Chapter C: Lamb (6)

One does not have to read much of Wilde to discover that he had as great an aversion to games, which kept him in the open, as to physical labor. Bernard Shaw, that other Irish enigma, who in many ways of thought and speech resembles Wilde, when asked what his recreations were, replied, "Anything except sport." Wilde said that he would not play cricket because of the indecent postures it demanded; fox-hunting--his phrase will be remembered--was "the unspeakable after the uneatable." But he was the leader, if not the founder, of the æsthetic cult, the symbols of which were peacock-feathers, sunflowers, lilies, and blue china. His rooms, perhaps the most talked about in Oxford, were beautifully paneled in oak, decorated with porcelain supposed to be very valuable, and hung with old engravings. From the windows there was a lovely view of the River Cherwell and the beautiful grounds of Magdalen College.

He soon made himself the most talked-of person in the place: abusing his foes, who feared his tongue. His friends, as he later said of someone, did not care for him very much--no one cares to furnish material for incessant persiflage.

When he left Oxford Oscar Wilde was already a well-known figure: his sayings were passed from mouth to mouth, and he was a favorite subject for caricature in the pages of "Punch." Finally, he became known to all the world as Bunthorne in Gilbert and Sullivan's opera, "Patience." From being the most talked-of man in Oxford, he became the most talked-of man in London--a very different thing: many a reputation has been lost on the road between Oxford and London. His reputation, stimulated by long hair and velveteen knee-breeches, gave Whistler a chance to say, "Our Oscar is knee plush ultra." People compared him with Disraeli. When he first became the talk of the town, great things were expected of him; just what, no one presumed to say. To keep in the going while the going was good, Wilde published his volume of Poems (1881); it followed that everyone wanted to know what this singular young man had to say for himself, and paid half a guinea to find out. The volume immediately went through several editions, and, as I have mentioned, was reprinted in this country.

Of these poems the "Saturday Review" said,--and I thank the "Saturday Review" for teaching me these words, for I think they fitly describe nine tenths of all the poetry that gets itself published,--"Mr. Wilde's verses belong to a class which is the special terror of the reviewers, the poetry which is neither good nor bad, which calls for neither praise nor blame, and in which one searches in vain for any personal touch of thought or music."

It was at this point in his career that Wilde determined to show himself to us: he came to America to lecture; was, of course, interviewed on his arrival in New York, and spoke with the utmost disrespect of the Atlantic.

_From a contemporary English caricature_]

Considering how little ballast Wilde carried, his lectures here were a great success: "Nothing succeeds like excess." He spoke publicly over two hundred times, and made what was, for him, a lot of money. Looking back, it seems a daring thing to do; but Wilde was always doing daring things. To lecture in New York, Philadelphia, and Boston was all very well; but it would seem to have required courage for Wilde, fresh from Oxford, his reputation based on impudence, long hair, knee-breeches, a volume of poems, and some pronounced opinions on art, to take himself, seriously, west to Omaha and Denver, and north as far as Halifax. However, he went and returned alive, with at least one story which will never die. It was Wilde who said that he had seen in a dance-hall in a mining-camp the sign, "Don't shoot the pianist; he is doing his best." The success of this story was instant, and probably prompted him to invent the other one, that he had heard of a man in Denver who, turning his back to examine some lithographs, had been shot through the head, which gave Wilde the chance of observing how dangerous it is to interest one's self in bad art. He remarked also that Niagara Falls would have been more wonderful if the water had run the other way.

On his return to England he at once engaged attention by his remark, "There is nothing new in America--except the language." Of him, it was observed that Delmonico had spoiled his figure. From London he went almost immediately to Paris, where he found sufficient reasons for cutting his hair and abandoning his pronounced habiliments. Thus he arrived, as he said of himself, at the end of his second period.

Wilde spoke French fluently and took steps to make himself at home in Paris; with what success, is not entirely clear. He made the acquaintance of distinguished people, wrote verses, and devoted a good deal of time to writing a play for Mary Anderson, "The Duchess of Padua," which was declined by her and was subsequently produced in this country by Lawrence Barrett and Minna Gale. In spite of their efforts, it lived for but a few nights.

Meanwhile it cost money to live in Paris, especially to dine at fashionable cafés, and Wilde decided to return to London; but making ends meet is no easier there than elsewhere. He wrote a little, lectured when he could, and having spent the small inheritance he had received from his father, it seemed that "Exit Oscar" might fairly be written against him.

But to the gratification of some, and the surprise of all, just about this time came the announcement of his marriage to a beautiful and charming lady of some fortune, Constance Lloyd, the daughter of a deceased barrister. Whistler sent a characteristic wire to the church: "May not be able to reach you in time for ceremony; don't wait." Indeed, it may here be admitted that in an encounter between these wits it was Jimmie Whistler who usually scored.

Of Whistler as an artist I know nothing. My friends the Pennells, at the close of their excellent biography, say, "His name and fame will live forever." This is a large order, but of Whistler, with his rapier-like wit, it behooved all to beware. In a weak moment Wilde once voiced his appreciation of a good thing of Whistler's with, "I wish I had said that." Quick as a flash, Jimmie's sword was through him, and forever: "Never mind, Oscar, you will." It may be that the Pennells are right.

But to return. With Mrs. Wilde's funds, her husband's taste, and Whistler's suggestions, a house was furnished and decorated in Tite Street, Chelsea, and for a time all went well. But it soon became evident that some fixed income, certain, however small, was essential; fugitive verse and unsigned articles in magazines afford small resource for an increasing family. Two sons were born, and, driven by the spur of necessity, Wilde became the Editor of "The Woman's World," and for a time worked as faithfully and diligently as his temperament permitted; but it was the old story of Pegasus harnessed to the plough.

