Chapter IV (3)

_Nokes [aside]._ By Jove! why, that's half-way to Montmorenci. It's not at all a bad name. But then what's the good of that if she's going to change it for Nokes? Oh, Montem, is it, Susan? And is your papa--your father--alive?

_Susan [sorrowfully]._ No, sir.

_Nokes._ That's capital!--I mean I'm _so_ sorry. Poor girl! Your father's dead, is he? You're sure he's dead?

_Susan [with her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes]._ Quite sure, sir.

_Nokes._ And your mamma,--your excellent mamma,--she's alive, at all events?

_Susan._ No, sir; I am an orphan.

_Nokes [aside]._ How delightful! I love orphans. I'm an orphan myself. Ah, but then she's sure to have brothers and sisters,--pipe-smoking, gin-drinking brothers, and sisters who will have married idle mechanics, with executions in their houses every quarter-day. Susan, my dear, how many brothers and sisters have you?

_Susan [sorrowfully]._ I have none, sir. When my dear missis died I was left quite alone in the world.

_Nokes._ I'm charmed to hear it [_embracing her_], adorable young woman! [_Bell rings without._] What are they pulling that bell about for? Confound them, it makes me nervous.

_Susan [meekly]._ I think they're wanting me, sir: you see, sir, I'm neglecting my work.

_Nokes [kissing her]._ No, you're not, Susan [_kisses her again_]: quite the contrary. So your name's Montem,--at present,--is it? How came that about?

_Susan._ Well, sir, I was left a foundling in the parish workhouse, at Salthill, near Eton. Nobody knew anything about me, and as I made my appearance there one Montem day, the board of guardians named me Montem.

_Nokes._ And how came you to be chambermaid at this hotel?

_Susan [seriously]._ It was through good Mr. Woodward, the curate at Salthill, that it happened, sir: he was my benefactor through life. Always kind to me at the workhouse, where he was chaplain, he got me a situation, as soon as I was old enough, with a lady. I lived with her first as housemaid, and then as her personal attendant, till she died under this roof.

_Nokes [aside]._ I don't wonder at that.

_Susan._ The people of the hotel here wanted an English chambermaid, and offered me the place, which, since my benefactor the clergyman was dead, I accepted thankfully.

_Nokes._ Poor girl! poor girl! [_Pats Susan's head._] There, there! your feelings do you the greatest credit; but don't cry, because it makes your eyes red. Now, look here, Susan; there's only one thing more. You are very soft-hearted, I perceive, and it must be distinctly understood between us that you need never intercede with me in favor of that scoundrel Charles. I won't have it. You wouldn't succeed, of course, but if I ever happen to get fond of you--I mean foolishly fond of you, of course--your importunity might be annoying. When you are once my wife, however, and keeping your own carriage, I confidently expect that you will behave as other people do in that station of life, and show no weakness in favor of your poor relations.

_Susan._ I will endeavor, sir, in case you are so good as to marry a humble girl like me, to do my dooty and please you in every way.

_Nokes._ That's well said, Susan. [_Kisses her._] You _have_ pleased me in a good many ways already. [_Aside_] I must say, though I didn't like to dwell upon the idea before--[_Tremendous ringing of bells, and sudden appearance of the mistress of the hotel. Tableau._]

_Mistress of the hotel [to Nokes]._ _O vieux polisson!_ [_To Susan_] _Coquine abominable!_

_Nokes [to Susan]._ What is this lunatic raving about?

_Susan._ She remarks that I haven't finished my work on the second floor.

_Nokes [impatiently]._ Tell her to go to--the ground floor. Tell her you are going to be married to me within the week, and order a wedding-breakfast--for two--immediately.

_Susan [aside]._ I can never tell her that, for she is a Frenchwoman, and wouldn't believe it. I'll tell her something more melodramatic. I'll say that Mr. Nokes is my father, who has suddenly recognized and discovered his long-lost child.--_Madame, c'est mon père longtemps absent, qui vous en prie d'accepter ses remerciments pour votre bonté à son enfant._

_Mistress of the hotel [all smiles, and with both hands outstretched]._ Milor, I do congratulate you. Fortunate Susan! You will nevare forget to recommend de hotel?

_Nokes._ Thank you, thank you; you're a sensible old woman. [_Aside_] She evidently sees no absurd disproportion in our years.--Breakfast, breakfast!--_déjeûner à la_ what-do-you-call-it! _champagne!_ [_Exit landlady, smiling and bowing_.]

_Nokes._ In the mean time, Susan, put on your bonnet and let's go out to--whatever they call Doctors' Commons here--and order a special license. [_Susan goes._] Stop a bit, Susan; you forget something. [_Kisses her._] [_Aside_] I did not like to dwell upon the idea before, but she's got a most uncommon pretty mouth.

SCENE II.--_Drawing-room at the Tamarisks. Garden and Sea in the distance. Grand piano, harp, sketch-book; and huge portfolio._

_Nokes [less gayly attired: solus]._ Gad, I feel rather nervous. There's Sponge, and Rasper, and Robinson, all coming down by the mid-day train to lunch with me and my new wife,--the Montmorenci, as they imagine. It's impossible that Susan can keep up such a delusion, and especially as she insists on talking English. She says her _French_ is so vulgar. But there! I don't care how she talks or what she talks, bless her. Everything sounds well from those charming lips. She's a kind-hearted, good girl, and worth eight hundred dozen (as I should say if I hadn't left the wine-trade) of the other one. There was something wrong about that Montmorenci vintage, for all her sparkle; corked or something. Now, my Susan's _all_ good,--good the second day, good the third day, good every day. She's like port--all the better for keeping; and she's not like port--because there's no crustiness about her. She's a deuced clever woman. To hear her talk broken English when the squire's wife called here the other day was as good as a play. Everybody hereabouts believes she's a Frenchwoman; but then they're all country-people, and they'll believe anything. Sponge and Rasper and Robinson are all London born,--especially Rasper,--and London people believe nothing. They only give credit.

