a century ago by my 
 lamented friend, William Godwin. I hoped to learn 
 that it was named after the discoverer of the um- 
 brella, but it is not. Hanway Street is a mean, narrow 
 passage running north out of Oxford Street, as if 
 intent upon going straightway to Hampstead ; but it 
 almost immediately begins to wobble and, finally 
 changing its mind, turns east and stops at the Horse- 
 Shoe Tavern in the Tottenham Court Road. 
 
 My hour of refreshment having come, I stopped 
 there, too, and over a mug of ale I thought of Godwin,
 
 HOLYWELL STREET 
 From a pen (Inuring by Joseph Pennell
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 237 
 
 and as a result of my meditations, decided to follow 
 up the Godwin trail. And so, the inner man re- 
 freshed, I continued east through Holborn until I 
 came to Snowhill, to which street Godwin subse- 
 quently removed his business and his interesting fam- 
 ily. Turning off to the left, and doubling somewhat 
 on my tracks, I descended Snowhill, and found my- 
 self facing a substantial modern building, which chal- 
 lenged attention by reason of the rather unusual 
 decoration of its fagade. It needed but a glance to see 
 that this building had been erected on the site of the 
 Saracen's Head Inn immortalized by Charles Dickens 
 in "Nicholas Nickleby." Let into the wall were two 
 large panels, one being a school scene bearing the 
 legend "Dotheboy's Hall" ; the other, a "Mail Coach 
 leaving Saracen's Head." Over the arched doorway 
 was a fine bust of Dickens; while to the left was a 
 full-length figure of the immortal Mr. Squeers, and 
 on the right a similar figure of Nicholas Nickleby. In 
 the pleasure of my discovery I almost forgot all about 
 Godwin, whose shop was once near-by ; proving again, 
 what needs no proof, that many characters in fiction 
 are just as sure of immortality as persons who once 
 moved among us in the flesh. Then I remembered 
 that John Bunyan had lived and died in this street, 
 when Snowhill was described as being very narrow, 
 very steep, and very dangerous. This led me to de- 
 cide that I would make a pilgrimage to Bunyan's 
 tomb in Bunhill Fields, which I had not visited for 
 many years. 
 
 And so, a few days later, I found myself wandering
 
 238 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 about in that most depressing graveyard, in which 
 thousands of men and women, famous in their time, 
 found sepulture, in some cases merely temporary ; for 
 the records show that, after the passing of fifteen 
 years or so, their graves were violated to make room 
 for later generations, all traces of earlier interments 
 having been erased. Poor Blake and his wife are 
 among those whose graves can no longer be identified. 
 
 On the day of my visit it was much too damp to 
 sit on the ground and tell sad stories of anything, but 
 I had no difficulty in coming upon the tomb of Defoe, 
 or that of Bunyan, a large altar-like affair, with his 
 recumbent figure upon it. An old man, whom I met 
 loitering about, called my attention to the fact that 
 the nose had recently been broken off, and told me 
 that it had been shot off by some soldier who had 
 been quartered during the war in the near-by bar- 
 racks of the Honorable Artillery Company. It ap- 
 pears that some miscreants had, to beguile the time, 
 amused themselves by taking pot shots at the statu- 
 ary, and that much damage had been done before they 
 were discovered. I think I shall accuse the Canadians 
 of this act of vandalism. It is always well to be spe- 
 cific in making charges of this kind ; moreover, it will 
 grieve my talented friend, Tait McKenzie, the sculp- 
 tor, who comes to us from Scotland by way of 
 Toronto, and who thinks it a more grievous crime to 
 mutilate a statue than to damage a man. 
 
 It will have been seen from the foregoing that I am 
 the gentlest of explorers. Give me the choice of roam- 
 ing the streets of London in search of a scarce first
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 239 
 
 As it is Aftcd at the 
 
 THE,ATRE-ROYAL 
 
 IN 
 
 L1NCOLNS-INN FIELDS. 
 
 edition of, say, "The Beggar's Opera," so delightfully 
 performed month after month at the Lyric Theatre 
 in Hammersmith, but which lasted scarcely a week in 
 New York, and a chance to explore some out-of-the 
 way place with an un- 
 pronounceable name, 
 and my mind is made 
 up in a moment. I 
 have found the race 
 with the sheriff suffi- 
 ciently stimulating, 
 and, on a holiday, give 
 me the simple, or at 
 least the contempla- 
 tive, life. 
 
 Just before leaving 
 home, I had lunched 
 with my friend Fuller- 
 ton Waldo; his face 
 was positively beam- 
 ing with happiness 
 and his eyes sparkled. 
 Why? Because he was 
 going to Russia, to see 
 for himself what the 
 Bolsheviki were doing. 
 
 "You will see plenty of misery you may be sure," 
 I replied ; "why look at it ? Why not let the Russians 
 stew in their own juice ? Ultimately they will come 
 home, those that are left, wagging their tales behind 
 them." 
 
 Written by Mr. GAT. 
 
 Nil btte noviotui effi nibit. 
 
 Mart, 
 
 To which U Added, 
 
 Tic MUS1CK &ff*rd Xr COPPER* 
 PLATES* 
 
 L ON 2> 
 
 Printed tat Joan WATTS, at the Prindng-Ofice 
 io mid-Ctttrt, BMT 
 
 ^MDCCXXVIU.
 
 240 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 But no, he wanted to see for himself. So we parted, 
 each of us going his own way, and both happy. 
 
 But I did see one thing unusual enough to have 
 interested even so sophisticated a traveler as Waldo, 
 and that was the crowd which, on Armistice Day, 
 that is to say, the eleventh of November, 1920, at 
 exactly eleven o'clock in the morning, stood abso- 
 lutely silent for two whole minutes. London is a busy 
 city ; there is a ceaseless ebb and flow of traffic, not 
 in a few centres and here and there, as with us, but 
 everywhere; and when this normal crowd is aug- 
 mented by thousands from the country, intent upon 
 seeing the dedication of the Cenotaph in the centre 
 of Whitehall and the burial of the unknown warrior 
 in the Abbey, it is a crowd of millions. And this huge 
 crowd, at the first stroke of eleven, stood stock-still ; 
 not a thing moved, except perhaps here and there a 
 horse turned its head, or a bird, wondering what had 
 caused the great silence, fluttered down from Nelson's 
 monument in Trafalgar Square. And so it was, we 
 read, all over Britain, over Australia and Africa, and 
 a part of Asia and America; the Great Empire, 
 Ireland alone excepted, stood with bowed head in 
 memory of the dead. Not a wheel turned anywhere, 
 not a telegram or telephone message came over the 
 wires. These English know how to stage big effects, 
 as befits their Empire ; with them history is ever and 
 always in the making. And when at last the bunting 
 fluttered down from the Cenotaph, and when the 
 bones of the Unknown, with the King representing 
 the nation as chief mourner, were deposited in the
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 241 
 
 Abbey, there formed a procession which, several days 
 afterward, when I sought to join it, was still almost a 
 mile long ! 
 
 London ean boast of countless little museums or 
 memorials to this or that great man, and it is soon to 
 have another Wentworth Place in Hampstead, 
 with which the name of Keats is so closely connected. 
 When this is opened to the public, I have visited it 
 privately, it is to be hoped that it will take on 
 something of the kindly atmosphere of the Johnson 
 House in Gough Square, rather than that of the cold 
 museum dedicated to that old dyspeptic philosopher, 
 Thomas Carlyle, in Chelsea. I remember well when 
 he died. He was said to have been the Dr. Johnson 
 of his time. Heaven keep us ! Carlyle ! who never 
 had a good or kindly word to say of any man or thing ; 
 whose world, "mostly fools," bowed down before him 
 and accepted his ravings as criticism ; whose Prussian 
 philosophy, "the strong thing is the right thing," was 
 exploded in the Great War. I have lived to see his 
 fame grow dimmer day by day, while Johnson's 
 grows brighter as his wit, wisdom, and, above all, his 
 humanity, become better known and understood. 
 
