Part 2

To pass away the time, he picked up a magazine but put it down instantly. He had heard the magic words "purple hawthorn." Some one else was before him. He would find out.

Going behind an old Spanish leather screen, he listened. He looked through the aperture, and beheld two men, well-known in the world of finance. One was John T. Sterling; the other was James Thatcher, the celebrated collector.

Mr. Foster was not there. It was early in the morning, and perhaps he had not completed his toilet.

"Hello!--You here?" said one voice.

"Check-mated!" exclaimed the other.

"Damn it! I never expected to see you."

"Of course not. I know your mission. We had better see Foster together."

"No, I came first. I claim the privilege of the first interview!"

"No! I shall speak out. There is no use for us to bid against each other. It would spoil the market! I'm sure we can come to some agreement."

"No! I own the Appleton vase, and by right I should possess the other. It would make the finest pair of vases in the world! It will look magnificent in my house on Fifth Avenue."

"Don't be a hog--Foster does not know its value. He was offered five thousand dollars for it after the Mary J. Morgan sale in 1886. If we offer him fifteen thousand he will think it a gold mine. You know he needs the money. If you offer more he will become suspicious."

"I suppose we both can't have it. We'll toss for it! that is when the business details are over. You make an offer of ten--and then fifteen, or more, if necessary. Your hand upon it! Play fair--this is not the stock-market!"

The two eminent financiers grasped hands. An instant later Mr. Foster entered.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen."

"Not at all, Mr. Foster," replied Sterling. "We read in the papers you were going to Italy, and thought you would like to dispose of some of your curiosities. May we look around?"

"Certainly. I would like to sell some of the things. I hate to do it. But to be frank with you the illness of my daughter has proved a great expense. I'm forced to sell out."

The two gentlemen looked around. One purchased a satsuma vase for a hundred dollars--seventy-five more than it was worth! The other, after much consideration, bought an East Indian brass bowl for fifty dollars--an extravagant price. They seemed to ignore the beautiful vase in a glass cabinet in the corner. They were unconscious of its existence!

"I have something really fine, gentlemen--the hawthorn vase purchased by my grandfather. You know about it?"

"I heard something of it once--but I've forgotten all about it. I would be glad to look at the vase."

They bent their heads. A thrill ran through them as they beheld the wonderful purple and the perfect glaze.

"That's not bad. Of course, its shape might be better. People, nowadays, want the green or black. I have a beautiful famille rose. What do you want for it?"

"I've never looked at it in that way. What's it worth to you? Some years ago I had a good offer on it. But I didn't need the money then."

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I don't want to be small about it. I'll give you ten thousand cash."

Mr. Foster was visibly affected.

"That is a good price. But I need more than that to see me settled in my little villa in Tuscany. What is your very best offer?"

"I'll give you fifteen thousand dollars, and not a cent more. And that's a mighty liberal offer."

"Well, that's all right. I'll let you know to-morrow."

"Why not now?"

"I want to consult my daughter, Caroline."

"Well, I'll not hold my offer open another day. I'll be here to-morrow morning at this time. Please don't keep me waiting. You know I'm a very busy man."

They paid Mr. Foster for their wares, and passed out; one with an old vase, and the other with a brass bowl in his hands.

"I think we've got him!" Hooker overheard one of them say, as the two passed by him in the dimly-lighted room.

Yes. Worse luck. Hooker knew it was useless to make other offers. He had not the bank account to compete with the famous connoisseurs that had just left. And he knew Mr. Foster was a gentleman of the old school, and would not use one offer to secure a better one.

"Good morning, Mr. Foster."

"Why have I the honor of this visit?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I read in the _Herald_ that you were going to move. I would like to know at what price you hold this house and lot?"

"Well, I'd sell cheap. Properties in this section are not worth what they once were. It is assessed at seventy thousand dollars. There is a mortgage on it of sixty. I'd take seventy-five for it. This section is too antiquated for residences, and business is moving uptown.