Except for editorial work, the next few years were unproductive. "Dorian Gray," Wilde's one novel, appeared in the summer of 1890. It is exceedingly difficult to place: his claim that it was the work of a few days, written to demonstrate to some friends his ability to write a novel, may be dismissed as untrue--there is internal evidence to the contrary. It was probably written slowly, as most of his work was. In its first form it appeared in "Lippincott's Magazine" for July, 1890; but it was subjected to careful revision for publication in book form. Wilde always claimed that he had no desire to be a popular novelist--"It is far too easy," he said.

"Dorian Gray" is an interesting and powerful, but artificial, production, leaving a bitter taste, as of aloes in the mouth: one feels as if one had been handling a poison. The law compels certain care in the use of explosives, and poisons, it is agreed, are best kept in packages of definite shape and color, that they may by their external appearance challenge the attention of the thoughtless. Only Roosevelt can tell without looking what book should and what should not bear the governmental stamp, "Guaranteed to be pure and wholesome under the food and drugs act." Few, I think, would put this label on "Dorian Gray." Wilde's own criticism was that the book was inartistic because it has a moral. It has, but it is likely to be overlooked in its general nastiness. In "Dorian Gray" he betrays for the first and perhaps the only time the decadence which was subsequently to be the cause of his undoing.

I have great admiration for what is called, and frequently ridiculed as, the artistic temperament, but I am a believer also in the sanity of true genius, especially when it is united, as it was in the case of Charles Lamb, with a fine, manly, honest bearing toward the world and the things in it; but alone it may lead us to yearn with Wilde

To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play.

It has been suggested on good authority that it is very unpleasant to wear one's heart upon one's sleeve. To expose one's soul to the elements, however interesting in theory, must be very painful in practice: Wilde was destined to find it so.

Why the story escaped success at the hands of the adapter for the stage, I never could understand. The clever talk of the characters in the novel should be much more acceptable in the quick give-and-take of a society play than it is in a narrative of several hundred pages; moreover, it abounds in situations which are intensely dramatic, leading up to an overwhelming climax; probably it was badly done.

It is with a feeling of relief that one turns from "Dorian Gray"--which, let us agree, is a book which a young girl would hesitate to put in the hands of her mother--to Wilde's other prose work, so different in character. Of his shorter stories, his fairy tales and the rest, it would be a delight to speak: many of them are exquisite, and all as pure and delicate as a flower, with as sweet a perfume. They do not know Oscar Wilde who have not read "The Young King and the Star Child," and the "Happy Prince." That they are the work of the same brain that produced "Dorian Gray" is almost beyond belief.

What a baffling personality was Wilde's! Here is a man who has really done more than William Morris to make our homes artistic, and who is at one with Ruskin in his effort that our lives should be beautiful; he had a message to deliver, yet, by reason of his flippancy and his love of paradox, he is not yet rated at his real worth. It is difficult for one who is first of all a wit to make a serious impression on his listeners. I think it is Gilbert who says, "Let a professed wit say, 'pass the mustard,' and the table roars."

Wilde was a careful and painstaking workman, serious as an artist, whatever he may have been as a man; and in the end he became a great master of English prose, working in words as an artist does in color, trying first one and then another until he had secured the desired effect, the effect of silk which Seccombe speaks of. But he affected idleness. A story is told of his spending a week-end at a country house. Pleading the necessity of working while the humor was on, he begged to be excused from joining the other guests. In the evening at dinner his hostess asked him what he had accomplished, and his reply is famous. "This morning," he said, "I put a comma in one of my poems." Surprised and amused, the lady inquired whether the afternoon's work had been equally exhausting. "Yes," said Wilde, passing his hand wearily over his brow, "this afternoon I took it out again."

Just about the time that London had made up its mind that Wilde was nothing but a clever man about town, welcome as a guest because of the amusement he afforded, "The Soul of Man Under Socialism" appeared in the "Fortnightly Magazine" for February, 1891. London was at once challenged and amazed. This essay opens with a characteristic statement, one of those peculiarly inverted paradoxes for which Wilde was shortly to become famous. "Socialism," he says, "would relieve us from the sordid necessity of living for others"; and what follows is Wilde at his very best.

What is it all about? I am not sure that I know: it seems to be a plea for the individual, perhaps it is a defense of the poor; it is said to have been translated into the languages of the downtrodden, the Jew, the Pole, the Russian, and to be a comfort to them; I hope it is. Do such outpourings do any good, do they change conditions, is the millennium brought nearer thereby? I hope so. But if it is comforting for the downtrodden, whose wants are ill supplied, it is a sheer delight for the downtreader who, free from anxiety, sits in his easy-chair and enjoys its technical excellence.

I know nothing like it: it is as fresh as paint, and like fresh paint it sticks to one; in its brilliant, serious, and unexpected array of fancies and theories, in truths inverted and distorted, in witticisms which are in turn tender and hard as flint, one is delighted and bewildered. Wilde has only himself to blame if this, a serious and beautiful essay, was not taken seriously. "The Soul of Man Under Socialism" is the work of a consummate artist who, taking his ideas, disguises and distorts them, polishing them the while until they shine like jewels in a rare and unusual setting. Naturally, almost every other line in such a work is quotable: it seems to be a mass of quotations which one is surprised not to have heard before.

Interesting as Wilde's other essays are, I will not speak of them; with the exception of "Pen, Pencil and Poison," a study of Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, the poisoner, they will inevitably be forgotten.