 To Gough Square then I hastened, once I was com- 
 fortably installed in my little flat, to see if any of the 
 suggestions I had made at a dinner given by Cecil 
 Harmsworth in the winter of 1914 to the Johnson 
 Club, to which I was invited, had been carried out. 
 The door was opened to my knock by an old lady, 
 who invited me in as if I were an expected guest. She 
 explained to me that it was hoped that ultimately one
 
 242 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 room would be dedicated to the memory of Boswell, 
 and others of the Johnsonian circle, Goldsmith, 
 Garrick, Mrs. Thrale, Fanny Burney, and the rest, 
 and that the whole house would be pervaded by 
 
 the immortal memory 
 of Dr Johnson, the 
 kindest as well as the 
 greatest of men ; but 
 
 thatj owing to the 
 
 war, not as much had 
 been accomplished as 
 
 had been 
 
 ;; And s >" \ 
 
 my suggestions have 
 A PRECIOUS SOUVENIR OF A FAMOUS not Deen entirely for- 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Interiptioninatiny book in Latino/ the Psalm* of gotten. [ WaS fear~ 
 
 David. 
 
 ful that' "Why," 
 
 continued the old lady, " can you be Mr. Newton 
 of Philadelphia?" 
 
 I could have hugged her, for, gentle reader, this is 
 much nearer fame than I ever hoped for. What a 
 morning it was ! Mrs. Dyble called for her daughter, 
 and I was presented, and again found to be not un- 
 known; and believe me, these two women were so 
 absolutely steeped in Johnson as to shame my small 
 learning and make me wish for the support of real 
 honest-to-God Johnsonians such as Tinker or Osgood, 
 or my friend R. B. Adam of Buffalo, who has the 
 greatest Johnson collection in the world, and who, 
 when next he goes to London, has a treat in store 
 which will cause him to forget, at least momentarily,
 
 17 GOUGH SQUARE DR. JOHNSON WROTE HIS FAMOUS 
 - DICTIONARY IN THE ATTIC
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 243 
 
 his charming wife and his young son charming 
 wives and young sons being not uncommon, whereas 
 Gough Square is unique. 
 
 Any man of fine heart and substantial means could 
 have bought the Gough Square house, but it required 
 a singularly wise and modest man to fit it up so 
 simply, so in keeping with the Johnsonian tradition ; 
 to say, "We don't want a cold, dry-as-dust museum ; 
 we want the house to be as nearly as possible what it 
 was when the great Doctor lived in it and compiled 
 the dictionary in its attic room." So it is, that 17 
 Gough Square, Fleet Street, is one of the places which 
 it is a delight to visit. A fine Johnsonian library has 
 been lent and may ultimately be given to the 
 house : paintings, portraits, rare prints, and auto- 
 graph letters abound, and in these interesting sur- 
 roundings, friends, literary societies, and clubs may 
 meet for the asking, and teas and dinners may be 
 sent in from the near-by Cheshire Cheese. 
 
 And all this might have been done, and yet the 
 house might have lacked one of its greatest charms, 
 namely, the kindly presence and hospitality of two 
 women, the discovery of whom, by Mr. Harmsworth, 
 was a piece of the rarest good fortune. Mrs. Dyble is 
 a soldier's wife, her husband being a color-sergeant 
 in one of the crack regiments; and the story goes 
 that, during the air-raids, when the Germans were 
 dropping bombs on all and sundry, the old lady went, 
 not into the " tubes" for shelter, but to meet the 
 bombs half-way, into the attic, and there, taking 
 down a copy of Boswell, she read quite composedly
 
 244 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 through the night ; for, as she said, she would not be 
 worthy of her soldier husband if she were not pre- 
 pared to face death at home as he was doing in 
 France. But how long, I ask myself, will her daugh- 
 ter, Mrs. Rowell, a pretty widow, be content to live 
 upon the memory of Dr. Johnson ? 
 
 I was especially pleased to convey to the Johnson 
 House a superb photograph of a portrait of Dr. 
 Johnson by Reynolds, which had recently been ac- 
 quired by Mr. John H. McFadden of Philadelphia. 
 I was sitting in my club one afternoon, when Mr. 
 McFadden came up and asked me how I would like 
 to see a picture of Dr. Johnson, which he had just 
 received from the Agnews in London. Of course I was 
 delighted, and a few minutes later I was in the small 
 but exquisite gallery of eighteenth-century portraits 
 which Mr. McFadden has collected. Familiar as I am 
 supposed to be with Johnson portraits, I had never 
 seen the one which was shown me. It was obviously 
 Dr. Johnson, and as soon as I returned home and had 
 an opportunity of consulting my notes, I saw that it 
 was the portrait painted for Dr. Taylor of Ashbourne. 
 So far as I have been able to learn, it has never been 
 engraved, or even photographed ; and I told its owner 
 that he owed it to himself and all Johnsonians to have 
 it photographed in the best possible manner, and to 
 send a copy to the Johnson House at Lichfield and 
 also to Cecil Harmsworth. This Mr. McFadden read- 
 ily consented to do ; and so, on my arrival in London, 
 I had the pleasant duty of presenting the pictures. 
 The portrait is of a very old man ; the head is bent
 
 H g I 
 
 111 
 
 > -2 . 
 
 03 $ 
 
 O d
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 245 
 
 forward, the face is kindly, and about the mouth is 
 the tremulousness of age. I take it, indeed, to be a 
 speaking likeness, and it pleases me to fancy that the 
 kindly Doctor has just made the remark quoted by 
 Boswell, "As I grow older I am prepared to call a man 
 a good man on easier terms than heretofore." * 
 
 During the war, when Germany was dropping 
 bombs on London, and England was protesting that 
 no real military purpose was served thereby and that 
 the priceless treasures in the museums which had al- 
 ways been open to the public were being endangered, 
 Germany characteristically replied that England 
 should not keep her bric-a-brac in a fortress. Whether 
 London is a fortress or not, I do not know ; doubtless 
 the Tower once was, and doubtless a certain amount 
 of bric-a-brac is stored therein; but the Tower is a 
 fatiguing place, and I fancy that I have visited it for 
 the last time ; whereas I shall never cease to delight 
 in the London Museum, filled as it is with everything 
 that illustrates the history, the social and business life 
 of a people who by no accident or chance have played 
 a leading part in the history of the world. This 
 wonderful collection is housed in what was for years 
 regarded as the most sumptuous private residence in 
 London. It is situated in Stable Yard, very near 
 St. James's Palace, and not so far from Buckingham 
 
 1 Mr. McFadden, who died early in 1921, bequeathed his paintings, 
 including the Johnson portrait, to the City of Philadelphia. Miss 
 Lowell, when she saw this portrait, said, "It makes me understand 
 the whole quality of u Johnson's character better than anything else has 
 ever done, and turns the usual portrait of him into a mere caricature. 
 The wisdom, power, pathos, and sweetness in his face make one under- 
 stand why his friends were so fond of him."
 
 246 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 Palace as to prevent the late Queen Victoria from 
 dropping in occasionally for a cup of tea with her 
 friend, the Duchess of Sutherland, who for many 
 years made it her residence. The story goes, that 
 Her Majesty was accustomed to remark that she 
 had left her house to visit her friend in her palace. 
 Be this as it may, it is a magnificent structure, ad- 
 mirably fitted for its present purpose ; and I was for- 
 tunate enough to be one of its first visitors when it 
 was thrown open to the public in the spring of 1914. 
 The arrangement of the exhibits leaves nothing to be 
 desired ; and if one does not find the garments of the 
 present reigning family very stimulating, one can al- 
 ways retire to the basement and while away an hour 
 or so among the panoramas of Tudor London, or 
 fancy himself for a brief time a prisoner in Newgate. 
 But the streets of a great city are more interesting 
 than any museum, and it was my custom generally 
 to stroll through St. James's Park, gradually working 
 my way toward Westminster, thence taking a bus to 
 whatever part of London my somewhat desultory 
 plans led me. One morning I had just climbed the 
 steps that lead to Downing Street, when a heavy 
 shower forced me to stand for a few moments under 
 an archway, almost opposite number 10, which, as 
 all the world knows, is the very unimposing residence 
 of the Prime Minister. Standing under the same 
 archway was an admirable specimen of the London 
 policeman, tall, erect, polite, intelligent, impertur- 
 bable, and it occurred to me that the exchange of a 
 "British-made" cigar for the man's views on the
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 247 
 
 war would be no more than a fair exchange. And 
 right here let me say that, all the time I was in Eng- 
 land, I did not hear one word of complaint or one 
 word of exultation. There was no doubt in Bobby's 
 mind as to who won the war, "but, mind you, your 
 fellows was most welcome, when they came" ; and 
 I thought I detected just a trifle of sarcasm in his 
 last words. "We don't like the Germans, but we 
 don't wear ourselves out 'ating 'em," he said, in 
 reply to my question. 
 