_Enter SUSAN, in an in-door morning dress, but gloved._

_Nokes._ Well, my darling, have you screwed your courage up to meet these three gentlemen? Upon my life, I think it would be better if I told them at once that I had been jilted, and instead of the Montmorenci had found The Substitute infinitely preferable to the original; for I'm sure I _have_, Susan [_fondly_].

_Susan [holding up her finger]._ Constance, if you please, my dear. I'm continually correcting that little mistake of yours. How can I possibly keep up my dignity as a Montmorenci while you are always calling me Susan?

_Nokes._ Then why keep it up at all, my dear? Why not stand at once upon your merits, which I am sure are quite sufficient? Of course it would be a little come-down for _me_ just at first; but that's no matter.

_Susan._ My good, kind husband! [_Kisses his forehead._] No, dear; let me first show your friends that you have no cause to be ashamed of me. It will be much easier to do that if they think I am a born lady. Appearances do such a deal in the world.

_Nokes._ Yes, my dear, I've noticed that in the wine-trade. If you were to sell cider at eighty shillings a dozen, it would be considered uncommon good tipple by the customer who bought it. Tell them Madeira has been twice to China--twice to China [_chuckles to himself_]--and how they smack their lips! That reminds me, by the bye [_seriously_], of another set of appearances, Susan, which we have to guard against,--the pretence and show of poverty. You must learn to steel your heart against _that_, my dear. There's that nephew of mine been writing one of his persistent and appealing letters again. He adjures me to have pity, if not upon him, at all events upon his innocent Clara. But she ought not to have been his innocent Clara, and so I've told him. She ought not to have been his Clara at all. Now, do you remember your solemn promise to me about that young man?

_Susan [sighing]._ Yes, sir, I remember.

_Nokes [angrily]._ Why do you call me "sir," Susan?

_Susan._ Because when you look so stern and talk so severely you don't seem to be the same good, kind-hearted husband that I know you are. I'll keep my promise, sir, not to hold out my hand to your unfortunate nephew, but please don't let us talk about it. It makes me feel less reverence, less respect, and even less gratitude, sir,--it does, indeed,--since your very generosity toward me has made me the instrument of punishment, and--as I feel--of wrong. I have been poor myself, and what must that young couple think of my never answering their touching letter, put in my hands as I first crossed this threshold?

_Nokes [testily]._ Touching letter, indeed! Any begging-letter impostor would have written as good a one. It's all humbug, Susan. Mrs. Charles would like to see you whipped, if I know women. And as for my nephew--[_Noises of wheels heard, and bell rings._] But there's the front-door bell. Here are our visitors from town. Had you not better leave the room for a minute or two, to wash those tears away? It would never do, you know, to exhibit a Montmorenci with red eyes. [_Exit SUSAN._]

_Nokes [solus]._ That's the only matter about which my dear Susan and I are ever likely to fall out,--the extending what she calls the hand of forgiveness to Charles and his wife, just because they've got a baby. I'll never do it if they have twelve. I said to myself I wouldn't when he wrote to me about this marriage, and I always keep my word.

_Enter SPONGE, RASPER, and ROBINSON._

_Nokes [shaking hands with all]._ Welcome, my friends, welcome to the Tamarisks.

_Robinson._ Thank ye, Nokes, thank ye. But how changed we are at the Tamarisks! [_Pointing to the piano and portfolio._] I mean how changed we are for the better! ain't we, Sponge? ain't we, Rasper?

_Sponge [fawningly]._ It was always a charming retreat, but we now see everywhere, in addition to its former beauties, the magical influence of a female hand.

_Rasper [vulgarly]._ Yes; no doubt of that. Directly I saw the new coach-house, I said, "By Jove, that's Mrs. N----'s doing! _She'll_ spend his money for him, will Mrs. N----."

_Nokes [annoyed]._ You were very good, I'm sure.

_Sponge._ But it is here, within-doors, my dear Nokes, that the great transformation-scene has been effected. Pianos, harpsichords, sketch-books,--these all bespeak the presence of lovely and accomplished woman.

_Robinson._ May we venture to peep into this portfolio, my good fellow?--that is, if the contents have the interest for us that we believe them to have. It holds Mrs. Nokes's sketches, I presume.

_Nokes._ Yes, yes; they are her sketches and nobody else's. [_Aside_] Certainly they are, for I bought them for her in Piccadilly.--But here she comes to answer for herself. [_Enter SUSAN._] Sus--I mean Constance, my dear, let me introduce to you three friends of my bachelor days, Mr. Sponge, Mr. Rasper, Mr. Robinson.

_Susan [speaking broken English]._ Gentlemens, I am mos glad to see you. My husband--hees friends are mai friends.

_Rasper [aside]._ She's devilish civil. If she had been English I should almost think she was afraid of us.

_Sponge [bowing]._ You are most kind, madam. The noble are always kind. [_Aside to Nokes._] She's all blood, my dear fellow.

_Nokes [looking toward her in alarm]._ What? Where?

_Sponge._ No, no; don't misunderstand me. I mean she's all high birth. If I had met your wife anywhere--in an omnibus, for instance--and only heard her speak, I should have exclaimed, "There's a Montmorenci!"

