dour of face and person. Cheney looked like an emaciated and melancholy Thackeray. However, he was Cheney, the noted collector.

Cheney had all the intolerance for the passions of others that characterized oldtime collectors. Impatient with any other collected writer save his favorite, he sneered at my choice. His objection to R. L. S. was that he was not yet sufficiently ripe for collecting. Once he had said:

"Stevenson may be worth collecting, sir, but I feel he should be allowed to age in the wood of book-shelves. There ought to be fifty years between a writer's death and his coming into vogue with collectors. Takes all of that time for the romance to ripen and for his books to attain sufficient scarcity to make the chase interesting. When such time has elapsed he is, like old wine, ready for the connoisseur."

Each visit to Caulfield's was a repetition of the foregoing. I always resented the bookseller's ability to secure the very items I was turning heaven and earth to find. I resented, too, Cheney's apparent dislike for Stevenson, though I knew it was not Stevenson at all, but my fervor. He was intolerant of any collector who was radical enough to believe any one born later than the eighteenth century was worth collecting. I really liked the old man. He was the last leaf of the tree under which I sought shelter. He seemed lonely and I, too, was lonely. It was nearing dinner hour and I would ask him to have dinner with me.

Caulfield was called to the front of the shop and Cheney and I agreed to bury the hatchet. He had settled himself in a comfortable chair and wanted to talk. I was in a mood to let him.

"Collecting books of a favored author is a fine art. Much as one collector has in common with his fellow collectors you will find a great amount of intoleration. Yet, let two collectors of similar tastes get together and you'll find envy and jealousy added. The elements that enter into the collection and acquisition of a library are well known. A man collects an author because of his love for the author as a writer and as a man. The collector is more the result of this love and admiration than is the case with the

general run of Caulfield's customers. They rush in here to listen to the latest fashions in collecting and Caulfield with his fine Italian hand doles them their provender according to their purse. They haven't the necessary capacity to find in themselves love and admiration for any author. They haven't the time nor the inclination to study the life of an author whose work they admire and hunt down his books. Can you conceive their spending a lifetime, sir, a total of sixty-seven years searching for a single book? Only a man who felt very deeply the love for a man and his work could endure that long."

He did not give me a chance to confess that it was beyond me. Cheney continued:

"No indeed. They do not make real collectors these days. The mould has been broken or the potter's fingers have become palsied with age. Lowndes was a teething-ring to those old fellows and Brunet an elementary text-book. I remember one in particular, Kenyon was his name, Edwin Payson Kenyon, a bookseller when I first knew him and later a collector. You have probably heard of him as Little Dombey. He, sir, was a collector of the first water."

"Little Dombey," I exclaimed. "Wilberforce Matthews pointed him out to me one day. He was a little queer—at least, in the matter of dress," I hastened to add. "Did you know him well?"

"Not as well as Matthews, perhaps, though I did know him quite intimately. He was the collector who spent sixtyseven years in searching for one book." Cheney was looking over my shoulder and out into the shop.

"Time-clock bookmen," he muttered. "What do they know of books? It is doubtful if they'll ever read their purchases."

"Tell me of Little-Mr. Kenyon," I asked him.

"Not here, Gregory, for look you yonder. Look and see the storm-clouds forming on old Caulfield's face. How he wishes we would leave! Six o'clock, by gad! Time for book-collecting to end: it's not fashionable to worry about books after six in the evening. I'll wager he has an appointment with a-I almost said

chicken, sir-damsel. No man can serve two mistresses and the love of books and the love of women lie in opposite directions. Come with me, you lowly collector of Stevensoniana, and I'll show you a haunt worth two of these."

As we passed through the shop to the street I called to Caulfield:

"I'll take that copy of the 'Travels' with me, Caulfield."

We took a taxicab to an address given by Cheney. The way led across Fifth Avenue and down-town toward Washington Square. Stopping before a building that seemed deserted we entered a dimly lit hallway. He led the way up stairs carpeted to an almost mythical softness. A pass-key opened a door into an apartment. In the darkness I was aware only of a sombre cheerlessness that penetrated my bones. Matches were struck and Cheney lighted the gas in an enormous crystal chandelier and touched an already laid fire. The light from above revealed a room dominated by a large and ungainly walnut writing-table and heavily upholstered chairs mathematically arranged. About the walls were ponderouslooking bookcases with steel-engraved portraits above them. The mantel above the fireplace was draped with a dark-red lambrequin and the windows were curtained in a heavily tasselled material of the same color. Above the mantel was an oil portrait of an elderly man dressed in the garments of the mid-Victoria period. The crackling fire warmed the scene and gave it the feeling of comfort and homeliness. Behind the writing-table was a chair whose high back seemed to be in direct communication with the crystal chandelier.