 Just here our conversation was interrupted by an 
 old lady, who came up to inquire at what hour Mrs. 
 Lloyd George was going out. 
 
 "I'm not in her confidence, ma'am," replied my 
 friend. Continuing, he suggested that he had gone to 
 bed hungry many a night but had n't minded in the 
 least because he knew that British ships were taking 
 the American army to France. "Hi've a tendency 
 to get 'eavy hanyway," he continued. His views on 
 the League of Nations were what one usually heard. 
 He "had no confidence a man's neighbors would do 
 more for a man than a man would do for himself" ; 
 that "Wilson was a bit 'eady, and the American 
 people 'ad let 'im down something terrible." 
 
 Another morning, walking past the Horse Guards, 
 I noticed, upon approaching the Mall, an enormous 
 German camion mounted on its heavy carriage, the 
 wheels of which must have had at least five-inch 
 tires. This engine of death, having shot its last bolt, 
 was an object of the greatest interest to the children 
 who constantly played about it. As I passed it, one
 
 248 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 little chap, probably not over four years of age, was 
 kicking it forcibly with his little foot, his act being 
 regarded approvingly the while by the Bobby who 
 was looking on ; but when finally he began to climb 
 up on the wheel, from which he could have got a 
 nasty fall, the policeman took the little lad in his 
 arms, lifted him carefully to the ground, and bade 
 him "be hoff," with the remark, "You '11 be tearing 
 that toy to pieces before you are a month older ; then 
 we won't 'ave nothing to remind us of the war." 
 
 "I shouldn't think you were likely to forget it," 
 I said, looking at his decorations and handing him a 
 cigar. 
 
 "Well, sir," he replied, thanking me and putting 
 the cigar in his helmet, "it's curious how one thing 
 drives another out of your mind : I was in it for three 
 years and yet, except when I look at that gun, I can't 
 rightly say I give it much thought." 
 
 I had an experience one day which I shall always 
 remember, it was so unexpected and far-reaching. 
 I was sitting in the back room of Sawyer's bookshop 
 in Oxford Street, talking of London and, rather espe- 
 cially, of Mr. W. W. Jacobs's district thereof, in 
 which I had recently made several interesting "short 
 cruises," in company with his night watchman (he 
 who had a bad shilling festooned from his watch- 
 chain, it will be remembered), when I felt rather than 
 saw that, while I was talking, a man had entered and 
 seemed to be waiting, and rather impatiently, to get 
 into the conversation. Now just how it came about,
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 249 
 
 I don't exactly know, but soon I found myself sug- 
 gesting that Londoners know relatively little of their 
 great city, and that it was only the enlightened 
 stranger who really knew his way about. 
 
 "And this to me," said the stranger in a harsh, 
 strident voice of such unusual timbre that its owner 
 could have made a whisper heard in a rolling-mill. 
 "Think of it," he continued, turning to Sawyer, 
 "that I should live to be bearded in my den by a 
 by a " He paused, not at a loss for a word, so 
 much as turning over in his mind whether that word 
 should be kindly or the reverse. 
 
 This gave me an opportunity of looking at the 
 man who had entered, unasked, into the conversa- 
 tion, in very much the same way that I had entered 
 into his London. He was seemingly about sixty 
 years of age, short rather than tall, with piercing 
 eyes under bushy eyebrows, but chiefly remarkable 
 for his penetrating voice, which he used as an organ, 
 modulating it or giving it, at will, immense power. 
 One felt instinctively that he was no patrician, but 
 rather a "city man" accustomed to giving orders and 
 having them obeyed promptly, and having a degree 
 of confidence in himself say, rather, assurance 
 which one associates with Chicago rather than with 
 London. 
 
 Now I am conceited enough to think that, with the 
 ordinary mortal, I can hold my own in conversation 
 when London is the subject ; so almost before I knew 
 it, I was trying to make myself heard by one who had 
 evidently decided to take the lead in the conversa-
 
 250 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 tion. The result was that two men were talking for 
 victory at the same time, greatly to the amusement 
 of Sawyer. 
 
 Finally my stranger-friend said, "Have you many 
 books on London?" 
 
 To which I replied, relieved that the subject had 
 taken a bookish turn, "Yes, about three hundred," 
 which number is, say, a hundred and fifty more than 
 I actually possess. 
 
 "I have over six thousand," said my friend; "I 
 have every book of importance on London that ever 
 has been written." 
 
 "Yes," said I, "and you have the advantage in dis- 
 covering first how many books I had. If I had been 
 as keen as mustard, as you are, I would have asked 
 the question and you would have said three hundred ; 
 then I could have said six thousand." 
 
 "Listen to him," roared my friend, "he even 
 doubts my word. Would you like to see my books ? " 
 
 " Have you a copy of Stow ? " I replied, to try him 
 out. 
 
 "Yes," answered my friend, "every edition, in- 
 cluding a presentation copy of the first edition of 
 1598, with an inscription to the Lord Mayor." 
 
 Now, presentation copies of the "Survay," prop- 
 erly regarded as the first book on London, are very 
 rare. I had never seen one, and I replied that noth- 
 ing would give me greater pleasure than to see his 
 books ; when and how could a meeting be arranged ? 
 
 "Shall we say next Thursday afternoon?" 
 
 "Very good, but where?"
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 251 
 
 "Now," continued my friend, "pay attention. 
 Tell your second chauffeur to get out your third 
 Rolls-Royce car " 
 
 "Never mind my chauffeurs and my Rolls-Royce 
 cars/' I interrupted; "if you are on the line of a 
 penny bus, tell me how to reach you from Piccadilly 
 Circus." 
 
 "Good," continued my friend; "you know the 
 Ritz?" 
 
 "From the outside," I replied, "perfectly." 
 
 "Well, go to the Bobby who stands outside the 
 Ritz, and ask him to tell you what bus to take to 
 Clapham Junction, and when you get there, just ask 
 any Bobby to direct you to John Burns's on the north 
 side of Clapham Common." 
 
 John Burns! Had I heard aright? Was it pos- 
 sible that I was actually talking to John Burns, the 
 great labor leader, who had once marched a small 
 army of " Dockers " from the East End of London to 
 Westminster, and who had finally become an all- 
 powerful Member of Parliament, and Privy Coun- 
 cillor, and President of the Board of Trade and of 
 the Local Government Board ; John Burns, without 
 whose approval not a statue, not a pillar-box or a 
 fire-plug had been located for the past twenty years, 
 and who had, when the war broke out, resigned all 
 his offices of honor and emolument because he could 
 not conscientiously go along with the government ! 
 As I recovered from my astonishment, John Burns, 
 with a fine sense of dramatic values, had disappeared. 
 I looked at his name and address written in his own
 
 252 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 hand in my little engagement book. "Well," said I 
 to myself, "that looks like a perfectly good invita- 
 tion ; John Burns will be expecting me about half- 
 past four, and I am not going to disappoint him." 
 
 A few days later, at the hour appointed, we de- 
 scended from a taxi and found our friend awaiting 
 us at his front gate. Across the roadway stretched 
 Clapham Common, itself not without historic in- 
 terest ; but it was a cold raw day in late October, and 
 the inside of a city home is always more interesting 
 than the outside. As I removed my coat, I saw at a 
 glance that I had not been deceived in the number 
 of his books. There were books everywhere, about 
 fifteen thousand of them. All over the house were 
 open shelves from floor to ceiling, with here and 
 there a rare old cabinet packed with books, which 
 told the life-story of their owner. Books are for 
 reading, for reference, and for display. John Burns 
 had not stinted himself in any direction. 
 