Of Wilde's poems I am not competent to speak: they are full of Arcady and Eros; nor am I of those who believe that "every poet is the spokesman of God." A book-agent once called on Abraham Lincoln and sought to sell him a book for which the President had no use. Failing, he asked Lincoln if he would not write an indorsement of the work which would enable him to sell it to others. Whereupon the President, always anxious to oblige, with a humor entirely his own, wrote, "Any one who likes this kind of book will find it just the kind of book they like." So it is with Wilde's poetry: by many it is highly esteemed, but I am inclined to regard it as a part of his "literary wild oats."

After several attempts in the field of serious drama, in which he was unsuccessful, by a fortunate chance he turned his attention to the lighter forms of comedy, in which he was destined to count only the greatest as his rivals. Pater says these comedies have been unexcelled since Sheridan; this is high praise, though not too high; but it is rather to contrast than to compare such a grand old comedy as the "School for Scandal" with, say, "The Importance of Being Earnest." They are both brilliant, both artificial; they both reflect in some manner the life and the atmosphere of their time; but the mirror which Sheridan holds up to nature is of steel and the picture is hard and cold; Wilde, on the other hand, uses an exaggerating glass, which seems specially designed to reflect warmth and fluffiness.

Wilde was the first to produce a play which depends almost entirely for its success on brilliant talk. In this field Shaw is now conspicuous: he can grow the flower now because he has the seed. It was Wilde who taught him how, Wilde who, in four light comedies, gave the English stage something it had been without for a century. His comedies are irresistibly clever, sparkle with wit, with a flippant and insolent levity, and withal have a theatrical dexterity which Shaw's are almost entirely without. While greatly inferior in construction to Pinero's, they are as brilliantly written; the plots amount to almost nothing: talk, not the play, is the thing; and but for their author's eclipse they would be as constantly on the boards to-day in this country and in England as they are at present on the Continent.

The first comedy, "Lady Windermere's Fan," was produced at the St. James's, February 22, 1892. Its success, despite the critics, was instant: full of saucy repartee, overwrought with epigrams of the peculiar kind conspicuous in the "Soul of Man," it delighted the audience. "Punch" made a feeble pun about Wilde's play being tame, forgetting the famous dictum that the great end of a comedy is to make the audience merry; and this end Wilde had attained, and he kept his audiences in the same humor for several years--until the end. Of his plays this is, perhaps, the best known in this country. It was successfully given in New York, Philadelphia, and elsewhere, only a year or two ago. It might, I think, be called his "pleasant play": for a time it looks as if a pure wife were going astray, but the audience is not kept long in suspense: the plot can be neglected and the lines enjoyed, with the satisfactory feeling that it will all come out right in the end.

"A Woman of No Importance" is in my judgment the least excellent of his four comedies; it might be called his "unpleasant" play: it is two acts of sheer talk, in Wilde's usual vein, and two acts of acting. The plot is, as usual, insignificant. A certain lazy villain in high official position meets a young fellow and offers him a post as his secretary. The boy, much pleased, introduces his mother, and the villain discovers that the boy is his own son. The son insists that the father should marry his mother, but she declines. The father offers to make what amends he can, loses his temper, and refers to the lady as a woman of no importance; for which he gets his face well smacked. The son marries a rich American Puritan. This enables Wilde to be very witty at the expense of American fathers, mothers, and daughters. Tree played the villain very well, it is said.

Never having seen Wilde's next play acted, I once innocently framed this statement for the domestic circle: "I have never seen 'An Ideal Husband'"; and when my wife sententiously replied that she had never seen one either, I became careful to be more explicit in future statements. No less clever than the others, it has plot and action, and is interesting to the end. Of all his plays it is the most dramatic. On its first production it was provided with a splendid cast, including Lewis Waller, Charles Hawtrey, Julia Neilson, Maude Millett, and Fanny Brough. In the earlier plays all the characters talked Oscar Wilde; in this Wilde took the trouble, for it must have been to him a trouble, to conceal himself and let his people speak for themselves: they stay in their own characters in what they do as well as in what they say. "An Ideal Husband" was produced at the Haymarket early in 1895, and a few weeks later, at the St. James's, "The Importance of Being Earnest."

Wilde called this a trivial comedy for serious people. It is clever beyond criticism; but, as one critic says, one might as well sit down and gravely discuss the true inwardness of a soufflé. In it Wilde fairly lets himself loose; such talk there never was before; it fairly bristles with epigram; the plot is a farce; it is a mental and verbal extravaganza. Wilde was at his best, scintillating as he had never done before, and doing it for the last time. He is reported to have said that the first act is ingenious, the second beautiful, and the third abominably clever. Ingenious it is, but its beauty and cleverness are beyond praise. To have seen the lovely Miss Millard as Cecily, the country girl, to have heard her tell Gwendolen, the London society queen (Irene Vanbrugh), that "flowers are as common in the country as people are in London," is a delight never to be forgotten.

Wilde was now at the height of his fame. That the licenser of the stage had forbidden the performance of "Salome" was a disappointment; but Sarah Bernhardt had promised to produce it in Paris, and, not thinking that when his troubles came upon him she would break her word, he was able to overcome his chagrin.

Only a year or two before, he had been in need, if not in abject poverty. He was now in receipt of large royalties. No form of literary effort makes money faster than a successful play. Wilde had two, running at the best theatres. His name was on every lip in London; even the cabbies knew him by sight; he had arrived at last, but his stay was only for a moment. Against the advice and wishes of his friends, with "fatal insolence," he adopted a course which, had he been capable of thought, he must have seen would inevitably lead to his destruction.

To those mental scavengers, the psychologists, I leave the determination of the exact nature of the disease which was the cause of Wilde's downfall: it is enough for me to know that whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.

The next two years Wilde spent in solitary and degrading seclusion; his sufferings, mental and physical, can be imagined. Many have fallen from heights greater than his, but none to depths more humiliating. Many noble men and dainty women have been subjected to greater indignities than he, but they have been supported by their belief in the justice or honor of the cause for which they suffered.