"But I want it for a residence. May I look through it?"

"Of course!"

Hooker examined all the rooms, noted the old-fashioned plumbing, and said that the whole house needed a thorough going-over.

"Well--I think I'll take it," he said at last. "Do you want the old furniture? I would sooner buy it furnished, that is, if I could buy it at a price!"

This was a golden opportunity for poor Foster. To sell his house with its worn furniture and the vase, in a single day was an achievement!

"I would sell the house and contents entire for eighty-five thousand dollars. I must exempt one vase, however. I've just been offered fifteen thousand dollars for it."

"Not for a single vase?"

"Yes, would you like to see it?"

"It's not much use. But I'm naturally curious."

Mr. Foster, with great dignity, showed the beautiful hawthorn vase. It gleamed silently in the glass case.

"What! Fifteen thousand for _that_! Perhaps, if it is really worth anything like that, I can afford to speculate. I might obtain a better offer on it. I'll give you ninety-five thousand dollars for the house and its entire furnishings."

"No. The lowest is one hundred thousand."

"Done! I'll take a chance. Give me an agreement of sale, and the matter's ended!"

Robert Hooker had a white elephant on his hands. The house was really worth but the value of the mortgage, and the furniture scarcely five thousand dollars.

What was he to do? Thirty-five thousand dollars was a great deal for a poor man to give for a vase....

He removed the vase that afternoon to his own modest apartment and requested Mr. Foster to refer any one interested in its purchase to him.

At ten o'clock next morning, he had an unusual visitor at his flat in West Eighty-ninth Street. John T. Sterling had called to see him. Hooker went into the living-room, visibly embarrassed in the presence of the great man.

"Good morning, Mr. Hooker. I'll state my business quickly. Mr. Foster tells me you purchased yesterday his house and furniture. Now I'd like to buy it, if it's in the market. I think I could turn it into a garage. I need one in that neighborhood. I'll give you ten percent more than it cost you."

"No--not at all. I'll tell you what I'll do. If you give me one hundred and fifteen thousand for the house and its contents, _as it is now_, I shall call it a bargain. It'll be a quick turn."

"All right. We'll go down to my attorney's at once and draw up a bill of sale. The entire contents of the house as it is this moment, mind you. Come right along. You know I'm a very busy man!"

"That's known everywhere!" said Hooker, with a flattering smile.

On Fifth Avenue, that afternoon:

"Done! by God! and by a mere kid!"

On Eighty-ninth Street, that evening:

"_That_ will make the Hooker Museum famous!"

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF SHAKESPEARE

Booklovers have considered the little volume presented by Francis Bacon to William Shakespeare the most glorious book in the world. It remained for many years in the British Museum, and many a pilgrimage has been made to worship at its shrine.

It was deposited in the Museum in 1838 by the Hedley family of Crawford Manor, and had been in the National Library for so long a time that it was considered the property of the nation.

The book itself was of great rarity as it was no other than the first edition of Bacon's "Essayes" published in London in 1597. It bore the following inscription written upon one of the fly-leaves:

To my perfect Friend Mr. Wylliam Shakespeare I give this booke as an eternall Witnesse of my love.

FRA. BACON.

In 1908 the Hedley family were in financial straits. It was discovered that the copy of Bacon's Essays had not been presented to the British Museum but merely deposited as a loan. The Museum tried its best to retain the precious volume, but the records were clear upon the point.

In December, 1909, the Hedleys stated that they would sell it to the Museum for £40,000 or fifty thousand dollars less than had been offered for it.

An unknown collector would give two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!

The newspapers inaugurated a public subscription to keep the volume in England, claiming that its loss could never be estimated as it was the most precious memorial in existence of the golden age of English literature.

It was suspected, of course, that it would go to America.

After six months, it was found impossible to collect the money required. There was, apparently, but little interest in things of a literary and artistic nature. If it had been for a new battleship costing twenty times this amount, the money would have been forthcoming instantly.