 Throwing open the door of a good-sized room, in 
 which a fire (thank God !) was burning brightly, 
 Burns said briefly: "London, art and architecture 
 in this room ; in the room beyond, political economy, 
 housing and social problems; rare books and first 
 editions in the drawing-room. Now come upstairs. 
 Here is biography and history." And then, throwing 
 open the door of a small room, he said, "This is my 
 work-shop; here are thousands and thousands of 
 pamphlets, carefully indexed." On landing at the 
 head of the stair, he said, "Newton, I've taken a 
 fancy to you and I'm going to let you handle, care-
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 253 
 
 fully, mind you, the greatest collection of Sir Thomas 
 More in the world over six hundred items, twice 
 as many as there are in the British Museum. Here 
 they are, manuscripts, letters, first editions." Then, 
 dropping the arrogance of the collector who had made 
 his point, he took up a little copy of "Utopia," which 
 he had bought as a boy for sixpence, and said, "This 
 book has made me what I am ; for me it is the great- 
 est book in the world; it is the first book I ever 
 bought, it is the cornerstone of my library the 
 foundation on which I have built my life. Now let 
 us have tea!" 
 
 During this pleasant function I plied my host with 
 question after question, and he, knowing that he was 
 not being interviewed, was frankness itself in his 
 replies. His judgment on the great men of England, 
 with whom he had worked for a lifetime, was shrewd, 
 penetrating, dispassionate and, above all, kindly on 
 their conduct of the war. His reason for not going 
 along with the nation (he and Lord Morley were the 
 two conspicuous men in England who, on the out- 
 break of the war, retired into private life) was force- 
 ful, if to me unconvincing ; and I quoted Blake's 
 axiom that a man who was unwilling to fight for the 
 truth might be forced to fight for a lie, without in 
 the least disturbing his equanimity. My remark 
 about Blake served to send the conversation in an- 
 othei direction, and we were soon discussing Blake's 
 wife, whose maiden name he knew, and his unknown 
 grave in Bunhill Fields, as if the cause and effect of 
 the Great War were questions that could be dis-
 
 254 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 
 
 missed. Seeing a large signed photograph of Lord 
 Morley on the wall, and a copy of his "Life of Glad- 
 stone" and his own "Recollections" on the shelves, 
 I voiced my opinion that his friend was the author 
 of five of the dullest volumes ever written an 
 opinion I would be glad to debate with all comers. 
 
 In reply to my question as to how he had accom- 
 plished so much reading, leading, as he has done for 
 so many years, the life of a busy public man, he an- 
 swered: "I read quickly, have a good memory" 
 (there is no false modesty about John Burns), "and 
 I never play golf." 
 
 "Well, I am like you in one respect." 
 
 "What's that?" he asked; and then with a laugh, 
 "You don't play golf, I suppose." 
 
 What I thought was my time to score came when 
 he began to speak French, which I never understand 
 unless it is spoken with a strong English accent ; this 
 gave me a chance to ask him whether he had not, 
 like Chaucer's nun, studied at Stratford-Atte-Bowe, 
 as evidently "the French of Paris" was to him "un- 
 knowe"; he laughed heartily, and instantly con- 
 tinued the quotation. But anyone who attempts to 
 heckle John Burns has his work cut out for him ; a 
 man who has harangued mobs in the East End of 
 London and elsewhere, and held his own against all 
 comers in the House of Commons, and who has re- 
 ceived honorary degrees for solid accomplishment 
 from half a dozen universities, is not likely to feel the 
 pin-pricks of an admirer. And when the time came 
 for us (for my wife was with me) to part, as it did all
 
 MY OLD LADY, LONDON 255 
 
 too soon, it was with the understanding that we were 
 to meet again to do some walking and book-hunting 
 together; and anyone who has John Burns for a 
 guide in London, as I have had, is not likely soon to 
 forget the joys of the experience. 
 Holidays at last come to an end. 
 
 If all the year were playing holidays, 
 To sport would be as tedious as to work. 
 
 We came home, and our first impressions were those 
 of annoyance. As a nation, we have no manners; 
 one might have supposed that we, rather than the 
 English, had had our nervous systems exposed to the 
 shock of battle ; that we, rather than they, had been 
 subject to air-raids and to the deprivations of war ; 
 that we had become a debtor rather than a creditor 
 nation. We found rudeness and surliness every- 
 where. The man in the street had a "grouch," de- 
 spite the fact that he was getting more pay for less 
 work than any other man in the world, and that the 
 President had told him that he had an inalienable 
 right to strike. For the first time in my life I felt 
 that "labor would have to liquidate," to use a phrase 
 to which, in the past, I have greatly objected. No 
 question was civilly answered. The porter who 
 carried our bags took a substantial tip with a sneer, 
 and passed on. It may be that America is " the land 
 of the free and the home of the brave " ; but we found 
 our cities dangerous, noisy, and hideously filthy. It 
 is not pleasant to say these things, but they are true. 
 
 THE END
 
 INDEX
 
 INDEX 
 
 ADAM, ROBERT B., 110. 
 
 ADAM, ROBERT B., JR., his collection of 
 Johnsoniana, 109-111, 242, 243. 
 
 Adams, Henry, The Education of, 103. 
 
 ADAMS, JOHN, 189. 
 
 ADVERTISING, value of, 94 Jf.; and 
 Liberty Bonds, 95 ; in 18th Century, 
 95 Jf.; in English newspapers, 98, 99 ; 
 possibilities of, 99 ; in the book busi- 
 ness, 100 /., 106, 107; a form of 
 boasting, 104; "slogans" in, 104- 
 106; a profession, not a trade, 108. 
 
 ADVERTISING, bill-boards, 105, 106. 
 
 AINSWORTH, HARRISON, Jack Sheppard, 
 236. 
 
 Amenities of Book-Collecting, The, suc- 
 cess of, 41 Jf. 
 
 AMERICAN BOOKSELLERS' ASSOCIATION, 
 105, 107. 
 
 ANNE, QUEEN, 189. 
 
 ARMISTICE DAT ^1920), celebration of , 
 in London, 240, 241. 
 
 ARNOLD, WILLIAM HARRIS, on the 
 welfare of the bookstore, 73, 75, 76 ; 
 114. 
 
 ASHFORD, DAISY, The Young Visiters, 
 82. 
 
 ASQUITH, MRS. "MARGOT," 211. 
 
 Atlantic Monthly, 40, 73, 82, 110. 
 
 AUGUSTA, PRINCESS, mother of George 
 III, 9. 
 
 AUSTEN, JANE, 228. 
 
 BABST, EARL D., 135 n. 
 BAKER, NEWTON D., 139. 
 BALLARD, ELLIS AMES, 107. 
 BARDELL vs. PICKWICK, 1-3. 
 BARBIE, SIR JAMES M., 82. 
 BARTLETT, JOHN, Familiar Quotations, 
 
 200. 
 BART'S. See St. Bartholomew's Hospital. 
 
 BARTLETT AND POLLARD'S Census, 128. 
 
 BASIRE, engraver, 200. 
 
 BEACONSFIELD, EARL OF, Endymion, 74. 
 
 BECKET, SAINT THOMAS a, 124, 214. 
 
 BEECHAM, SIR JOSEPH, 99. 
 
 BEECHAM'S PILLS, 98. 
 
 BEERBOHM, MAX, 141. 
 
 BENNETT, ARNOLD, in Phila., 182, 183, 
 184, 192, 193; presentation copy of 
 Buried Alive, 194, 195. 
 
 BERGENGREN, RALPH, Jane, Joseph 
 and John, 79. 
 
 BILLS OF EXCHANGE, A. E. N. as a 
 drafter of, 34, 35. 
 
 BIRHELL, AUGUSTINE, 101. 
 
 BLACK JACK TAVERN, 236. 
 
 BLAIR, HUGH, The Grave, Blake's il- 
 lustrations for, 216, 220. 
 
 BLAKE, MRS. CATHERINE (BOUCHER), 
 207, 238, 253. 
 