Wilde was not, however, sustained by the consciousness of innocence, nor was he so mentally dwarfed as to be unable to realize the awfulness of his fate. The literary result was "De Profundis." Written while in prison, in the form of a letter to his friend Robert Ross, it was not published until five years after his death: indeed, only about one third of the whole has as yet appeared in English.

"De Profundis" may be in parts offensive, but as a specimen of English prose it is magnificent; it is by way of becoming a classic: no student of literature can neglect this cry of a soul lost to this world, intent upon proving--I know not what--that art is greater than life, perhaps. Much has been written in regard to it: by some it is said to show that even at the time of his deepest degradation he did not appreciate how low he had fallen; that to the last he was only a _poseur_--a phrase-maker; that, genuine as his sorrow was, he nevertheless was playing with it, and was simply indulging himself in rhetoric when he said, "I, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame."

One would say that it was not the sort of book which would become popular; nevertheless, more than twenty editions have been published in English, and it has been translated into French, German, Italian, and Russian.

It was inevitable that "De Profundis" should become the subject of controversy: Oscar Wilde's sincerity has always been challenged; he was called affected. His answer to this charge is complete and conclusive: "The value of an idea has nothing whatever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it."

For many years, indeed until quite recently, his name cast a blight over all his work. This was inevitable, but it was inevitable also that the work of such a genius should sooner or later be recognized.

Only a few years ago I heard a cultured lady say, "I never expected to hear his name mentioned in polite society again." But the time is rapidly approaching when Oscar Wilde will come into his own, when he will be recognized as one of the greatest and most original writers of his time. When shall we English-speaking people learn that a man's work is one thing and his life another?

It is much to be regretted that Wilde's life did not end with "De Profundis"; but his misfortunes were to continue. After his release from prison he went to France, where he lived under the name of Sebastian Melmoth: but as Sherard, his biographer, says, "He hankered after respectability." It was no longer the social distinction which the unthinking crave when they have all else: this great writer, he who had been for a brief moment the idol of cultured London, sought mere respectability, and sought it in vain.

Only when he was neglected and despised, miserable and broken in spirit, sincere feeling at last overcame the affectation which was his real nature and he wrote his one great poem, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." No longer could the "Saturday Review" "search in vain for the personal touch of thought and music": the thought is there, very simple and direct and personal without a doubt: the music is no longer the modulated noise of his youth. The Ballad is an almost faultless work of art. What could be more impressive than the description of daybreak in prison:--

At last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.

The life begun with such promise drew to a close: an outcast, deserted by his friends, the few who remained true to him he insulted and abused. He became dissipated, wandered from France to Italy and back again. In mercy it were well to draw the curtain. The end came in Paris with the close of the century he had done so much to adorn. He died on November 30, 1900, and was buried, by his faithful friend, Robert Ross, in a grave which was leased for a few years in Bagneux Cemetery.

The kindness of Robert Ross to Oscar Wilde is one of the most touching things in literary history. The time has not yet come to speak of it at length, but the facts are known and will not always be withheld. Owing largely to his efforts, a permanent resting-place was secured a few years ago in the most famous cemetery in France, the Père Lachaise. There, in an immense sarcophagus of granite, curiously carved, were placed the remains of him who wrote:--

"Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rock where I may hide, and sweet valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt; she will cleanse me in great waters and with bitter herbs make me whole."

It is too early to judge Wilde's work entirely apart from his life: to do so will always be difficult: we could do so the sooner if we had a Dr. Johnson among us to speak with authority and say, "Let not his misfortunes be remembered, he was a very great man."

XIII

A WORD IN MEMORY

To have been born and lived all his life in Philadelphia, yet to be best known in London and New York; to have been the eldest son of a rich man and the eldest grandson of one of the richest men in America, yet of so quiet and retiring a disposition as to excite remark; to have been but a few years out of college, yet to have achieved distinction in a field which is commonly supposed to be the browsing-place of age; to have been relatively unknown in his life and to be immortal in his death--such are the brief outlines of the career of Harry Elkins Widener.

It is a curious commentary upon human nature that the death of one person well known to us affects us more than the deaths of hundreds or thousands not known to us at all. It is for this reason, perhaps, at a time when the papers bring us daily their record of human suffering and misery from the war in Europe, that I can forget the news of yesterday and live over again the anxious hours which followed the brief announcement that the Titanic, on her maiden voyage, the largest, finest, and fastest ship afloat, had struck an iceberg in mid-ocean, and that there were grave fears for the safety of her passengers and crew. There the first news ceased.

The accident had occurred at midnight; the sea was perfectly calm, the stars shone clearly; it was bitter cold. The ship was going at full speed. A slight jar was felt, but the extent of the injury was not realized and few passengers were alarmed. When the order to lower the boats was given there was little confusion. The order went round, "Women and children first." Harry and his father were lost, his mother and her maid were rescued.

In all that subsequently appeared in the press,--and for days the appalling disaster was the one subject of discussion,--the name of Harry Elkins Widener appeared simply as the eldest son of George D. Widener. Few knew that, quite aside from the financial prominence of his father and the social distinction and charm of his mother, Harry had a reputation which was entirely of his own making. He was a born student of bibliography. Books were at once his work, his recreation, and his passion. To them he devoted all his time; but outside the circle of his intimate friends few understood the unique and lovable personality of the man to whom death came so suddenly on April 15, 1912, shortly after he had completed his twenty-seventh year.

