The Unpublishable Memoirs Part 5

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

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

Sometimes his friends would be astounded at his unintelligible speech.

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

Doctor Morton obtained the books of other men by many devious ways.

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

Alas! Poor Yorick!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's very valuable."

"How much is it worth?"

"Seventy-five dollars."

"That much? You surprise me."

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

The two book investigators pursued their investigations.

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

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

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

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

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

"That ought to be destroyed! It's a filthy attack on William Penn and the Quakers. If I were you I'd put that in the fire!" said the virtuous doctor, pointing to a little quarto pamphlet published in London in 1682, and one of two copies extant, the other being priced at $600.00 by a well-known book-seller. In it is the curious statement that Penn was fond of certain ladies of the wicked court of Charles II.

And it was not in Lowndes, or in any bibliography!

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

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

"The lot will cost thee two dollars, Doctor."

"All right. Give me a receipt. This is the last time I'll give free advice to anyone! Particularly a Quaker!"

When Mr. Welford "looked around" he discovered that the beautifully bound sermons, eulogies, prayer-books and catechisms were worth next to nothing. He almost pa.s.sed away when a kind friend told him that Poor Richard's Almanac was worth a thousand dollars.

Another amiable acquaintance cheerfully imparted the information that the scandalous pamphlet about the First Proprietor of Pennsylvania was valued at ten shares of Pennsylvania Railroad stock. At hearing this good news, he put on his gray hat and started full of righteous indignation to interview the lucky purchaser.

"Don't swear, Mr. Welford. That's not becoming one of your persuasion."

"Thou--thou--"

"Don't choke and splutter so. It's bad for the heart."

"Thee told me those big books of sermons were valuable. They're not worth the paper they're written on!"

"Now, you're becoming sacrilegious!"

"Thee knows that rotten old thing about Penn was worth all those catechisms and sermons combined."

"I naturally thought that a religious book was worth more than a scandalous one. That stands to reason."

"There's no arguing with thee. I'll expose thee, if it takes--"

"Oh, no, you won't. I have your receipt in full."

Mr. Welford thought a minute. A grim smile overspread his features.

"I congratulate thee, Doctor. If thee can get the better of a Philadelphia Quaker, thou art welcome to the profit!"

Now this has nothing to do with Robert Hooker. It appears upon further investigation, however, that the candle-stick made by Paul Revere, silversmith and patriot, that stood upon the mantel-piece of the Doctor's home in Connecticut, was known under the outrageous name of "Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy in Old Calf."

Why this candle-stick was catalogued in this mysterious way was known only to Doctor Morton.

Three years ago the first edition of Burton's great book, published in Oxford in 1621, and in its original calf binding, was borrowed by the Doctor, who said he was writing an article for the _Atlantic Monthly_, on "Old Burton and the Anatomy."

The owner of the book could not resist the gentle demands of the true scholar, and sent the volume. He ought to have known better, for his name was Robert Hooker!