 BLAKE, WILLIAM, his prophetic, or 
 mystical books, 197-199, 210, 211. 
 219; his birth and education, 199, 
 200; apprenticed to an engraver, 
 200 ; character of his engraving, 201, 
 218; a Japanese biographer of, 
 quoted, 201, 202; marries Catherine 
 Boucher, 202; his industry, 202; 
 makes and sells his own books, 202; 
 neglected during his lifetime, 203; 
 first editions of, very rare, 203; his 
 Poetical Sketches, 204, 205 ; "Spring," 
 205; "To the Evening Star," 205; 
 Songs of Innocence and Songs of Ex- 
 perience, inspiration of, 205, 206; 
 his own publisher, 206 ; " The Piper," 
 207; his method of engraving in re- 
 lief, 207, 208; "The Lamb," 208; 
 "The Tiger," 209; his subsequent 
 poetical work considered, 210; his 
 books widely scattered, 210, 211;
 
 260 
 
 INDEX 
 
 The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, 211, 
 213; the author's collection of his 
 works, 212 jf.; illustrations of the 
 Book of Job, 212, 213, 216-218; 
 "Gates of Paradise," 214, 220 and 
 "Key to the Gates," 214; Canter- 
 bury Pilgrims, 214, 215 and n., 218 ; 
 illustrations for Blair's Grave, 216, 
 220, Young's Night Thoughts, 216, 
 and Hayley's Bollards, 218; The 
 Beggar's Opera, 218 ; merit of draw- 
 ings in his prophetic books, 218; 
 Songs of Innocence and of Experience, 
 218 ; Urizen, 218, 219 ; America, 219 ; 
 Europe, 219; as a man, misunder- 
 stood, 219, 220 ; his death and burial, 
 220; his grave unmarked, 220, 238, 
 253; his design, "Death's Door," 
 220, 221; 196, 197. 
 
 BODLEIAN LIBRARY, 64, 127. 
 
 BONAPARTE, NAPOLEON, 24. 
 
 BONNELL, H. H., 45. 
 
 BOOK-BUTING, 76 jf. 
 
 BOOKSELLERS, tribulations of, 76 ff.; 
 suggestions to, 84 Jf. And see Rare- 
 book departments, Second-hand 
 books. 
 
 BOOKSELLERS, NATIONAL ASSOCIATION 
 OF, 99, 100. 
 
 BOOKSHOPS, and competition of de- 
 partment stores, 81, 82; suggestions 
 for window display in, 106, 107; 
 should furnish a post-graduate course 
 in literature, 107, 108. 
 
 BOSWELL, JAMES, and Traubel, 158; 
 his Life of Johnson, 101, 111, 113, 
 245; 38, 40, 41, 109, 110, 199, 242. 
 
 BOUCHER, CATHERINE, marries W. 
 Blake, 202. 
 
 "Boz," Dickens's pen-name, derivation 
 of, 1. 
 
 BRAWNE, FANNY, 118, 119, 122. 
 
 BRAYBROOKE, LORD, editor of Pepys's 
 Diary, 68. 
 
 BRENTANO'S, 89. 
 
 BRIDGES, HORACE J., Our Fellow Shake- 
 speare, 129, 130. 
 
 BRITISH EMPIRE, Armistice Day in 
 (1920), 240, 241. 
 
 BRITISH MUSEUM, 128, 211. 
 
 BROWN BROS. & Co., 34, 35. 
 
 BROWN, SHIPLEY & Co., 34. 
 
 BROWNE, F. MADOX, 154. 
 
 BROWNING, ELIZABETH B., 119. 
 
 BROWNING, ROBERT, Men and Women, 
 63; 119, 198. 
 
 BRYAN, WILLIAM J., 224. 
 
 BUCK, DR., sale of his Whitman col- 
 lection, 147. 
 
 BUNHILL FIELDS BURYING GROUND, 
 63, 64, 220, 237, 238, 253. 
 
 BUNYAN, JOHN, his tomb in Bunhill 
 Fields, 237,238; 220. 
 
 BURKE, EDMUND, attacks Hastings's 
 administration, 10, 11, 12; his open- 
 ing speech in the Hastings trial, 16, 
 17 ; 18, 19, 23, 24. 
 
 BURNEY, FRANCES, 14, 15, 17, 20, 242. 
 
 BURNEY, JAMES, 17. 
 
 BURNS, JOHN, the author's chance 
 meeting and conversation with, 
 248 jf.; his career, 251; his library, 
 252, 253. 
 
 BURNS, ROBERT, Kilmarnock edition, 
 49, 204. 
 
 "BuY A BOOK A WEEK," suggested as 
 slogan for booksellers, 100 and n., 
 102, 103 and n. 
 
 BYRON, LORD, and Leigh Hunt, 115; 
 114. 
 
 CADBURY, MR., 117. 
 
 CAMDEN, N. J., Whitman's life in, 
 
 145, 146, 153, 154. 
 CAREW, THOMAS, Poems, 63, 64. 
 CARLYLE, THOMAS, and Dr. Johnson, 
 
 compared, 241. 
 CARNEGIE, ANDREW, 73, 78. 
 CARSON, HAMPTON L., 26 n. 
 CENTENNIAL EXPOSITION, (1876), 130, 
 
 156. 
 
 CHARLES 1, 173. 
 
 CHARLES II, Rochester's verses on, 113. 
 CHARLOTTE, QUEEN, 10, 20.
 
 INDEX 
 
 261 
 
 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY, 85, 124. 
 
 CHESHIRE CHEESE, THE, 47, 243. 
 
 CHESTERFIELD, LORD, 178. 
 
 CHESTERTON, G. K., 3. 
 
 CHEVALIER, ALBERT, 171. 
 
 CHEW, BEVERLY, 60. 
 
 CHIMNEY-SWEEP, a, 174, 175. 
 
 CLAWSON, JOHN L., 126, 214. 
 
 CLEMENS, SAMUEL L., 75, 142. 
 
 CLIVE, LORD, 9. 
 
 CLUB, THE, 45 and n., 46. 
 
 CLUB OF ODD VOLUMES, 43. 
 
 COCHRAN, MR., 125. 
 
 COCKNEY DIALECT, the, 171, 177. 
 
 COLERIDGE, S. T., 124. 
 
 COLVIN, SIR SIDNEY, 120, 121. 
 
 CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY, 126. 
 
 CONRAD, JOSEPH, 81. 
 
 CONTEMPORARY CLUB, 146. 
 
 CRAIG, FRANK, in Phila., 181 /.; taken 
 
 by the author to see the sights, 186- 
 
 192; at Lynnewood Hall, 192-194; 
 
 his parting gift, 195. 
 CRAWFORD, WILLIAM, 50. 
 CREWE, EARL OF, 217. 
 CROMEK, MR., art publisher, pilloried 
 
 by Blake, 216. 
 CURTIS, CYRUS H. K., his career, 91, 
 
 92. 
 CURTIS PUBLISHING Co., 92. 
 
 DANIELS, JOSEPHUS, 139. 
 
 DANTE, 219. 
 
 DAYLESFORD, England, 4, 5, 6, 9, 19, 
 20, 21, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32. 
 
 DAYLESFORD, Penn., 3 jf., 26, 31. 
 
 DEFOE, DANIEL, his grave, 63, 64; 
 Robinson Crusoe, 64, 65 ; Journal of 
 the Plague Year, 65, 66 ; M oil Flan- 
 ders, 66 ; 220, 238. 
 
 DELANO, MR., 35. 
 
 DEPARTMENT STORES, and the book 
 business, 81, 82, 83; and publishers, 
 82. 
 
 Dere Mable, 82. 
 
 DICKENS, CHARLES, Pickicick Papers, 
 1-3; the Christmas Carol, 170; 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby, 237. 
 
 DISRAELI, BENJAMIN. See Beacons- 
 field, Earl of. 
 
 D'ISRAELI, ISAAC, 41. 
 
 DOBELL, SYDNEY, 147. 
 
 DOBSOX, AUSTIN, 69. 
 
 DORE, GUSTAVE, 219. 
 
 DOUBLED AY, PAGE & Co., 75, 150. 
 
 DRAKE, Sm FRANCIS, 67. 
 
 DRAKK, JAMES F., bookseller, 135, 136. 
 
 DRINKWATER, JOHN, Abraham Lincoln, 
 80, 81. 
 
 DUTTON & Co., E. P., 89. 
 
 DYBLE, MRS, custodian of Johnson 
 House, 241, 242, 243, 244. 
 
 EAST INDIA Co., 29, 30. 
 ELIZABETHAN CLUB, 125 and n. 
 ELKINS, WILLIAM M., Ill, 119. 
 ELLEN, Gus, 171. 
 ELLENBOROUGH, LORD CHIEF JUSTICE. 
 
 See Law, Edward. 
 EMERSON, R. W., and Leaves- of Grass, 
 
 149, 150; 56, 142. 
 ENGLAND, advertising in, 98, 104. 
 ENGLISHMEN, and pictures, 201. 
 ERSKINE, LORD, 12. 
 EVELYN, JOHN, 67. 
 