His knowledge of books was truly remarkable. In the study of rare books, as in the study of an exact science, authority usually comes only with years. With Harry Widener it was different. He had been collecting only since he left college, but his intense enthusiasm, his painstaking care, his devotion to a single object, his wonderful memory, and, as he gracefully says in the introduction to the catalogue of some of the more important books in his library, "The interest and kindness of my grandfather and my parents," had enabled him in a few years to secure a number of treasures of which any collector might be proud.

Harry Elkins Widener was born in Philadelphia on January 3, 1885. He received his early education at the Hill School, from which he was graduated in 1903. He then entered Harvard University, where he remained four years, receiving his bachelor's degree in 1907. It was while a student at Harvard that he first began to show an interest in book-collecting; but it was not until his college days were over that, as the son of a rich man, he found, as many another man has done, that the way to be happy is to have an occupation.

He lived with his parents and his grandfather in their palatial residence, Lynnewood Hall, just outside Philadelphia. He was proud of the distinction of his relatives, and used to say, "We are a family of collectors. My grandfather collects paintings, my mother collects silver and porcelains, Uncle Joe collects everything,"--which indeed he does,--"and I, books."

Book-collecting soon became with him a very serious matter, a matter to which everything else was subordinated. He began, as all collectors do, with unimportant things at first; but how rapidly his taste developed may be seen from glancing over the pages of the catalogue of his library, which, strictly speaking, is not a library at all--he would have been the last to call it so. It is but a collection of perhaps three thousand volumes; but they were selected by a man of almost unlimited means, with rare judgment and an instinct for discovering the best. Money alone will not make a bibliophile, although, I confess, it develops one.

His first folio of Shakespeare was the Van Antwerp copy, formerly Locker Lampson's, one of the finest copies known; and he rejoiced in a copy of "Poems Written by Wil. Shakespeare, Gent," 1640, in the original sheepskin binding. His "Pickwick," if possibly inferior in interest to the Harry B. Smith copy, is nevertheless superb: indeed he had two, one "in parts as published, with all the points," another a presentation copy to Dickens's friend, William Harrison Ainsworth. In addition he had several original drawings by Seymour, including the one in which the shad-bellied Mr. Pickwick, having with some difficulty mounted a chair, proceeds to address the Club. The discovery and acquisition of this drawing, perhaps the most famous illustration ever made for a book, is indicative of Harry's taste as a collector.

One of his favorite books was the Countess of Pembroke's own copy of Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia," and it is indeed a noble volume; but Harry's love for his mother, I think, invariably led him, when he was showing his treasures, to point out a sentence written in his copy of Cowper's "Task." The book had once been Thackeray's, and the great novelist had written on the frontispiece, "A great point in a great man, a great love for his mother. A very fine and true portrait. Could artist possibly choose a better position than the above? W. M. Thackeray." "Isn't that a lovely sentiment?" Harry would say; "and yet they say Thackeray was a cynic and a snob." His "Esmond" was presented by Thackeray to Charlotte Brontë. His copy of the "Ingoldsby Legends" was unique. In the first edition, by some curious oversight on the part of the printer, page 236 had been left blank, and the error was not discovered until a few sheets had been printed. In a presentation copy to his friend, E. R. Moran, on this blank page, Barham had written:--

By a blunder for which I have only myself to thank,
Here's a page has been somehow left blank.
Aha! my friend Moran, I have you. You'll look
In vain for a fault in one page of my book!

signing the verse with his _nom de plume_, Thomas Ingoldsby.

Indeed, in all his books, the utmost care was taken to secure the copy which would have the greatest human interest: an ordinary presentation copy of the first issue of the first edition would serve his purpose only if he were sure that the dedication copy was unobtainable. His Boswell's "Life of Johnson" was the dedication copy to Sir Joshua Reynolds, with an inscription in the author's hand.

He was always on the lookout for rarities, and Dr. Rosenbach, in the brief memoir which serves as an introduction to the Catalogue of his Stevenson collection, says of him:--

"I remember once seeing him on his hands and knees under a table in a bookstore. On the floor was a huge pile of books that had not been disturbed for years. He had just pulled out of the débris a first edition of Swinburne, a presentation copy, and it was good to behold the light in his face as he exclaimed, 'This is better than working in a gold mine.' To him it was one."

His collection of Stevenson is a monument to his industry and patience, and is probably the finest collection in existence of that much-esteemed author. He possessed holograph copies of the Vailima Letters and many other priceless treasures, and he secured the manuscript of, and published privately for Stevenson lovers, in an edition of forty-five copies, an autobiography written by Stevenson in California in the early eighties. This item, under the title of "Memoirs of Himself," has an inscription, "Given to Isobel Stewart Strong ... for future use, when the underwriter is dead. With love, Robert Louis Stevenson." The catalogue of his Stevenson collection alone, the painstaking work of his friend and mentor, Dr. Rosenbach, makes an imposing volume and is an invaluable work of reference for Stevenson collectors.

Harry once told me that he never traveled without a copy of "Treasure Island," and knew it practically by heart. I, myself, am not averse to a good book as a traveling companion; but in my judgment, for constant reading, year in and year out, it should be a book which sets you thinking, rather than a narrative like "Treasure Island," but--_chacun à son goût._

But it were tedious to enumerate his treasures, nor is it necessary. They will ever remain, a monument to his taste and skill as a collector, in the keeping of Harvard University--his Alma Mater. It is, however, worth while to attempt to fix in some measure the individuality, the rare personality of the man. I cannot be mistaken in thinking that many, looking at the wonderful library erected in Cambridge by his mother in his memory, may wish to know something of the man himself.