_Nokes [pleased]._ Should you really, now, my dear Sponge? Well, that shows you are a man of discernment.

_Robinson [to Susan]._ It is such a real pleasure to us, Mrs. Nokes, that you speak English. We were afraid we should find it difficult to converse with you. Sponge is the only one of us who understands--

_Sponge._ Yes, madam, we did fear that since no other tongue is spoken in courts and camps--or, at all events, in courts--we should have some difficulty in following your ideas. But you speak English like a native.

_Susan [emphatically]._ I believe you. [_Recollecting and correcting herself_] Dat is, I do trai mai best. It please my _mari_--my what ees it?--my husband. He don't talk French heemself--not mooch.

_Nokes._ Well, I don't think you should quite say that, my dear. I could always make myself understood abroad, you know, though my accent is perhaps a little anglicized.

_Susan [laughing]._ Rayther so.

[_Guests exchange looks of astonishment._]

_Nokes [with precipation]._ My dear, what an expression! The fact is, my friends, that madame has a young brother--Count Maximilian de Montmorenci--at school in England, and what she knows of our language she has mainly acquired from him. The consequence is, she occasionally talks--in point of fact--slang.

_Susan [in broken English]._ Cherk the tinklare, coot your luckies, whos your hattar? [_To Rasper_] Have your moder sold her mangle?

[_NOKES, SPONGE, and ROBINSON roar with laughter._]

_Rasper [aside]._ Confound that Nokes! He must have told her about my family. [_With indignation_] Madam, I--[_Points by accident to the portfolio._]

_Susan._ What? you weesh to see mai sketch? Oh, yas! [_Opens the portfolio; the three guests crowd round it. Nokes comes down to the front._]

_Nokes [aside]._ I wish they'd take their lunch and go away. They put me in a profuse perspiration. I know they'll find her out.

_Robinson [with a sketch-book in his hand]._ Beautiful!

_Sponge [looking over his shoulder on tiptoe]._ Exquisite! most lovely! it's what I call perfection.

_Rasper._ First-rate--only I've seen something like it before. [_Aside_] If I haven't seen that in some print-shop. I'll be hanged. [_Blows._]

_Susan._ Ha! ha! you halve seen eet beefore, Mr.--_Gasper_? Think of that, my husband,--Mr. Gasper has seen it beefore!

_Nokes [laughing uncomfortably]._ Ha! ha! What a funny idea!

_Rasper [obstinately]._ But I _have_, though; and in a shop-window, too.

_Susan [delightedly]._ That is superbe, magnifique! I am so happy, _so_ proud! My husband, they have copied this leetle work of mine in London!

[_ROBINSON and SPONGE clap their hands applaudingly._]

_Rasper [shakes his head; aside]._ Dashed if I don't believe it's a chromolithograph! [_To Nokes_] I say, Nokes, you wrote to us in such raptures about your wife's hands. Why does she keep her gloves on?

_Nokes [confused]._ Keep her gloves on? You mean why does she wear them in-doors? Well, the fact is, the Montmorencis always do it. It's been a family peculiarity for centuries,--like the Banshee. And, besides, she does it to keep her hands delicate: they're just like roses--I mean _white_ roses,--if you could only see 'em. But then she always wears gloves.

_Rasper [grunts disapproval]._ Then I suppose it's no use asking her to give us a tune on the piano?

_Nokes [hastily]._ Not a bit, not a bit; of course not; and, besides, we shall have lunch directly.

_Susan [approaching them]._ What is dat, Mr. Gasper? Did you not ask for a leetle music? What you like for me to play?

_Nokes [aside to Susan]._ How can you be such a fool? Why, this is suicide! [_To Rasper_] My dear fellow, my wife would be delighted, but the fact is the piano is out of order. The tuner is coming to-morrow.

_Susan [seats herself at the piano]._ My dear husband, it weel do very well. He only said we must note "thomp, thomp" until he had seen it; dat is all. Now, gentlemens, what would you like?

_Sponge [with an armful of music-books]._ Nay, madam, what will you do us the favor to choose? [_Aside_] There is nothing I love so much in this world as turning over the leaves of a music-book for a lady of birth!

_Susan._ Ah, I am so sorry, because I do only play by de ear, here [_points to her ear_]. But what would you like, gentlemens? Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, _it is all exactly de same to me_.

_Robinson._ Oh, then, pray let us have Mendelssohn,--one of those exquisite Songs without Words of his.

_Susan._ Yas? with plaisir. I like dose songs best myself,--de songs without words.

_Nokes [aside, despairingly]._ It's impossible she can get out of this. Now we shall have an _éclaircissement_, an exposure, an explosion.

_Susan [strikes piano violently with both hands, and a string breaks with a loud report]._ Ah, _quel dommage!_ How stupide, too, when he told me not to "thomp, thomp"! I am so sorry, gentlemens! I did hope to give you a song, but I cannot sing without an accompaniment.

_Rasper [maliciously]._ There's the harp, ma'am,--unless its strings are in the same unsatisfactory state as those of the piano.

_Susan [with affected delight]._ What, you play de harp, Mr. Gasper? I _am_ so glad, because I do not play it yet myself: I am only learning. Come, I shall sing, and you shall play upon de harp.

_Rasper [angrily]._ I play the harp, madam! what rubbish! of course I can't.

_Sponge [eagerly]._ But _I_ can, just a little,--just enough to accompany one of Mrs. Nokes's charming songs. [_Brings the harp down to the front, and sits down to it, trying the strings._]

_Nokes [aside]._ The nasty little accomplished beast! He'll ruin everything. Susan is at her wits' end. [_Aside to Susan_] What on earth are we to do now?