It was finally announced in the London papers that the celebrated collector, William S. Fields of New York, was the fortunate purchaser of the world-famed volume. The news was heralded the world over.

When it arrived, Robert Hooker, an intelligent, but by no means wealthy, bibliophile, made a request to see it; to hold within his mortal hands this magnificent relic of the two great Elizabethans.

"No!" was Fields' curt response.

It had been rumored that Robert Hooker was founding a museum in some unknown spot--but where the money was to come from was a mystery.

It appeared that the Bacon-Shakespeare volume was locked up in a steel vault in the Fields' residence, guarded by an approved time-lock and other interesting features. The book was never to be removed from the safe, unless in the presence of the owner and a trusted servant.

Robert Hooker was extremely desirous of adding this treasure to his mythical museum! He said it was an outrage that one man, on account of the accident of great wealth, should become the sole possessor of it. It was a shock to public decency! It should repose, as it had for more than seventy years, in a library or an institution, where it could be freely seen. He therefore resolved to add it to his own.

But how? The book was constantly under guard in a guaranteed burglar-proof vault. To employ the most experienced crackmen to undertake the job would be almost insane. He could not try to substitute a facsimile as in the "Three Trees." To bribe the guard was foolhardy because the guard did not know the combination of the safety-lock. He was at his wit's end! Not a single practical idea entered his head. For once he was at the end of his resources!

Robert Hooker was a great lover of books. Like other kinds of love, the more he was denied, the greater the love grew; and time added fuel to the flames.

One evening in his library he was thinking what a pity it was that he could not see with his own eyes this evasive little book, when an idea flashed through his brain.

That night he did not sleep.

The following day Hooker paid a visit to an old building in lower New York. It was the United States Custom House. He asked to see an appraiser whom he had known from boyhood days, and he talked with him for an hour about the weather, the base-ball score and other absorbing questions.

"By the way, Girard, that was a nice purchase Fields made last month--I mean the Bacon volume. I suppose you saw it when it came through the Customs!"

"No, I don't remember it. That's curious."

"Well, at any rate, it was free of duty by age!"

"I know that, Hooker. But even so, everything worth over ten thousand dollars, I personally examine."

"Well, it doesn't make much difference. The book should come in without paying duty. Perhaps it came by another port."

"No, through this. All Fields' things come here. We are told to always hurry his through. He's got lots of pull, and we like to oblige him."

"Yes, of course."

"But Fields, too, has to obey the letter of the law. I want to look this thing up."

Mr. Girard was gone for over half an hour. He returned. "Here's the thing. Look at this consular invoice."

"Bacon's Essays 1597. £200."

"But what good does it do? The book comes in free, if it's worth a million!"

"I know. But Fields wanted this cleared the very day it was received. He or no one else has a right to undervalue, even if the article does not pay duty. I'm going to find out about this. I'm going to get that book back and examine it. Fields or no Fields, he must obey the law! I might get fired for this."

The owner of the Bacon was much disturbed. Mr. Fields did not like the publicity that followed the newspaper revelations. He was much annoyed at one newspaper which said that if he undervalued non-dutiable things, how about those that carried a high impost?

Of course, the whole matter was nothing. And yet he was vexed. He did not like the notice that a Treasury official was to call for the sacred package that reposed within the solid walls of his safe.

The next day, a gentleman with an order from the Treasury Department of the United States paid him a visit. It was an official messenger in a blue suit with a conspicuous nickel badge. The great steel doors were opened and closed; the book was then removed; an instant later the click of the lock was heard. The other treasures in the vault were safe against the machinations of men!

Twenty minutes later another official called. Mr. Fields thought at first it was the same gentleman returning. He came for a book that had been under-valued at the Custom House.

"What! I've just given it to one of your men!"

"Impossible, Mr. Fields. This order was issued to me!"

"Why, that's a fake. Why, the one just presented to me had a big red government seal on it. It was signed by the head of the Treasury."