There is in truth not much to tell. A few dates have already been given, and when to these is added the statement that he was of retiring and studious disposition, considerate and courteous, little more remains to be said. He lived with and for his books, and was never so happy as when he was saying, "Now if you will put aside that cigar for a moment, I will show you something. Cigar ashes are not good for first editions"; and a moment later some precious volume would be on your knees. What collector does not enjoy showing his treasures to others as appreciative as himself? Many delightful hours his intimates have passed in his library, which was also his bedroom,--for he wanted his books about him, where he could play with them at night and where his eye might rest on them the first thing in the morning,--but this was a privilege extended only to true book-lovers. To others he was unapproachable and almost shy. Of unfailing courtesy and an amiable and loving disposition, his friends were very dear to him. "Bill," or someone else, "is the salt of the earth," you would frequently hear him say.

"Are you a book-collector, too?" his grandfather once asked me across the dinner-table.

Laughingly I said, "I thought I was, but I am not in Harry's class."

To which the old gentleman replied,--and his eye beamed with pride the while,--"I am afraid that Harry will impoverish the entire family."

I answered that I should be sorry to hear that, and suggested that he and I, if we put our fortunes together, might prevent this calamity.

His memory was most retentive. Once let him get a fact or a date imbedded in his mind and it was there forever. He knew the name of every actor he had ever seen, and the part he had taken in the play last year and the year before. He knew the name of every baseball player and had his batting and running average. When it came to the chief interest of his life, his thirst for knowledge was insatiable. I remember one evening when we were in New York together, in Beverly Chew's library, Harry asked Mr. Chew some question about the eccentricities of the title-pages of the first edition of Milton's "Paradise Lost." Mr. Chew began rolling off the bibliographical data, like the ripe scholar that he is, when I suggested to Harry that he had better make a note of what Mr. Chew was saying. He replied, "I should only lose the paper; while if I get it in my head I will put it where it can't be lost; that is," he added, "as long as I keep my head."

And his memory extended to other collections than his own. For him to see a book once was for him to remember it always. If I told him I had bought such and such a book, he would know from whom I bought it and all about it, and would ask me if I had noticed some especial point, which, in all probability, had escaped me.

He was a member of several clubs, including the Grolier Club, the most important club of its kind in the world. The late J. P. Morgan had sent word to the chairman of the membership committee that he would like Harry made a member. The question of his seconder was waived: it was understood that Mr. Morgan's endorsement of his protégé's qualifications was sufficient.

It was one night, when we were in New York together during the first Hoe sale, that I had a conversation with Harry, to which, in the light of subsequent events, I have often recurred. We had dined together at my club and had gone to the sale; but there was nothing of special interest coming up, and after a half hour or so, he suggested that we go to the theatre. I reminded him that it was quite late, and that at such an hour a music-hall would be best. He agreed, and in a few moments we were witnessing a very different performance from the one we had left in the Anderson auction rooms; but the performance was a poor one. Harry was restless and finally suggested that we take a walk out Fifth Avenue. During this walk he confessed to me his longing to be identified and remembered in connection with some great library. He expanded this idea at length. He said: "I do not wish to be remembered merely as a collector of a few books, however fine they may be. I want to be remembered in connection with a great library, and I do not see how it is going to be brought about. Mr. Huntington and Mr. Morgan are buying up all the books, and Mr. Bixby is getting the manuscripts. When my time comes, if it ever does, there will be nothing left for me--everything will be gone!"

We spent the night together, and after I had gone to bed he came to my room again, and calling me by a nick-name, said, "I have got to do something in connection with books to make myself remembered. What shall it be?"

I laughingly suggested that he write one, but he said it was no jesting matter. Then it came out that he thought he would establish a chair at Harvard for the study of bibliography in all its branches. He was much disturbed by the lack of interest which great scholars frequently evince toward his favorite subject.

With this he returned to his own room, and I went to sleep; but I have often thought of this conversation since I, with the rest of the world, learned that his mother was prepared, in his memory, to erect the great building at Harvard which is his monument. His ambition has been achieved. Associated with books, his name will ever be. The great library at Harvard is his memorial. In its _sanctum sanctorum_ his collection will find a fitting place.

We lunched together the day before he sailed for Europe, and I happened to remark at parting, "This time next week you will be in London, probably, lunching at the Ritz."

"Yes," he said, "very likely with Quaritch."

While in London Harry spent most of his time with that great bookseller, the second to bear the name of Quaritch, who knew all the great book-collectors the world over, and who once told me that he knew no man of his years who had the knowledge and taste of Harry Widener. "So many of your great American collectors refer to books in terms of steel rails; with Harry it is a genuine and all-absorbing passion, and he is so entirely devoid of side and affectation." In this he but echoed what a friend once said to me at Lynnewood Hall, where we were spending the day: "The marvel is that Harry is so entirely unspoiled by his fortune."

Harry was a constant attendant at the auction rooms at Sotheby's in London, at Anderson's in New York, or wherever else good books were going. He chanced to be in London when the first part of the Huth library was being disposed of, and he was anxious to get back to New York in time to attend the final Hoe sale, where he hoped to secure some books, and bring to the many friends he would find there the latest gossip of the London auction rooms.

Alas! Harry had bought his last book. It was an excessively rare copy of Bacon's "Essaies," the edition of 1598. Quaritch had secured it for him at the Huth sale, and as he dropped in to say good-bye and give his final instructions for the disposition of his purchases, he said: "I think I'll take that little Bacon with me in my pocket, and if I am shipwrecked it will go with me." And I know that it was so. In all the history of book-collecting this is the most touching story.

The death of Milton's friend, Edward King, by drowning, inspired the poet to write the immortal elegy, "Lycidas."

Who would not sing for Lycidas?--
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept.

When Shelley's body was cast up by the waves on the shore near Via Reggio, he had a volume of Keats's poems in his pocket, doubled back at "The Eve of St. Agnes." And in poor Harry Widener's pocket there was a Bacon, and in this Bacon we might have read, "The same man that was envied while he lived shall be loved when he is gone."