"Like it?" queried Cheney. Before I could answer he went on. "The desk and chair belonged to Charles Dickens, so did the writing-sloop and the quills.'

We had rid ourselves of our outer clothing and were seated in the comfortable ugly chairs. I left my seat and went to one of the bookcases and peering through the glass doors read the titles. My host, noting my interest, told me to open the doors and take a good look. I did so and picking a book at random found it to be a beautifully encased set of the Pickwick Papers in the original parts

as issued, save that this set had the additional interest of being the very copies Dickens had presented to his friend Daniel Maclise. Reverently I turned the pages and just as reverently replaced them in their case and returned the treasure to its place. Each volume in the case, I found, was an unique copy with association interest. Passing to another case I found Boswell's own copy of the first edition of his life of Johnson. It was the copy Boswell had corrected and sent to the printer for a second edition. The place was, indeed, a bibliomaniac's heaven.

"But what does it all mean?" I shouted. "Who boasts ownership of these wonderful collections? Wherever I put my hands I find volumes that any real collector would give his entire purse for! Whose is it?"

"Not so fast, my dear Gregory. "You asked me, while we were still at Caulfield's, to tell you about Little Dombey." His voice had a reminiscent tone. "I'd rather tell you the story of these rooms and through their story let you learn the story of Little Dombey. Smoke, if you wish; it is a story that should be listened to with a pipe and a glass of wine.

"A glass of wine," he went on, "would break down the walls of reserve, rather it would act as a spark to the fires of conversation. But, persons who have no conception of the social value of wines have ordained that we must endure without them. Perhaps the dinner that will be served later will do what we expect of wine. A dinner, my dear young friend, such as Sam Johnson would lay before a guest."

I had lighted my pipe and was comfortably established in a chair whose ugliness belied its softness. Assured that I was ready he began his story.

"When first I knew Kenyon he was a bookseller. His shop was a small one and contained little else than valuable and curious books. He was an enemy of junk and no plugs could find room on his shelves. Early in life, when he was sixteen, his stepfather had apprenticed him to a local bookseller in whose employ he remained until he was twenty-five. Then he branched out for himself, taking the

store below this apartment. His training had been complete, he knew his trade and prospered. In a few years the business had extended to the rooms back of the shop where he had lived and he was compelled to move into these rooms.

"Early in business he became known as an authority on the works of Dickens and Dickensians flocked to the shop and made it their headquarters. In those days collectors of Dickens were the radicals of the bibliographic world and were looked upon with scorn. First editions of his works did not command the high prices that are to-day their first characteristic and, while they were not expensive, were difficult to obtain in this country. Kenyon had made adequate connections in England and was able to care for the slight demand. As the business grew, his sphere extended so that it embraced all the esteemed writers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was in this manner that I got to know him and love him. In some way, known only to himself, he had secured Boswell's own copy of the first edition of his life of Johnson; the copy Boswell had used for corrections for the second edition. It was my first big step in Johnsoniana and, by gad, I've spent my life in being grateful to Kenyon for having convinced me that my collection would never be important without it."

Cheney noticed that when he had mentioned the Boswell my eyes had glanced toward the case on the right.

"Yes, that was the copy you saw when you first came in.

"But to resume where I left off. Kenyon never married and as his business prospered and expanded he desired and sought the company of book-lovers, the companionships of men whose tastes were like his own. In those days there were no clubs of book-lovers and he was forced to use these rooms as a gathering place where they would not be interrupted by others. It began by his inviting us one by one to dine with him."

A chuckle escaped his lips.

"He had an idea that Dickens was allencompassing in life. The realism of Dickens, the lovable old fool would argue, was great enough for a man to guide his life by. I might admit such a thing about

Johnson, sir, but Dickens? Never! However, he would invite us to a dinner conceived by Dickens and executed by himself. Wine always, a roast of beef and pie. Believe me, sir, when I say that there was no difference at all in those meals and the meals you would be served with at a second-rate dining-room to-day. Take Johnson now, he loved boiled leg of lamb and veal pie. Who to-day ever eats boiled leg of lamb?

"The only difference was in the matter of service. Kenyon would don on such occasions the clothes of the period of 1848 and in his stiff, Victorian manner, order the service. It was not so much his foolish meal but his amiable conversation. He knew as much of Johnson as I did but he was too fine a host to let me think he did.

"There was Matthews, the collector of Thackeray," he said this in a way that expressed supreme contempt. "How can a man collect any one so dull and uninteresting as Thackeray? Well, Matthews, one day, came in great glee to tell me of a Dickensian dinner he had had at Kenyon's. He insisted a man might be able to get a good dinner out of the works of Thackeray-but I snorted and left him to rave by himself. You couldn't find a decent meal in all the collected and fugitive writings of that fellow. Another day came Greene, who told me of his experiences at Kenyon's table. Greene collected Browning. A man with an imagination might, with great diligence, scrape together sustenance from Thackeray or almost any other writer, but Browning must have thrived on air. Never a bit of real eating is mentioned. Or, am I wrong? I confess I've never read a word of his but I never heard of a palatable dish mentioned by Browning."