 FIELDING, HENRY, Tom Jones, in the 
 
 department store, 82, 83. 
 FIELDS, ANNIE (Mrs. James T.), 102. 
 FIRUSKI'S BOOKSHOP, 86. 
 FlTZHERBERT, MRS. MARIA A. S., 22. 
 FOLGER, H. C., 125. 
 FOWLER & WELLS, 150. 
 Fox, CHARLES JAMES, 12, 17, 18, 19, 
 
 23. 
 
 FRANCE, advertising in, 104. 
 FRANCIS, SIR PHILIP, 8, 11, 23. 
 FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN, grave of, 189- 
 
 191; his proposed epitaph, 190; 211. 
 FRANKLIN CLUB, Phila., 143. 
 FREDERICK THE GREAT, 20, 21. 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION, 24. 
 FURNESS, H. H., the variorum Hamlet, 
 
 129 ; 183.
 
 262 
 
 INDEX 
 
 GABLE, WILLIAM F., 147. 
 
 GARRICK, DAVID, couplet on Gold- 
 smith, 113, 114; 242. 
 
 GAT, H. NELSON, 121. 
 
 GAT, JOHN, The Beggar s Opera, 239. 
 
 GEORGE III, 9, 10, 11, 12, 14, 20. 
 
 GEORGE, PRINCE OF WALES (afterward 
 George IV,) 14, 22. 
 
 GEORGE V, 241. 
 
 GIBBON, EDWARD, 56. 
 
 GILBERT, W. S., and SULLIVAN, SIR 
 ARTHUR, Pinafore, 133. 
 
 GILCHRIST, ALEXANDER, 203, 204, 207, 
 212, 217, 219, 221. 
 
 GILCHRIST, ANNE, and Whitman, 154- 
 156 ; her Estimate of Walt Whitman, 
 155. 
 
 GILCHRIST, HERBERT, son of Anne, 156. 
 
 GILCHRIST, HERBERT, son of Alexander, 
 212. 
 
 GIROMETTI, his plaster portrait of 
 Keats, 121. 
 
 GODWIN, WILLIAM, 236, 237. 
 
 "GOLDEN KEY, THE," 50, 51. 
 
 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER, Threnodia Au- 
 gustalis, 111; mezzotint of, 111, 112; 
 Garrick's couplet on, 113, 114; Bos- 
 well's anecdotes of, 113, 114; auto- 
 graph of, 123; 46, 97, 242. 
 
 GRAHAM, BESSIE, 107. 
 
 GRASBURGER, GEORGE, 146. 
 
 GRAY, THOMAS, Elegy, 200 and n. 
 
 GREENE, BELLE DA COSTA, 128 n., 206. 
 
 GHOLIER CLUB, 211, 217. 
 
 GUMMERE, FRANCIS B., 43, 44, 45. 
 
 "GUTENBERG, MRS." 48, 49. 
 
 GUTENBERG BIBLE, 48. 
 
 HACKETT, BYRNE, 86. 
 
 HAGEN, W. H., 60. 
 
 HAIG, SIR DOUGLAS, 137. 
 
 HALE, EDWARD EVERETT, 150. 
 
 HARDIE, KEIR, 233. 
 
 HARDY, THOMAS, 106. 
 
 HARE, NURSE, at Bart's, 166, 170, 176. 
 
 HARMSWORTH, CECIL, 241, 243, 244. 
 
 HARNED, THOMAS B., Letters of Anne 
 
 Gilchrist to Walt Whitman, 154-156. 
 
 Harper's Monthly, 82. 
 
 HARVEY, WILLIAM, 173. 
 
 HASLAM, MR., 121. 
 
 HASTINGS, WARREN, early history of, 
 6 ; in India, 6, 7 ; his second marriage, 
 7; career of, in India, 1 ff. ; return 
 to England, 9, 10 ; his administration 
 attacked, 10, 11; impeachment and 
 trial of, 12jf.; purchases Dayles- 
 ford, 19, 20; acquitted, 25, 26; his 
 last years, 26jf.;4, 5. 
 
 HASTINGS, MRS. WARREN, Hastings's 
 first wife, 6. 
 
 HASTINGS, MRS. WARREN, Hastings's 
 second wife, 7, 9, 10, 28, 31. 
 
 HAY, HENRY HANBY, 45 and n. 
 
 HAYLEY, WILLIAM, Blake's illustra- 
 tions for his Ballads, 218 ; 202. 
 
 HELLMAN, GEORGE, 184, 185. 
 
 HENKELS, STAN., 140. 
 
 HENRY I, 172. 
 
 HENRY VIII, 173, 177. 
 
 HERQESHEIMER, JOSEPH, 81. 
 
 HERRICK, ROBERT, Hesperides, 62, 63; 
 205. 
 
 HIBBEN, JOHN G., 54, 55. 
 
 HILL, BIRKBECK, quoted, 110. 
 
 HOE, ROBERT, sale of his library, 48. 
 
 HOGARTH, WILLIAM, 218. 
 
 HOGG, JAMES, 76. 
 
 HUNT, LEIGH, his books and character, 
 
 114, 115; his relations with Byron, 
 
 115, Shelley, 115, and Keats, 115, 
 116; The Examiner, 115, 116; Son- 
 net to Keats, 116; 42. 
 
 HUNTINGTON, H. E., his "first quarto" 
 
 Hamlet, 128; 48, 213. 
 HUTT, HENRY, 167, 236. 
 
 IBANEZ, V. B., Four Horsemen of the 
 Apocalypse, 74, 82, 103. 
 
 IMHOFF, BARON VON, 7. 
 
 IMHOFF, BARONESS VON, Hastings's 
 second wife, 7. And see Hastings, 
 Mrs. Warren, number two. 
 
 IMPERATOR, the, 224, 225, 226, 228.
 
 INDEX 
 
 263 
 
 INDIA, Hastings's career in, 7 ff., 16, 17. 
 INGERSOLL, R. G., 146. 
 IRELAND, ALEXANDER, The Book- 
 Lover's Enchiridion, 101, 102. 
 
 JACKSON, HOLBROOK, quoted, on Whit- 
 man, 141, 142. 
 
 JACKSON, JOHN, 71. 
 
 JACOBS, W. W., 248. 
 
 JAMES'S FEVER POWDERS, 97, 98. 
 
 JASTROW, JOSEPH, 55. 
 
 JOHNSON, SAMUEL, on advertising, 95, 
 96, 108; Dictionary, publication of, 
 how announced, 96, 97 ; and Gold- 
 smith, 113, 114; Whitman's opinion 
 of, 157, 158; and Carlyle, 241; 
 McFadden portrait of, 244, 245 and 
 n. ; 15, 35, 38, 40, 42, 46, 47, 48, 109, 
 110, 111, 155, 198, 199, 200. And 
 see Johnson House. 
 
 JOHNSON CLUB, 241. 
 
 JOHNSON HOUSE, Gough Square, Lon- 
 don, the author's visit to, 241 ff. 
 
 JONES, HERSCHEL V., sale of his li- 
 brary, 213, 214. 
 
 JONSON, BEN, 47. 
 
 "JUNTOS," LETTERS OF, 8. 
 
 KANSAS CITT STAR, 50. 
 
 KEATS, JOHN, his relations with Hunt, 
 115, 116; Hunt's sonnet to, 116; 
 Miss Lowell's MS of The Eve of St. 
 Agnes, 118 ; her copy of Lamia, 118 ; 
 the author's collection of, 119, 120; 
 Severn's portrait of, 120; centenary 
 of his death, 120 ; his grave in Rome, 
 120, 121 ; Girometti's plaster por- 
 trait of, 121; letters to Fanny 
 Braune, 122; 43, 114, 241. 
 
 KEATS-SHELLEY MEMORIAL, 120, 122. 
 
 KENNERLET, MITCHELL, 59, 214. 
 
 KETNES, GEOFFREY, 211. 
 
 KEYNES, JOHN M., The Economic Con- 
 sequences of the Peace, 139 n. 
 
 KIPLING, RUDYARD, Poems, 135, 136; 
 106, 107. 
 
 KlTTREDGE, GEORGE L., 32, 44, 45. 
 
 LAHEY, MARGUERITE, 128 n. 
 
 LAMB, CHARLES, 32, 114, 142, 174, 209. 
 215. 
 
 LANGLAND, WILLIAM, Piers Plowman, 
 60. 
 
 LAW, EDWARD, defends Hastings, 12, 
 21, 24. 
 