INDEX

À BECKET, GILBERT, _Comic History of Rome_, 78;
_Comic History of England_, 78.

ADAM, ROBERT B., 184 _n._

ADAMS, JOHN, 58.

ADVERTISEMENTS, importance of, in verifying first
editions of certain books, 79.

AINSWORTH, W. H., 346.

ALBERT, PRINCE CONSORT. _See_ MARTIN, SIR THEODORE.

ALBERT MEMORIAL, 285.

ALDERSON, AMELIA (Mrs. Opie), 232.

ALDINES, 5, 88.

ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES, 284.

ALKEN, HENRY, _Analysis of the Hunting Field_, and _Life
of John Mytton_, illustrated by, 77.

ALLAN, JOHN, 83, 84, 85.

ALLEN, EDMUND, 21, 307 _ff._

ALLEN, JOHN, _Memorial_ of, 57.

ALLIS, WILLIAM E., 115, 116.

_American Book Prices Current_, 103.

ANDERSON, MARY, 327.

ANDERSON'S AUCTION ROOMS, 103, 354.

ANDREWS, WILLIAM LORING, _Gossip about Book-collecting_, 51.

ANNE, QUEEN, 278.

ANNE OF DENMARK, Queen of James I, 280.

ARBLAY, MADAME D'. _See_ Burney, Fanny.

ARGYLE, ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL, Duke of, 150.

ARNOLD, WILLIAM HARRIS, _Record of Books and Letters_, 18, 103-106;
_First Report of a Book-collector_, 101, 102.

ASSOCIATION BOOKS 1, 107 _ff._

_Athenæum, The_, 106 _n._

AUCHINLECK, ALEXANDER BOSWELL, LORD, his Death, 173;
mentioned, 150, 165, 166, 172.

AUCHINLECK, Boswell's birthplace, the author's visit to, 181-184.

AUCTION CATALOGUES, 30.

AUCTION SALES, 59, 60.

AUDUBON, JOHN J., _Birds of North America_, 5.

AULUS GELLIUS, _Noctes Atticæ_, 90.

AUSTEN, JANE, 186, 187, 253.

BACON, FRANCIS, LORD, quoted, 7;
and Shakespeare, 92;
_Essaies_ (1598), Widener's last purchase, 354, 355.

BAGEHOT, WALTER, 272.

BANGS & CO., 104.

_Bank of North America, History of the_, 57, 58.

BARCLAY, ALEXANDER, 91.

BARCLAY and PERKINS'S, 195.

BARETTI, GIUSEPPE M. A., attacks Mrs. Piozzi, 216;
mentioned, 194, 198.

BARHAM, THOMAS, _Ingoldsby Legends_, unique presentation copy
of first edition, 347.

BARRETT, LAWRENCE, 327.

BARRIE, SIR JAMES M., _What Every Woman Knows_, 196.

BARTLETT, HENRIETTA, 72.

BARTON, BERNARD, 135.

BEACONSFIELD, BENJAMIN DISRAELI, Earl of. _See_ Disraeli.

BEARD, TOM, presentation copy of _A Christmas Carol_ to, 116.

BEARDSLEY, AUBREY, caricature of O. Wilde, 114, 319.

BEAUCLERK, LADY DIANA, 179.

BECKFORD, WILLIAM, presentation copy of Disraeli's _Henrietta
Temple_ to, 29.

BELL, CURRER, ELLIS, and ACTON, _Poems_, 83. _See_ Brontë Sisters.

BEMENT, CLARENCE S., 89.

BERAYNE, KATHERINE TUDOR DE ("Mam y Cymry"), 189.

BERNHARDT, SARAH, 337.

BIBLE, the, Shakespeare "cryptogram" in, 92, 117. _See_ Gutenberg Bible.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES, 113 _ff._

_Biddle, Nicholas, Memoirs of_, 58.

BINDINGS, 54, 55, 74.

BIRRELL, AUGUSTINE, quoted, 33, 151.

BIXBY, WILLIAM K., 72, 352.

BLAIR, MISS, 161.

BLAKE, WILLIAM, _Marriage of Heaven and Hell_, 52, 82;
_Poetical Sketches_, 81, 82;
_Songs of Innocence and Experience_, 81, 82;
Linnell collection, sale of, 82.

BLANDFORD, MARQUIS OF. _See_ Spencer, George.

BLOUNT, EDWARD, 93.

"BLUE-STOCKINGS, THE", 194.

BOCCACCIO, GIOVANNI, the _Decameron_, 70.

BOEHM, SIR J. E., 285, 286.

BOETHIUS, _De Consolatione Philosophiæ_ (MS.), 90, 91.

BOLEYN, ANNE, 275.

BOLINGBROKE, HENRY ST. JOHN, Viscount, 177.

BONNELL, H. H., 83.

_Book Auction Records_, 103.

_Book Prices Current_, 72.

BOOK-COLLECTING, delights of, 2 _ff._;
changing fashions in, 5.

BOOK-PLATES, 60, 61.

BOOKS, "as originally published," 54, 55;
advancing prices of, 66 _ff._, 70 _ff._ _See_ Association Books,
Bindings, Extra-illustrated Books, Presentation Books, Subscription Books.

BOOKSELLERS, Second-hand, catalogues of, 30 _ff._

BOSCAWEN, MRS. EDWARD, 179.