_Enter SERVANT._

[_In stentorian tones_] Luncheon is on the table! [_Then, approaching Susan, he adds, in lower but distinct tones_] A lady wishes to see you, madam, upon very particular business.

_Susan [surprised]._ A lady! what lady?

_Nokes [to Susan, aside and impatiently]._ Never mind _what_ lady; see her at once, whoever she is: it will be an excuse for getting away from these people.--My wife is engaged for the present, my good friends, so we'll sit down to lunch without her.

[_All bow and leave the room, receiving in return from Susan a stately courtesy. Nokes, the last to leave, kisses his hand to her_.] Adorable Susan, you have conquered, you remain in possession of the field; but you must not risk another engagement. I will see to that. Champagne shall do its work on Rasper--_Gasper_.

_Enter MRS. CHARLES NOKES, neatly but cheaply attired. SUSAN rises,
bows, and looks toward her interrogatively._

_Mrs. Charles Nokes._ I did not send in my name, madam, because I feared it would but prejudice you against your visitor. I am Charles's--that is, your husband's niece by marriage; not a near relation to yourself, you might say, if you wished to be unkind,--which [_with earnestness_] I do not think you do.

_Susan [distressed, but endeavoring to remain firm]._ Oh, but I do, ma'am. I wish to be as hard as a stone. [Aside] Only I can't. What a pretty, modest young creature she is!

_Mrs. C.N._ The poor give you no such severe character, madam; and, taking courage by their report, and being poor myself, and, alas! having been the innocent cause of making others poor, I have ventured hither.

_Susan [aside]._ Oh, I wish she wouldn't! I can't stand this. There's something in her face, too, that reminds me--but there! have I not promised my husband to be brutal and unfeeling? [_Aloud_] Madame, I am sorry, but I have noting for you. Mr. Noke, mai husband, he tell me dat hees nephew is very foolish, weeked _jeune homme_--

_Mrs. C.N. [interrupting]._ Foolish, madam, he may have been, nay, he was, to fall in love with a poor orphan like myself, who had nothing to give him _but_ my love,--but not wicked. He has a noble heart. His sorrow is not upon his own account, but for his wife and child. He has bent his proud spirit twice to entreat his uncle's forgiveness, but in vain. And now _I_ have come to appeal to _you_,--though you are not of my own country,--a woman to a woman.

_Susan [aside]._ Dear heart alive! I'm melting like a tallow candle.

_Mrs. C.N._ I was a poor Berkshire curate's daughter--

_Susan [interrupting hastily]._ A _what_? [_Recollecting herself._] A poor _curé_'s daughter--yas, yas--in Berkishire, _qu'est-ce que c'est_ Berkishire?

_Mrs. C.N._ It is in the south of England, madam. We were poor, I say, and I had been used to straits, even before my poor father died. But my husband has been always accustomed to luxury and comfort, and now that poverty has come suddenly upon us--

_Susan [interrupting with emotion, but still speaking broken English.]_ Were you considaired like your fader?

_Mrs. C.N._ Yes, madam, very like.

_Susan [anxiously and tremblingly]._ What was his name?

_Mrs. C.N._ Woodward, madam. He was curate of Salthill, near Eton.

_Susan [throwing herself at her feet and kissing her hands]._ Why, you're Miss Clara! and I'm Susan,--Susan Montem, to whom he was so kind and noble [_sobbing_]. I'm no more a Montmorenci than you are,--nor half as much. I'm a workhouse orphan, and--and--your aunt by marriage. [_Aside, and clasping her hands_]. Oh, what _can_ I do to help them? what _can_ I do?

_Mrs. C.N. [fervently]._ I thank heaven. There is genuine gratitude in your kind face. I remember you now, though I am sure I should never have recognized you, Susan.

_Susan._ I dare say not, Miss Clara [_rising and wiping her eyes_]. Fine feathers make fine birds. Lor, how I should like to have a talk with you about old times! But there, we've got something else to do first. Where's your good husband?

_Mrs. C.N._ In the garden, hiding in the laurel-bed, with Chickabiddy. That's our baby, you know.

[_Carriage heard departing; they listen. Enter Mr. Nokes, slightly elevated with champagne, and not perceiving Mrs. C.N._]

_Nokes._ Hurrah, my dear! they're off, all three of them,--all five of them, for each of them sees two of the others; they have no notion that your name is Susan--[_sees Mrs. C.N._] I mean Constance. [_Aside_] Oh, Lor! just as I thought we'd weathered the storm, too, and got into still water!

_Susan [gravely]._ She knows all about it, husband. That lady is the daughter of my benefactor, Mr. Woodward, to whom I owed everything on earth till I met you.

_Nokes [with enthusiasm, and holding out both hands]._ The deuce she is! I am most uncommonly glad to see you, ma'am, under this roof. [_Aside to Susan_] She don't look very prosperous, Susan: if there's anything that money can get for her, I'll see she has it; mind that.

_Susan [aloud]._ She is poor, sir, and much in need of home and friends.

_Nokes [to Mrs. C.N.]._ Then you have found them here, ma'am. You're a fixture at "the Tamarisks" for life, if it so pleases you.

_Mrs. C.N._ You are most kind, sir, but I have a husband and one _little_ child.

_Nokes._ Never mind that: he'll grow. There's room here for you and your husband and the little child, even if he does grow. Where are they? Show them up.