 LAWLER, MR., 77, 78. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD, Travels in 
 England, 32. 
 
 LEAHY'S BOOKSHOP, Phila., 77, 78, 229. 
 
 LIBERTY BONDS, advertising campaign 
 in, 95. 
 
 LINCOLN, A., 142. 
 
 LINNELL, WILLIAM, 212. 
 
 LISZT, FRANZ, 232. 
 
 LLOYD GEORGE, MRS. DAVID, 247. 
 
 LOCKE, WILLIAM J., 81. 
 
 LONDON, the author's affection for, 
 222; after the war, 222 ff.; foreign- 
 ers in, 224 ; life in an apartment in, 
 231 ; cleaning up of slums in, 232 ; 
 extremes meet in, 232, 233, 235; 
 Nevill's Court, 233, 234 ; system of 
 transportation in, best in the world, 
 235; great changes in, 235, 236; 
 Oxford St., 236 ; Saracen's Head, 237 ; 
 Armistice Day in (1920), 240, 241; 
 museums and memorials in, 241 ; 
 the Johnson House, 241^.; the 
 Museum, 245, 246; police force of, 
 246-248 ; books on, 249, 250. 
 
 LONDON Daily Advertiser, specimen 
 eighteenth-century advertisements in, 
 96, 97. 
 
 LONDON MUSEUM, the, formerly Staf- 
 ford House, 245, 246. 
 
 LORIMER, GEORGE HORACE, 184, 185. 
 
 Louis XVI, 24. 
 
 LOVELACE, RICHARD, 63. 
 
 LOWELL, AMY, a visit to her library, 
 116, 117; her Keats collection, 118, 
 119; 114, 199, 245 n. 
 
 LUCAS, E. V., Adventures and Enthu- 
 siasms, 233. 
 
 "LYNNEWOOD HALL," P. A. B. Wide- 
 ner's estate, 192-194.
 
 264 
 
 INDEX 
 
 McCLURG, A. C. & Co., 89. 
 
 McFADDEN, JOHN H., portrait of 
 Johnson owned by, 244, 245 and n. 
 
 McKENZiE, R. TAIT, 143, 238. 
 
 McLxNAHAN, HAWLEY, 112. 
 
 MACAULAY, IX>RD, essay on Warren 
 Hastings, 5, 6, 7, 14. 
 
 MAGDALENE COLLEGE, Cambridge, 68. 
 
 MAGGS BROTHERS, 26 n. 
 
 MALONE, EDMUND, his collection of 
 Shakespeare quartos, 127; the "un- 
 dated Hamlet," 127, 128. 
 
 MANN, SIR HORACE, 87. 
 
 MANSFIELD, LORD, 25. 
 
 MARIE ANTOINETTE, 24. 
 
 MARKOE, MRS. JOHN, 187. 
 
 MEREDITH, GEORGE, 80. 
 
 METROPOLITAN MCSEUM, 217. 
 
 MEYNELL, ALICE, 87. 
 
 MEYNELL, EVERARD, 87. 
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO, 219. 
 
 MIFFLIN, ROGER, 85. 
 
 MILNES, R. MONCKTON (Lord Hough- 
 ton), 119. 
 
 MILTON, JOHN, Paradise last, 103 n. 
 
 MITCHELL, S. WEIR, 183. 
 
 MOORE, GEORGE, 81. 
 
 MORE, SIR THOMAS, John Burns's col- 
 lection of his works, 253 ; his Utopia, 
 253. 
 
 MORGAN, J. P., 84, 114, 206, 217. 
 
 MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER, "Abou A. 
 Edward," 42; Sonnet on Pepys, 70; 
 "The Eighth Sin," 71 ; Parnassus on 
 Wheels, 85, 86; "In an Auction 
 Room," 122, 123. 
 
 MORLEY, VISCOUNT, the author's opin- 
 ion of his Life of Gladstone, and Rec- 
 ollections, 251. 
 
 MORRIS, WILLIAM, 87, 88. 
 
 MORSHEAD, O. F., 67. 
 
 MOSHER, T. B., his reprint of the 
 Leaves of Grass, 147-149 ; and Blake, 
 203, 218 ; 88. 
 
 MUN, THOMAS, England* s Treasure by 
 Forraign Trade, 52. 
 
 MtrRDOCK, HAROLD, 44. 
 
 New Republic, The, quoted, on advertis- 
 ing in the future, 99. 
 
 NEW YORK CITY, bookshops in, 89; 
 224, 225. 
 
 NEWTON, MRS. A. E., 93, 94, 178, 179, 
 180, 181, 215 n., 254. 
 
 NICHOLSON, WATSON, 65. 
 
 "ON SALE." See Publishers. 
 OSGOOD, C. G., 242. 
 
 PAGE, WALTER HINES, 75. 
 
 PASSPORTS, difficulties in procuring, 
 224, 225. 
 
 PENN, WILLIAM, 186. 
 
 PENNELL, JOSEPH, 105, 145, 146, 236. 
 
 PEPYS, SAMUEL, Diary, 66 ff.; Memoirs 
 relating to the State of the Royal Navy, 
 69, 71 ; orthography of his name, 70, 
 72; letter to Jackson, 71. 
 
 PEPYSIAN LIBRARY, 66, 67, 68. 
 
 PERRY, BLISS, 148. 
 
 PERRY, MARSDEN J., 128. 
 
 PETERSON, MR., surgeon at Bart's, 
 repairs the author, 162, 163, 164, 165, 
 176. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, climate of, 185 ; Craig 
 sees the sights of, 186-195; "Old 
 Swedes Church," 186, 187; St. 
 Peter's and St. Peter's "set," 187, 
 188; Christ Church, 188, 189; Car- 
 penter's Hall and State House, 189 ; 
 grave of Franklin, 190, 191 ; Quaker 
 Meeting House, 191; Fairmount 
 waterworks, 191. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA ASSEMBLY, 187. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA Public Ledger, 91. 
 
 PICCADILLY HOTEL, London, 224. 
 
 PINERO, SIR A. W., Iris, 84. 
 
 PITT, WILLIAM, the younger, 11, 12. 
 
 POPE, ALEXANDER, his Homer, 129; 
 199, 200. 
 
 PORTER & COATES, 33, 34. 
 
 PRATT, ISAAC HULL, 140, 141. 
 
 Publisher's Confessions, A, 75. 
 
 PUBLISHERS, disposing of publications 
 "on sale" by, 73, 74; nature of busi-
 
 INDEX 
 
 265 
 
 ness of, 74 jf. ; and department stores, 
 81. 
 PUTNAM'S, GEORGE P., SONS, 89. 
 
 QUARITCH, BERNARD, and Miss Lowell, 
 117, 118; 203. 
 
 KAHERK, founder of Bart's, 172, 173. 
 
 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, 53, 54, 55. 
 
 "RARE-BOOK DEPARTMENTS," book- 
 sellers advised to establish, 84s Jf., 
 89, 90. 
 
 REPPLIER, AGNES, 183. 
 
 RESTORATION PLAYS, 62. 
 
 REYNOLDS, SIR JOSHUA, 15. 
 
 RIDGLEY, REV. LAWRENCE B., 196. 
 
 RIGBY, GEORGE, 77, 111, 112. 
 
 ROBERTSON, GRAHAM, 211. 
 
 ROCHESTER, EARL OF, verses on Charles 
 II, 113. 
 
 RODIN, AUGUSTE, the Thinker, 198. 
 
 ROME BROTHERS, 148. 
 
 ROME, Keats-Shelley Memorial in, 120, 
 122; Keats's grave in, 120, 121. 
 
 ROOSEVELT, THEODORE, his slogans, 
 104; 137. 
 
 ROSEBERY, LORD, 28. 
 
 ROSENBACH, A. S. W. ("Rosy"), 77, 
 119, 128, 129, 215 n. 
 
 ROSENBACH Co., 126, 127. 
 
 ROSSETTI, D. G., "Keats Sixty Years 
 Dead," 122, 123; 119, 154. 
 
 ROSSETTI, W. M., his edition of Whit- 
 man's Leaves, 154 ; his enthusiasm 
 for Whitman, 155 ; 212, 219. 
 
 ROUSSEAU, J. J., 68. 
 
 ROWELL, MRS., 242, 244. 
 
 SABIN, F. T., 120. 
 
 ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S HOSPITAL, Lon- 
 don, the author's sojourn at, with a 
 broken leg, 161 jf.; story of the 
 founding of, 172, 173 ; the " right shop 
 for fractures," 173; Pitcairn Ward 
 in, 173, 174, 175; shaving in, 176; 
 farewell to, 177. 
 
 SARACEN'S HEAD INN, 237. 
 
 Saturday Evening Post, 92. 
 SAVOY HOTEL, London, 223. 
 SAWYER, Mr., bookseller, 121, 248, 249, 
 
 250. 
 
 SCHELLING, FELIX E., 45, 62. 
 SCHIAVONETTI, Louis, engraver, 216. 
 SCHWAB, CHARLES M., 84. 
 SCOTT, SIR WALTER, 75, 76. 
 SCRIBNER'S, CHARLES, SONS, 89. 
 Scribners Magazine, 82. 
 SECOND-HAND BOOKS, 84 Jf., 89. 
 SELBORNE, 229, 230. 
 "SERENDIPITY SHOP, THE," 87. 
 SESSLER, CHARLES, 77. 
 SEVERN, JOSEPH, his portrait of Keats, 
 
 120; 116. 
 
 SEVERN, WALTER, 120. 
 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM, Poems, 103 n. ; 
 
 Hamlet, 103 n. ; quartos of the plays, 
 
 125, 126/.; Julius Caesar, 127; 
 
 Pericles, 127; Troilus and Cressida, 
 
 127; the" undated Hamlet," 127, 128 
 
 and n. ; the earlier Hamlets, 128; 
 
 Hamlst the play, 129, 130. 
 SHERIDAN, R. B., 12, 18, 19. 
 SHIELDS, JAMES, 77. 
 SHOP-WINDOWS, advertising value of, 
 
 106. 
 
 Simpkin the Second, Letters from, 23. 
 "SIMPSON'S," 47, 222, 223. 
 SKELTON, JOHN, poems, 60; Pithy, 
 
 Pleasaunt and Profitable Works, 61, 62. 
 SLOGANS in the book-business, 100, 
 
 102 /, 
 
 SMITH, GEORGE MURRAY, 29. 
 SMITH, ELDER & Co., 29. 
 SOUTHAMPTON, England, 228. 
 SPENSER, EDMUND, Colin Clout's Come 
 
 Home Again, 61, 62; Faerie Queene, 
 
 62; 125, 
 
 SPOOR, J. A., 114. 
 STEELE, RICHARD, 45 n. 
 STERRY, ASHBY, 72. 
 STETSON, JOHN B., 114. 
 STEVEXSON, R. L., Travels unth a 
 
 Donkey, 86; 79, 80. 
 STIRLING, CAPTAIN, 211.
 
 266 
 
 INDEX 
 
 STONE, WILBUR M., 206. 
 STOTHARD, THOMAS, 214, 215, 216. 
 STOW, JOHN, his Survay of London, 250. 
 STRUTHERS, PETER, letter from, 51. 
 STUART, EDWARD, 77. 
 SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, 63. 
 SUTHERLAND, DUCHESS OF, 246. 
 SWINBURNE, A. C., 154, 199, 219. 
 
 TAIT GALLERY, 211. 
 
 TARKINGTON, BOOTH, 182. 
 
 TAYLOR, DR., of Ashbourne, 244. 
 
 TENNYSON, ALFRED, 114, 119. 
 
 THAYER & ELDRIDGE, publish third 
 edition of Whitman's Leaves of Grass, 
 151-153. 
 
 THOREAU, H. D., 197. 
 
 THRALE, HESTER LYNCH, 54, 242. 
 
 THURLOW, LORD CHANCELLOR, 12, 14, 
 16, 17, 18, 21, 25. 
 
 THURSTON, Miss, 128 n., 206. 
 
 TINKER, CHAUNCEY B., 77, 242. 
 
 TITANIC, sinking of, 194. 
 
 TRAUBEL, HORACE, With Watt Whit- 
 man in Canada, 38, 141, 158; Whit- 
 man's Boswell, 158; 37. 
 
 TRENT, WILLIAM P., 64. 
 
 TREVELYAN, SIR G. O., 13. 
 
 TROLLOPE, ANTHONY, quoted, 62; The 
 Warden, 229. 
 
 TWAIN, MARK. See Clemens, S. L. 
 
 UNITED STATES, conditions in, 255. 
 
 VALLEY FORGE, 4. 
 VICTORIA, QUEEN, 246. 
 
 WALDEN POND, 196, 197. 
 WALDO, FULLER-TON, 239, 240. 
 WALLERSTEIN, DAVID, 233. 
 WALPOLE, HORACE, his copy of White's 
 
 Selborne owned by author, 229; 87, 
 
 98. 
 
 WARWICK, EARL OF, 233. 
 WASHINGTON, GEORGE, 189. 
 WATTS, ISAAC, Divine Songs, 206. 
 WAYNE, ANTHONY, 4. 
 
 WELLS, CAROLYN, rhymed letter of, to 
 author, 227, 228. 
 
 WELLS, GABRIEL, 217. 
 
 WELLS, H. G., 53. 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY, " artistic abom- 
 inations" in, 200. 
 
 WESTMINSTER HALL, trial of Hastings 
 in, 12/. 
 
 WHEATLEY, H. B., 68. 
 
 WHITE, REV. GILBERT, Natural His- 
 tory of Selborne, 229, 230. 
 
 WHITE, REV. WILLIAM, 189. 
 
 WHITE, W. A., 214, 216, 218, 220. 
 
 WHITMAN, WALT, inspires a Christmas 
 card, 38, 39; his personality, 141; 
 present status of, 141, 142; H. Jack- 
 son quoted on, 142 ; celebration of the 
 centenary of his birth, 143, 144; 
 author's opinion of, 144, 145 ; his 
 life in Camden, N. J., 145, 146, 153, 
 154; his funeral, 146; author's visit 
 to, 146, 147 ; sale of Buck collection, 
 147 ; his keen advertising sense, 149, 
 150 ; a nurse in Washington, 151 ; 
 his bibliographical status, 151 ; 
 quoted, on history of third edition of 
 Leaves of Grass, 152, 153 ; his works 
 other than Leaves of Grass neglected, 
 153; more admired in England than 
 in U. S., 154; and Mrs. Gilchrist, 
 154-156; his love of flattery, 155; 
 his literary judgments, 157; quoted, 
 on Dr. Johnson, 157, 158; Traubel 
 his Boswell, 158; his future fame, 
 159; 37. 
 
 Leaves of Grass: autographed copies 
 of, 146 ; first edition of, 147-149, and 
 Mosher's reprint, 147; second edi- 
 tion of, and Emerson's message, 149, 
 150; severe criticism of, 150; third 
 edition of, 151-153 ; later editions of, 
 153, 154. 
 
 WHITMANIANA, sale of Pratt collection 
 of, 140, 141. 
 
 WIDENER, HARRY E., his library, 193, 
 194; his death, 194; 183, 184, 185, 
 192.
 
 INDEX 
 
 267 
 
 WIDENER, P. A. B., his gallery at 
 
 Lynnewood Hall, 192, 193; 183, 184. 
 
 185. 
 WILDE, OSCAR, MS. of "The Grave of 
 
 Keats," 122, 123; 114. 
 WILHELM II, 26. 
 WILLETT, MR., head surgeon of" Bart's," 
 
 164, 165, 168, 172, 173, 175, 176. 
 WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM, 228. 
 WILSON, WOODROW, 53, ISO/., 135 n., 
 
 137, 139 n., 247, 255. 
 WINCHESTER (England) CATHEDRAL, 
 
 228, 229. 
 
 WINSHIP, GEORGE P., 43. 
 WISE, THOMAS J., 114. 
 
 WOLLSTONECRAFT, MART, Original 
 Stories, etc., 212. 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM, soporific qual- 
 ity of his Excursion, 144; 131. 
 
 WORTHINGTON, R., 152, 153. 
 
 WYNDHAM, WILLIAM, 15. 
 WTSS, RODOLPHE, The Suriss Family 
 Robinson, 65. 
 
 YOUNG, EDWARD, Night Thoughts, 
 
 Blake's illustrations for, 216. 
 YOUNG, SQUIRE, 31, 32. 
 
 ZAHN, MABEL, 77.
 
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