I smiled at the intolerance of this old collector but I took care he did not see it. I was slightly startled by a voice that came from the rear asking if dinner should be served.

"Right now, Francis," ordered my host. "By gad, sir, you shall see a meal from the works of Samuel Johnson. We'll have it on Dickens's desk solely because the Great Cham's table still rests in London. I'll have it yet to eat a Johnsonian meal from.

'Kenyon's idea started a fad. Matthews gave it impetus and the first thing we knew it became a regular Thursday feature. A collector would assemble the best dinner he could from the writings of his favorite author, or, one that the author had preferred to all others, and invite his friends to it. It is a remarkable fact, though, that only customers of Kenyon's shop were invited to these dinners. Curious, wasn't it, but we knew it was due to the bookseller's personality. He had welded us together into a solidly knit unit with similar yet diverse tastes. "Kenyon's name became a synonym for success. His honesty and integrity made his shop the goal of all book-lovers. Old Christie, then of Crother's Auction Rooms, you know him, he had his own shop until his recent death, was a leading spirit, and so was old Jaye Johnstone, who loved Charles Lamb with a love that approached idolatry. There were others, names I have forgotten and which would mean nothing to a youngster like yourself. It was around Kenyon's shop and personality they gathered and many of them owed their collections to his zeal. Indeed, he had more collectors to his credit than a minister had converts.

"Why first editions?' he would exclaim. 'Why any books at all? Why bread and butter? Why life? Not that I mean first editions and association copies are as important as these things. Man is not content with bread and butter alone, nor just with life. He wants other foods and other lives than the every-day ones. Just as he seeks different dishes for his table, different clothes for his family and person, so does he seek his favorite author in a dress that is uncommon. If you truly love an author's works you want them as he wrote them and not as ill-advised friends suggested. Laugh, if you will, but these are things for the soul and are quite as important as a new dress for the woman you love.'

"Time and again I have heard him argue with a reluctant book-lover. He never spoke to the same man twice on that subject. Either they left feeling him to be a fool or they came back to look over some rare editions of their author."

"A great man to be able to do that," I

agreed. "I wish he were alive to convince my family that I am not totally insane." "Not Kenyon. He would make his appeal to you whom he knew and let you settle with your family.

"His business in rarities gradually crowded out the remnants of his other lines and his shop was frequented only by collectors with definite needs and a fair knowledge of what they wanted.

"Kenyon's life was bounded by the four walls of his shop and these rooms: his companions were the collectors who were welcome for as long as they cared to remain. The outside world saw little of him save on Sundays when he would don his best and walk to Fifth Avenue and up to the park returning later by the old horse-drawn buses. The mob must have considered him ridiculous in his tightfitting trousers with the straps under the insteps, the cutaway coat, the lacy stock and the modified beaver. To us, who saw him only in his shop or in these rooms, he was not queer. His apple-red cheeks and his snow-white hair with the pink skin showing through belied the years he had spent between book-shelves. There was something in his life that had kept him young, something we did not know about."

"Cherchez la femme," I suggested.

"No such thing. We will come to that later. When he was about sixty-five a group of business men, deciding America was on the verge of a great book-buying epoch, came to him with an offer for his shop and good-will. Modern business methods, you understand. It is no longer the rule to begin at the bottom and work up. Nowadays you form a corporation to take over the business of some one at the top of the ladder. Very often you find that at the top there is no way but down. Kenyon considered the problem for some time before he made up his mind. The offer was a good one: it meant a large sum of cash and a fairish amount of stock in the new organization. They told him quite frankly that all they wanted was his name and his good-will, but that for their own protection they would buy the stock also. He must, on his part, agree not to re-enter the book business."

I suddenly became conscious that some

"Right here, Parker."

A colored servant spread a white cloth over Dickens's table and laid the silver.

interrupt his narrative.

"Thursday was our night to dine at his place. On the Thursday of which I am speaking there was nothing untoward

"This," said my host, "is dish for dish the same that Samuel Johnson served to his friend Boswell on the occasion of their first dining at Johnson's Court. It, too, was served by a Francis Parker. May we hope that the spirit of the Great Cham is with us during its progress."

The last words were said almost in the voice of a minister of the gospel asking VOL. LXXXI.-5

in the proceedings: the conversation of Kenyon was just as animated as ever. Wine preceded the dinner while we were still grouped about the fireplace. Then we sat down to one of those Dickensian dinners we had learned to love so well. When the last lips had been wiped by the last napkin Kenyon held up his hand. The servant refilled the glasses and he an