"Must have been a forgery. This is merely an order signed by Mr. Bond, the representative at New York. But it's genuine!"

The various theories of the robbery that were advanced would have filled many volumes. Even the British Museum was suspected!

Mr. Girard, the appraiser, felt in his inmost soul that Robert Hooker knew something about it. He told his story to the greatest detective in the world, who was in charge of the case for the Government. He did not want to issue a warrant for Hooker's arrest without any evidence whatever. He could not take into custody an honorable gentleman merely on suspicion. He had to have tangible proof.

The great detective accordingly employed three able assistants to examine every nook and corner of Hooker's house, including his library.

All this was done during the absence of the owner. The police even employed pickpockets to jostle him on the streets to make sure the book was not upon his person. Hooker had been under surveillance three hours after the robbery; it was either in the house, or he was not guilty.

Every book in his large library was examined. The police authorities finally had a complete catalogue of his collection, which some day will make interesting reading. The detectives took pen and pencil and noted the titles of every volume with the year of publication; they admitted that bibliography and literary work was not to their liking. It lacked excitement and they all agreed it was only fit for poets, professors, and other inferior persons.

The detectives found it much easier at first to look for a volume bound in red levant morocco with "Bacon's Essayes" in gold letters on the back. This was the description given them of the original.

Fearing some error, and being naturally suspicious, they were compelled to be scholarly and open the volumes, but they did not find one dated 1597, or which answered in any way to the form and matter of the missing volume.

After a month of search, the detectives came to the conclusion that the book was not in his possession. Robert Hooker was guiltless!

When he is not going out of an evening, Hooker will often remain by the fireside in his library, reading his favorite authors. When no one is about, he will go to the largest book-case, and in a conspicuous place in the centre of the third shelf, he will take down a small thick volume, which he handles tenderly. He will often touch it fondly with his lips. It is bound in shabby old black calf and is labelled on the back "Johnson's Lives." Opening the volume you will see the curious title-page, which reads: "The History of the Lives and Actions of the most famous Highwaymen and Robbers. By Charles Johnson. London. Printed in the year 1738."

Sewed in the centre, and uniform in size, is another book which a short time before was one of the glories of the British Museum. It had been bereft of its red morocco covering.

It is destined to be the chief article of interest in another museum, to be founded for the use and instruction of the public for all time.

For Shakespeare and Bacon are immortal!

THE COLONIAL SECRETARY

One of the most eccentric characters in the book-world was Doctor Morton. He knew a great deal of the lore of books and made a splendid living by stealing them. Old volumes were meat and drink to him. He lived quietly and respectably in a small New England town where he was honored for his learning and piety.

Although Dr. Morton was a thief, a pilferer of libraries and collectors, he committed a far greater crime, for which it is impossible to forgive him. Murder, assassination, arson and treason were naught to this unspeakable thing. It was worse than the Seven Deadly Sins.

Doctor Morton was unlike the celebrated Spanish bibliophile, who, not being able to obtain it in any other way, killed a fellow-collector in order to secure a unique volume of early Castilian laws. He died upon the scaffold unrepentant, maintaining that the prize was worth it. All honor to poor Don Vincente of Aragon! His name shall always be tenderly cherished by lovers of books!

Doctor Morton _sold_ the books he stole! This, in the calendar of bookish misdemeanors, is the crime of crimes.

Now this respectable citizen of Connecticut was a man of parts. There was no gainsaying his knowledge. His home was beautifully furnished, for he was a person of excellent taste. He would point to an old Italian cabinet in his living-room, and say to himself: "I paid for that with the first edition of Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and, as to the Chinese Chippendale table: that was bought from the proceeds of the Elzevir 'Cæsar.'"

Sometimes his friends would be astounded at his unintelligible speech. He would say in an unconscious moment: "Bring in the Vanity Fair in Parts!" meaning nothing else but an antique astral lamp, that he had exchanged for the first edition of Thackeray's immortal novel, or he would exclaim to his maid at tea-time: "Sarah, use to-day the uncut 'Endymion' from the Sterling Collection," pointing at the same time to a beautiful old silver tray. All the furnishings in his home represented a book "borrowed" from some famous library, and then shamelessly sold and the money expended on household gods.