_Mrs. C.N. runs to window and calls, "Charles, Charles."_

_Nokes [aside]._ I think I've had quite as much champagne as is good for me; just enough; the golden mean.

_Enter CHARLES with baby, which he holds at full stretch of his
arms._

_Nokes [indignantly]._ You young scoundrel! How dare you show your face in this house?

_Mrs. C.N. [interfering]._ You sent for him, sir.

_Nokes._ I sent for nothing of the sort. I sent for your husband.

_Mrs. C.N._ That is my husband, sir, and our little child. You promised us an asylum for life under your roof; and I am certain you will keep your word.

_Nokes [to Susan, endeavoring to be severe]._ Now, this is all _your_ fault; and yet you promised me never to interfere on behalf of these people.

_Susan_. Nor _did_ I, my dear husband. You have done it all yourself.

_Nokes [aside]._ It was all that last glass of champagne.

_Charles [giving up the baby to his wife, and coming up with outstretched hand to his uncle]._ Come, sir, pray forgive me. I could not enjoy your favors without your forgiveness, believe me.

_Nokes [holding out his hand unwillingly]._ There. [_Aside_] How _could_ I be such a fool, knowing so well what champagne is made of?--Well, sir, if you have regained your place here, remember it has all happened through your aunt's goodness. Let nobody ever show any of their airs to my Susan.

_Charles and his wife [together]._ We shall never forget her kindness, sir.

_Nokes._ Mind you don't, then. For, you see, it's to her own disadvantage, since when I die--and supposing I have forgiven you--the child that has to grow will inherit everything, and Susan only have a life-interest in it.

_Charles [hopefully]._ I don't see that, sir. Why shouldn't you have children of your own?

_Nokes [complacently]._ True, true. Why shouldn't we? I didn't like to dwell upon the idea before, but why shouldn't we? At all events, Susan [_comes forward with Susan_], I am sure I shall never repent having shot at the pigeon--I mean, having wooed the Montmorenci, but won THE SUBSTITUTE.

JAMES PAYN.

NEW YORK LIBRARIES

New York has been accused of being purely commercial in tone, and there was a period in her history when she must have pleaded guilty to the indictment. That day, however, is past: she has now many interests--scientific, artistic, literary, musical--as influential as that mentioned, though not perhaps numerically so important. Of the fine arts the city is the acknowledged New World centre, and it is fast forming a literary circle as noteworthy as that of any other capital. The latter owes its existence in part, no doubt, to the great publishing-houses, but has been attracted chiefly by the facilities for research afforded by those great storehouses of learning, the city libraries. Few old residents are aware of the literary wealth stored in these depositories, or of the extent to which they are consulted by scholars and by writers generally.

There are four large libraries in the city whose interest is almost purely literary,--the Society, the Astor, the Lenox, and the Historical Society's,--one both literary and popular,--the Mercantile,--one interesting as being the outcome of a great trades' guild,--the Apprentices',--and one purely popular,--the Free Circulating Library. There are others, of course, but the above are such as from their character and history seem best calculated for treatment in a magazine paper. The oldest of these is the Society Library, which is located in its own commodious fire-proof building at No. 67 University Place. This library is perhaps the oldest in the United States: its origin dates back to the year 1700, when, Lord Bellamont being governor and New York a police-precinct of five thousand inhabitants, the worthy burghers founded the Public Library. For many years it seems to have flourished in the slow, dignified way peculiar to Knickerbocker institutions. In 1729 it received an accession in the library of the Rev. Dr. Millington, rector of Newington, England, which was bequeathed to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, and by it transferred to the New York Public Library. The institution remained under the care of the city until 1754, when a company of gentlemen formed an association to enhance its usefulness by bringing it under private control. They collected a number of books, and on application the Public Library was incorporated with these, and the whole placed under the care of trustees chosen by the shareholders. Believing that "a public library would be very useful as well as ornamental to the city," and also advantageous to "our intended college," the shareholders agreed to pay "five pounds each on the first day of May, and ten shillings each on every first of May forever thereafter." Subscribers had the right to take out one book at a time by depositing one-third more than the value of it with the library-keeper. Rights could be alienated or bequeathed "like any other chattel." No person, even if he owned several shares, could have more than one vote, nor could a part of a subscription-right entitle the holder to any privileges. By 1772 the Society had increased to such an extent that it was thought best to incorporate it, and a charter was secured from the crown. In its preamble seven "esquires," two "merchants," two "gentlemen," and one "physician" appear as petitioners, and fifty-six gentlemen, with one lady, Mrs. Anne Waddel, are named members of the corporation. The style of the latter was changed to the "New York Society Library," and the usual corporate privileges were granted, including the right to purchase and hold real estate of the yearly value of one thousand pounds sterling. The Society is practically working under this charter to-day, the legislature of New York having confirmed it in 1789. The earliest printed catalogue known to be in existence was issued about 1758: it gives the titles of nine hundred and twenty-two volumes, with a list of members, one hundred and eighteen in all. A second catalogue followed in 1761. During the Revolution many of the volumes were scattered or destroyed. The first catalogue printed after the war enumerates five thousand volumes; these had increased in 1813 to thirteen thousand, in 1838 to twenty-five thousand, and the present number is estimated at seventy-five thousand. Down to 1795 the library was housed in the City Hall, and during the sessions of Congress was used by that body as a Congressional Library. Its first building was erected in 1795, in Nassau Street, opposite the Middle Dutch Church, and here the library remained until 1836, when, its premises becoming in demand for business purposes, it was sold, and the Society purchased a lot on the corner of Broadway and Leonard Street. A building was completed on this lot in 1840, and the library removed thither from the rooms of the Mechanics' Society in Chambers Street, where it had been placed on the sale of its property in 1836. In 1853 a third removal was made, to the Bible House, its property on Broadway being again swallowed up by the advancing tide of business. In the same year its present property on University Place was purchased, on which, two years later, in 1855, the commodious building which it now occupies was erected, the Society taking possession in May, 1856. Many features of the Society Library are unique, to be met with, perhaps, in no other organization of the kind in the world. Many of its members hold shares that have descended to them from father to son from the time of the first founders. The annual dues are placed at such a figure (ten dollars) as practically to debar people with slender purses. The scholar, however, may have the range of its treasures on paying a fee of twenty-five cents, and the stranger may enjoy the use of the library for one month on being introduced by a member. The market value of a share is now one hundred and fifty dollars, with the annual dues of ten dollars commuted, but shares may be purchased for twenty-five dollars, subject to the annual dues. The library proper occupies the whole of the second floor. On the first floor, besides the large hall, is a well-lighted drawing-room, filled with periodicals in all languages, a ladies' parlor, and a conversation-room. The library-room is a large, airy, well-lighted apartment, with a series of artistic alcoves ranged about two of its sides. Here are to be found the Winthrop Collection, comprising some three hundred curious and ancient tomes, chiefly in Latin, which formed a part of the library of John Winthrop, "the founder of Connecticut," the De Peyster Alcove, containing one thousand volumes, very full in special subjects, the Hammond Library, collected by a Newport scholar, comprising some eighteen hundred quaint and curious volumes, and a collection of over six hundred rare and costly works on art contained in the John C. Green Alcove. This last alcove, which was fitted up and presented to the library by Mr. Robert Lenox Kennedy as a memorial of Mr. and Mrs. John C. Green, benefactors of the Society, is an artistic gem. The sides and ceilings are finished in hard woods by Marcotte, after designs by the architect, Sidney Stratton. Opposite the entrance is a memorial window, its centre-pin representing two female figures,--Knowledge and Prudence,--with the four great poets, Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Chaucer, in the corners. On the east wall is a portrait of Mr. Green by Madrazo, and on the west a tablet with an inscription informing the visitor that, the library having received a donation of fifty thousand dollars from the estate of John Cleve Green, the trustees had placed the tablet as a memento of this munificence. There are books in this alcove not to be duplicated in European libraries. A work on Russian antiquities, for instance, containing beautifully-colored lithographs of the Russian crown-jewels, royal robes, ecclesiastical vestments, and the like, cannot be found, it is said, either in Paris or London. The scope of the collection may be seen by a glance at the catalogue, whose departments embrace architecture, art-study, anatomy, biography, book-illustration, cathedrals and churches, costumes, decorative, domestic, and industrial art, heraldry, painting, and picturesque art.