BOSWELL, JAMES, quoted, on London, 13;
Macaulay's characterization of, refuted, 148, 149;
early years, 149, 150;
first meeting with Johnson, 150, 151;
his style, 151;
portraiture of Johnson, 152;
devotion to Johnson, 152;
not very much in Johnson's company, 153;
qualities as a biographer, 153, 154;
weaknesses considered, 154 _ff._, 159 _ff._;
Carlyle on, 154;
conversational powers, 156;
Life of Johnson, largely his own autobiography, 156, 157;
letters to Temple, 157 _ff._;
last days and death, 164, 165, 180;
wanderings about Europe, 165, 166;
letter to Dilly, 166;
first paper drawn by, as an advocate, 168;
"press notices" of himself, 170-172;
marries Margaret Montgomerie, 172;
continued interest in Johnson, 172, 173;
death of his father, 173;
financial difficulties, 173;
effect of Johnson's death on, 173;
publishes the _Journal of the Tour to the Hebrides_, 174;
its success encourages him to undertake Johnson's life, 174;
the _Life_ published (1791), 175, 176;
wife's death, 174;
thinks of running for Parliament, 175;
contemporary opinions of, 181;
Johnson on, 181;
mentioned, 21, 30, 174, 201, 214, 226.
_Life of Samuel Johnson_, dedication copy, to Sir Joshua
Reynolds, 18, 19, 347;
divers editions of, 64;
Macaulay's essay on, considered and criticized, 145 _ff._;
merits of, in general, 153;
its success, 175;
presentation copy of, to James Boswell, Jr., 176;
effect of its publication, 178-180;
almost universally praised, 184, 185;
the great English epic, 185;
Mrs. Thrale's copy of, 222;
mentioned, 61, 98, 307, 308, 309.
_An Account of Corsica_, 166-170, 172;
presentation copy of, 59.

BOSWELL, JAMES, JR., 176, 180.

BOSWELL, MRS. MARGARET, her _bon mot_ on Johnson, 173;
her death, 174;
mentioned, 154, 164, 172.

BOWDEN, A. J., 75.

BRADFORD CLUB, 57.

BRANDT, SEBASTIAN, _The Ship of Fools_, 91, 92.

BRISTOL, BISHOP OF, 317.

BRITISH MUSEUM, 43, 101, 111.

BROADLEY, A. M., published Mrs. Thrale's _Journal of a
Tour in Wales_, 218, 221.

BRONTË, CHARLOTTE, presentation copy of _Henry Esmond_ to, 347;
mentioned, 83.

BRONTË, EMILY, 187.

BRONTË MUSEUM, 83.

BRONTË SISTERS, 186, 187. _See_ Bell, Currer, etc.

BROOKS, EDMUND D., bookseller, 53, 54, 83.

BROUGH, FANNY, 336.

BROWNING, ARABEL, 26.

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT, letter of, 26, 27;
mentioned, 186, 187.

BROWNING, ROBERT, _Pauline_, 103;
mentioned, 26, 27, 91, 228.

BULWER-LYTTON, SIR EDWARD, 253.

BUNBURY, HENRY W., 32.

BURKE, EDMUND, inscription to, from Boswell, 185;
mentioned, 151, 181, 187, 188, 194, 221.

BURNEY, DR. CHARLES, 194, 208.

BURNEY, FANNY (Madame d'Arblay), _Evelina_, 46, 127, 199, 200;
her _Diary_, quoted, on life at Streatham Park, 199 _ff._;
mentioned, 186, 187, 204, 209, 221.

BURNS, ROBERT, _Poems_, first Edinburgh edition, 83, 84;
Kilmarnock edition, 83-86, 103.

BURNS MUSEUM, 86.

BUSHNELL, JOHN, 281.

BUTLER, SAMUEL, _The Way of all Flesh_, 124.

BYRON, ALLEGRA, 238, 244.

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD, copy of Thomson's _Seasons_
presented by, to Frances W. Webster, 29;
mentioned, 238.

CAINE, HALL, 268.

CARLTON HOTEL, London, 268.

CARLYLE, THOMAS, presentation copy of Dickens's _American Notes_ to, 115;
on Boswell, 154;
mentioned, 185, 293.

CARNEGIE, ANDREW, _Triumphant Democracy_, quoted, 271.

CASSATT, A. J., 54.

CATALOGUES of second-hand books, 30 _ff._, 65 _ff._;
amusing blunders in, 62, 113.

CAXTON, WILLIAM, his books in general, 8, 72;
his edition of _Tully, his Treatises on Old Age and Friendship_, 22;
mentioned, 91.

CAXTON HEAD, Sign of the, 30.

CHAFFANBRASS, MR., 256, 264.

CHAPMAN, GEORGE, translation of Homer, 102.

CHARING CROSS, 268.

CHARING CROSS ROAD, the book-lover's happy hunting-ground, 15, 16.

CHARLES I, 278, 281.

CHARLES II, 278, 282.

CHARLOTTE, Queen of George III, Dodd's letter to, 309;
mentioned, 21, 306.

CHATHAM, WILLIAM PITT, Earl of, 246.

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY, _Works_, 102.

CHESTERFIELD, PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, fourth Earl of, 21, 301.

CHESTERFIELD, PHILIP STANHOPE, fifth Earl of, 305, 306.

CHEW, BEVERLY, 7, 75, 87, 102, 103, 351.

_Christ Church, History of_, 58.

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL, 53.

CICERO, _Cato Major_, Franklin's edition of, 9;
_Treatises of Old Age and Friendship_ (Caxton), 22.

"CITY" OF LONDON, royal visit to, 266 _ff._;
physical boundaries and jurisdiction of, 277.

CLAIRMONT, MRS. M. J., Godwin's second wife, 237. _See_ Godwin, Mrs. M. J.

CLAIRMONT, MARY JANE (Claire), Lord Byron's mistress, 238, 242, 243, 244.

CLARKE, CHARLES COWDEN, 18.

CLARKE, MARY COWDEN, 18.

CLASSICS, THE, collectors' waning interest in, 5.