Doctor Morton obtained the books of other men by many devious ways. For instance, he would write to a collector under the name of a well-known amateur, and always upon the most exquisite stationery, requesting the loan for a few days of the third quarto of Hamlet; he was writing a brochure on the early editions of Shakespeare, and it was necessary, in the holy cause of scholarship to inspect the volume.

Alas! Poor Yorick!

The collector would send the book, and that was the last he would hear of it.

Morton would borrow a wonderful old woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, in pursuit of his investigations in the early history of engraving, and return in its place in the old frame a modern facsimile, stained to look like the original, and which the owner might not discover until years after.

It is not our purpose to chronicle the activities of this New England worthy, however interesting and instructive they may be. It was Doctor Morton's well-known coup in connection with the Welford library that brings him into this story.

Thomas Pennington Welford was growing old. He was a Quaker, a descendant of the Penningtons that came over with William Penn. He lived in an old house on Arch Street in Philadelphia, just a stone's throw from Benjamin Franklin's grave.

He was a Quaker of the old school; was known as conservative by members of the Meeting-House; by others, as "close" and "tight-fisted."

Welford gloried in this saving habit. He was considered quite wealthy by his heirs, who were the only ones who approved of his penurious ways.

When he arrived at the age of seventy, he determined to put his house in order. He would sell his curiosities and his useless household furnishings to the highest bidder.

When Doctor Morton called one hot day in summer, Welford was in the act of examining his books, before an old mahogany case that looked as if it had come over with the first Pennington.

"Good-morning, Mr. Welford, you seem pleasantly engaged."

"Yes, sir. I'm looking over some old things. I want to get rid of everything that I can do without."

"I'm Doctor Morton. I'm interested in anything old or curious. Let me see what you've got. Ah! here's an old copy of Barclay's 'Apology.' That's very valuable."

"How much is it worth?"

"Seventy-five dollars."

"That much? You surprise me."

"It's worth probably more. Oh, look! Here's another gem. It's bound in full morocco. Sewell's 'History of the Quakers,' 1770. That's easily worth a hundred!"

The two book investigators pursued their investigations.

Mr. Welford was astonished when he learned that these old religious and controversial writings were worth so much money. He did not know that the modern collector was purchasing for fabulous sums the old sermons of eminent divines.

According to the learned Doctor Morton, these were just the things that the rich bibliophile demanded!

In going over these dusty books and pamphlets, Doctor Morton laid the dingiest and shabbiest in a little pile. These were of no value he said, and worth only the price of waste-paper.

In the lot was a mutilated almanac, printed by Benjamin Franklin in 1733.

"Look at that dirty old almanac! A modern one is a hundred times more valuable!" Doctor Morton would exclaim; knowing at the same time that this first issue of Poor Richard was worth its weight in gold.

"That ought to be destroyed! It's a filthy attack on William Penn and the Quakers. If I were you I'd put that in the fire!" said the virtuous doctor, pointing to a little quarto pamphlet published in London in 1682, and one of two copies extant, the other being priced at $600.00 by a well-known book-seller. In it is the curious statement that Penn was fond of certain ladies of the wicked court of Charles II. And it was not in Lowndes, or in any bibliography!

When the last volume on the last shelf had been valued by the doctor, Mr. Welford stated that he did not care to sell immediately. He wanted to "look around a little." The books were really worth more than he thought.

"Then, sir, why have you put me to all this trouble! I've lost a whole morning going over your things and telling you about them. When you make up your mind to sell, let me know. This pile of trash you can burn, or you can sell it to the old-paper man. You might get twenty-five cents for the lot. Perhaps you might give a few of those worthless pamphlets to me. You've taken up enough of my time."