It is a coincidence merely, but nearly all the great libraries of the city are grouped within a block or two of Astor Place, making that short thoroughfare the scholarly centre of the town. In its immediate vicinity, on the corner of Second Avenue and Eleventh Street, stands the fire-proof building of the New York Historical Society, whose library and collection of paintings and relics form one of the features of the city. This Society dates back to the year 1804, when Egbert Benson, De Witt Clinton, Rev. William Linn, Rev. Samuel Miller, Rev. John N. Abeel, Rev. John M. Mason, Dr. David Hosack, Anthony Bleecker, Samuel Bayard, Peter G. Stuyvesant, and John Pintard, met by appointment at the City Hall and agreed to form a society "the principal design of which should be to collect and preserve whatever might relate to the natural, civil, or ecclesiastical history of the United States in general and of the State of New York in particular." Active measures were at once taken for the formation of a library and museum, special committees being appointed for the purpose. The range of the collection embraced books, manuscripts, statistics, newspapers, pictures, antiquities, medals, coins, and specimens in natural history. The Society made the usual number of removals before being finally established as a householder. From 1804 to 1809 it met in the old City Hall, from 1809 to 1816 in the Government House, from 1816 to 1832 in the New York Institution, from 1832 to 1837 in Remsen's Building, Broadway, from 1837 to 1841 in the Stuyvesant Institute, from 1841 to 1857 in the New York University, and at length, after surmounting many pecuniary obstacles, celebrated its fifty-third anniversary by taking possession of its present structure. Meantime, the efforts of the library committees had resulted in a collection of Americana of exceeding interest and value, the nucleus of the present library. In its one specialty this library is believed to be unrivalled. The Society has issued some twenty-four volumes of its own publications, in addition to numerous essays and addresses. Besides these, its library contains some seventy-three thousand volumes of printed works, chiefly Americana, many of them relating to the Indians and obscure early colonial history. Eight hundred and eleven genealogies of American families--the fountain-head of the national history--are a feature of the collection. The library also possesses one of the best sets of Congressional documents extant, also complete sets of State and city documents. There are four thousand volumes of newspapers, beginning with the first journal published in America,--the "Boston News-Letter" of 1704,--and comprising a complete record to the present day. There are also tons of pamphlets and "broadsides," and several hundred copies of the inflammatory hand-bills posted on the trees and fences of New York during the Revolution. The library is also rich in old family letters and documents containing much curious and interesting history. The Society is very conservative in its ways,--more so than most institutions of the kind. Theoretically, its stores of information can be drawn on by members only, but, as a general thing, properly accredited scholars, non-residents, have little difficulty in gaining access to them, provided the material sought is not elsewhere accessible.

Lafayette Place is a wide, quiet thoroughfare, a few blocks in extent, opening into Astor Place on the north. On the left, a few doors from the latter street, stands the Astor Library, in some respects one of the noteworthy libraries of the world. John Jacob Astor died March 29, 1848, leaving a will which contained a codicil in these words: "Desiring to render a public benefit to the city of New York, and to contribute to the advancement of useful knowledge and the general good of society, I do by this codicil appoint four hundred thousand dollars out of my residuary estate to the establishment of a public library in the city of New York." The instrument then proceeded to give specific directions as to how the money was to be applied: first, in the erection of a suitable building; second, in supplying the same with books, maps, charts, models, drawings, paintings, engravings, casts, statues, furniture, and other things appropriate to a library upon the most ample scale and liberal character; and, third, in maintaining and upholding the buildings and other property, and in paying the necessary expenses of the care of the same, and the salaries of the persons connected with the library, said library to be accessible at all reasonable hours and times for general use, free of expense, and subject only to such conditions as the trustees may exact. It was further provided that its affairs should be managed by eleven trustees, "selected from the different liberal professions and employments of life and the classes of educated men." The mayor was also to be a trustee by virtue of his office. The entire fund was vested in this board, with power to expend and invest moneys, and to appoint, direct, control, and remove the superintendent, librarian, and others employed about the library. The first trustees were named in the will, and Washington Irving was chosen president.

Dr. Joseph G. Cogswell, who it is said first suggested the idea of a library to Mr. Astor, was appointed first superintendent and despatched to Europe to purchase books, which he succeeded in doing to the best advantage, the political disturbances of 1848 having thrown many valuable libraries on the market. Meantime, a building had been commenced on the east side of Lafayette Place, on a lot sixty-five feet front by one hundred and twenty deep; but as the books arrived before this was completed they were placed temporarily in a hired house in Bond Street. The new building, which was opened January 9, 1854, was in the Byzantine style, after the design by Alexander Saeltzer, the lower story being of brownstone and the two upper stories of red brick. The main hall or library-room, beginning on the second floor, was carried up through two stories and lighted by a large skylight in the roof. Around the sides of this room were built two tiers of alcoves capable of holding about one hundred thousand books. The library opened on the date mentioned with about eighty thousand volumes, devoted chiefly to science, history, art, and kindred topics, the trustees agreeing with the superintendent that the design of the founder could only be carried out and the "advancement of knowledge" and "general good of society" be best secured by making the new library one of reference only.

In October, 1855, Mr. William B. Astor, son of the founder, conveyed to the trustees the lot, eighty feet front by one hundred and twenty deep, adjoining the library on the north, and proceeded to erect upon it an addition similar in all respects to the existing structure, the library thus enlarged being opened September 1, 1859, with one hundred and ten thousand volumes on its shelves. The addition led to a rearrangement of the material, the old hall being devoted to science and the industrial arts, and the new to history and general literature. In 1866 Mr. Astor further signified his interest in the library by a gift of fifty thousand dollars, twenty thousand dollars of it to be expended in the purchase of books, and on his death in 1875 left it a bequest of two hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars. In 1879 Mr. John Jacob Astor, grandson of the founder, added to this enduring monument of his family by building a second addition, seventy-five feet front and one hundred and twenty feet deep, on the lot adjoining on the north, making the entire building two hundred feet front by one hundred deep. At the same time an additional story was placed on the Middle Hall, and a new entrance and stairway constructed. The enlarged building, the present Astor Library, was opened in October, 1881, with two hundred thousand volumes and a shelf-capacity of three hundred thousand. Its present contents are estimated at two hundred and twenty thousand volumes, exclusive of pamphlets. The shelves are ranged in alcoves extending around the sides of the three main halls and subdivided into sections of six shelves each, each section being designated by a numeral. Each shelf is designated by a letter of the alphabet, beginning at the bottom with A. The alcoves have no distinguishing mark, the books being arranged therein by subjects which the distributing librarian is expected to carry in his mind. The first catalogue, in four volumes, was compiled by Dr. Cogswell and printed in 1861. This was followed in 1866 by an index of subjects from the same hand. Recently a catalogue in continuation of Dr. Cogswell's, bringing the work down to the end of 1880, has been prepared, and is being printed at the Riverside Press, Boston. The current card catalogue is arranged on the dictionary plan, giving author and subject under one alphabet. Opposite each title is written the number of the alcove and the letter designating the shelf. By the regulations the reader is required to find the title of the book desired in the catalogue, write it with the number and letter on a slip of paper provided for the purpose, and give it to the distributing librarian, who despatches one of his boy Mercuries to the shelf designated for the work. More often than not, however, the reader asks directly for the book desired, without consulting the catalogue, and it is rarely that the librarian cannot from memory direct his messenger to the section and shelf containing it. In the matter of theft and mutilation of books the library depends largely on the honor of readers, although some safeguards are provided. All readers are required to enter their names and addresses in a book, and the volume on being given out is charged to them, to be checked off on its return: it would be difficult, too, for a thief to purloin books without being detected by the employees or the porter in the vestibule. Yet books are stolen occasionally. In June, 1881, a four-volume work by Bentley on "Medicinal Plants," valued at sixty dollars, was taken from the library. It was soon missed, and search made for it without avail. A few weeks later, however, it was discovered by the principal librarian in a Broadway book-stall and recovered.

Few strangers in the city depart without paying a visit to the Astor Library, and it is one of the few lions of the city that do not disappoint. The main entrance is approached by two flights of stone steps, from the north and south, leading to a brownstone platform enclosed by the same material. From this, broad door-ways give entrance to the vestibule, sixty feet by forty, paved in black and white marble, and wainscoted four feet above the floor with beautifully variegated marble from Vermont. The panelled ceiling is elaborately frescoed, as well as the upper part of the walls. Busts of the sages and heroes of antiquity adorn the hall. From the vestibule a stairway of white marble, with massive newels of variegated marble, leads up to the library proper. The visitor enters this in the centre of Middle Hall. Before him, separated by a balustrade, are the desks and tables of the distributing librarian and his assistants. The ladies' reading-room is in the rear. On the left and right arched passages give access to the North and South Halls, in which the main reading-rooms are situated. The ceiling above is the skylight of the roof, and the alcoves, filled with the wealth of learning of all ages and peoples, rise on either hand quite to the ceiling. At long, green-covered tables, ranged in two parallel lines through the halls, are seated the readers, in themselves an interesting study. Scientists, artists, literary men, special students, inventors, and _dilettante_ loungers make up the company. They come with the opening of the doors at nine in the morning, and remain, some of them, until they close at five in the evening. There are daily desertions from their ranks, but always new-comers enough to fill the gaps. Their wants are as various as their conditions. This well-dressed, self-respectful mechanic wishes to consult the patent-office reports of various countries, in which the library is rich. His long-haired Saxon neighbor is poring over a Chinese manuscript, German scholars being the only ones so far who have attacked the fine collection of Chinese and Japanese works in the library. Next him is a _dilettante_ reader languidly poring over "Lothair:" were the trustees to fill their shelves with trashy fiction, readers of his class would soon crowd out the more earnest workers. Here is a student with the thirty or more volumes of the "New England Historic Genealogical Register" piled before him, flanked on one side by the huge volumes of Burke's "Peerage" and on the other by Walford's "County Families." There are many readers of this class, the library's department of Genealogy and Heraldry being well filled. There is a lady here and there at the tables working with a male companion, but, as a rule, they are to be found at the ladies' tables in the Middle Hall. There seem to be but two classes of readers here,--the lady in silken attire, engaged in looking out some item of family history or question of decorative art, and the brisk business-like literary lady, seeking material for story or sketch. Any student or literary worker who can show to the satisfaction of one of the trustees that he is engaged in work requiring free access to the library receives a card from the superintendent which admits him to the alcoves and places all the treasures of the library at his command. A register is placed near the distributing librarian's desk, in which on entering each visitor to the alcove is required to sign his name, and in this register each year is accumulated a roll of autographs of which any institution might be proud. Famous scholars, scientists, authors, journalists, poets, artists, and divines, both of this country and of Europe, are included in the lists.

Of its treasures of literary and artistic interest it is impossible to give categorical details. Perhaps the library prizes most the magnificent elephant folio edition, in four volumes, of Audubon's "Birds and Quadrupeds of North America," with its colored plates, heavy paper, and general air of sumptuousness. The work is rare as well as magnificent, and, though the library does not set a price upon its books, it is known that three thousand dollars would not replace a missing copy. In an adjoining alcove is an equally sumptuous but more ancient volume, the Antiphonale, or mammoth manuscript of the chants for the Christian year. This volume was used at the coronation of Charles X., King of France. The covers of this huge folio are bound with brass, beautiful illuminations by Le Brun adorn its title-pages, and then follows, in huge black characters, the music of the chants. In its immediate vicinity are many of the treasures of the library,--Zahn's great work on Pompeii, three volumes of very large folios, containing splendidly-colored frescos from the walls of the dead city; Sylvester's elaborate work of "Fac-Similes of the Illuminated Manuscripts of the Middle Ages," in four large folios; and also Count Bastard's great work on the same, seeming more sumptuous in gold, silver, and colors. Another notable work is Count Littar's "Genealogies of Celebrated Italian Families," in ten folio volumes, emblazoned in gold, and illustrated with richly-colored portraits finished like ivory miniatures. There are whole galleries of European art,--Versailles, Florence, Spain, the Vatican, Nash's Portfolio of Colored Pictures of Windsor Castle and Palace, the Royal Pitti Gallery, Munich, Dresden, and others. A work on the "Archæology of the Bosphorus," presented by the Emperor of Russia to the library, is in three folio volumes, printed on thick vellum paper, with two folding maps and ninety-four illuminated plates: but two hundred copies of the book were printed, for presentation solely. Other notable gifts are the publications of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences, in seventeen volumes, catalogue of antiquities, chiefly British, at Alnwick Castle, and one of Egyptian antiquities at the same, from the Duke of Northumberland, a complete file of the "Liberator," from Mr. Wendell Phillips, numerous works on Oriental art, from the imperial governments of Japan and China, and many thousand folio volumes of Parliamentary papers and British patents, from the British government. Of its Orientalia and its department of Egyptology the library is especially proud. The latter so good an authority as Professor Seyffarth pronounces second only to that of the British Museum.

In addition to the large collection of costly books of art with which this library is enriched, there are some of the rarest manuscripts and earliest printed books to be seen kept in glass cases in the Middle Hall. Among these may be mentioned the superbly illuminated manuscript of the ninth century entitled "Evangelistarium,"--one of the finest existing productions of the revival of learning under Charlemagne; the "Sarum Missal," a richly-emblazoned manuscript of the tenth century; some choice Greek and Latin codices once belonging to the library of Pope Pius VI.; and the Persian manuscripts recently acquired, which formerly were in the library of the Mogul emperors at Delhi, bearing the stamp of Shah Akbar and Shah Jehan. The writing is by the famous calligrapher Sultan Alee Meshedee (896 A.H., or 1518 A.D.).