feed, in which the people watch the old Tirsau gorge himself for ninety minutes, and a most. labored description of a parade, in which the Tirsau is the venerable and imposing figure. The chief interest of the people in this story seems to be such things as vivisection, sewage and making composts. Bacon did not finish it. His historian, Rawley, explains why, by saying: "Bacon's desire for collecting the natural bistory diverted him, which he preferred many degrees before it."

If a story that contains a laboratory, dissecting room, dyehouses, observatories, and in which they manufacture thunder, lightning, and composts, and generate frogs, flies and worms, does not satisfy a would-be scientist's longings in such respects, what must be thought of an attempt to attribute to him such works as "A Midsummer Night's Dream," "Comedy of Errors," "Much Ado About Nothing," and "The Merry Wives of Windsor"?

The only verses that Bacon wrote were his versification of the One Hundred and Fourth Psalm. Let any one who thinks of crediting him with Shakespeare's works read that. It has never appeared or been mentioned in any Baconite publication. It was not written in Bacon's youth, but when he was mature, and the plays were all in existence. Why do not the Baconites show their idol's power by publishing the verses that we all know he did write. Bacon's historians have published them and commented upon them. They speak of them as "flat effects," "bad lines," "ridiculous failure," and "low order." This versification is too long to quote here, but the fourteenth and fifteenth verses are specimens:

Causing the earth put forth the grass for beasts,
And garden herbs, served at the greatest feasts,
And bread that is all viands' firmament,
And gives a firm and solid nourishment,
And wine, man's spirits for to recreate,
And oil, his face for to exilarate.

The first thing for the Baconites to do, is to prove that Bacon never wrote these lines. Until that is done no one can honestly believe him to have been a poet. There is no other evidence so positive and conclusive against the Baconites' theory as a study of Bacon. People generally have a very erroneous estimate of him. Queen Elizabeth knew him well, and Shakespeare also. She never thought Bacon wrote the plays. She has left her estimate of Bacon on record. She said: "Bacon hath great wit and learning, but in law he showeth to the uttermost of his knowledge, and is not deep."

The only ground put forward by the Baconites to explain why Bacon did not acknowledge the plays as his own is, I think, that he feared it might injure his chances of preferment by the

Queen. The world has very positive knowledge as to what kind of a woman Queen Elizabeth was. She was a great friend of the players. If this reasoning had referred to Cromwell's time there might be some force in it, but it is simply absurd when applied to Queen Elizabeth or King James. Bacon's essay on "Love" was probably a thousand times more fatal to him in the Queen's mind than to have been known as the author of the plays which she enjoyed so much. I imagine that the thing he needed most to gain the royal favor was just that gift which his admirers are are trying to conceal. He did not like love. He called it the "child of folly," said it did "great mischief," and "rarely found entrance in an open heart," and "great spirits do keep out this weak passion." Can any one suppose that was the kind of sentiment that would gain him favor with the Queen?

I wonder how the Baconites account for Bacon's

appearance-voluntarily-in the Essex trials, when the playing of "Richard II." was part of the indictment for treason. Can it be imagined that Bacon would prosecute, convict and have men executed for treason for acting a play that he had written and no word or hint of such fact ever be mentioned by Shakespeare, when one of the prisoners, Southampton, was his benefactor, and it was Shakepeare's company that gave the play. If Bacon had written the play or had had any connection with it he would naturally have been in constant dread, and common prudence would have kept him out of the contest. Instead of that he thrust himself forward and accomplished the conviction of his benefactor, Essex, and Shakespeare's benefactor, Southampton. If he had been the author of the plays it is not possible that the fact would not have come out at that time. Such a revelation would have completely silenced Bacon and would have been most welcome to Shakespeare and those accused.

If Bacon wrote the plays, certainly Shakespeare never knew it, and Bacon's historians never suspected it. It is singular that the question of the dead languages should have any part in this discussion. It has no weight whatever. There were translations at that time of everything that was of use to Shakespeare in his writings. The knowledge of those languages was very general. Every schoolmaster and every monk was conversant with them, and Bacon in his works complained that English was neglected and too much time given to the study of Latin and Greek in the schools.

In regard to the scribbling on Bacon's manuscript I think that passages from Shakespeare and even Shakespeare's name have been found, but they were proved not to be in Bacon's handwriting. He had an immense number of notes

that he jotted down for future use. Mrs. Pott based her Promus on them. Bacon called them his "apparatus of rhetoric, doors, windows, staircases, and back rooms to be skillfully contrived." Is there any ground for the belief that Bacon wrote the plays because some of these words or expressions bore some resemblance to passages in the plays? Is it reasonable to suppose that a man who never wrote anything that could be called poetry under his own name, one who condemned the stage and sneered at love, should in reality be the greatest poet that ever lived? Or is it not more reasonable to suppose that certain expressions caught his attention as a spectator at the representations which were being constantly given and that he followed his usual custom and jotted down a few of them?

A book has been written to show that Ben Jon son wrote all of Bacon's works. He did assist Bacon to put them into Latin. Bacon thought the English language would not survive.

If "W. R. W." thinks little is known of Shakespeare, he should read E. Gard Fleay's life of him, what Ben Jonson has said of him in his

"Discoveries" and elsewhere; also what Heminge and Condell say of him. These two men spent seven years after Shakespeare's death collecting and publishing his plays. It was purely a labor of love. He should also remember that the sonnets have not been claimed for Bacon that I have ever heard, and if Shakespeare wrote them, why not also the plays? He should remember that Shakespeare's authorship was not questioned until more than 200 years after his death, and then the claim was made by Elizabeth Salter Bacon, probably on account of her name.

Fleay gives a connected history of Shakespeare's connection with the theatre from 1587 until 1610, and his association with some of his fellow-actors until his death in 1616. Instead of little being known of him, his lifetime association with his fellow-actors presents one of the most remarkable records of friendship known, especially in a calling that naturally provokes the most extreme tests of patience and indulgence; it is on all sides an indication of sturdy and steadfast character. CHARLES F. STEEL.

Thou musty relic of the long ago,

That once in richly paneled calf didst shine, That once the curious binder's care didst know— How wretched is this present state of thine!

Here where the skillful workman laid the gilt,
A frowzy, dull and green-faced humor lies,
Inherited from those dank vaults they built
To screen their treasures from despoiling eyes.

Here, too, defeatured by unkindly use,

These covers warp, which cunning fingers tooled; Here many a wormhole deviously pursues

Its odious way through margins broadly ruled.

How impotent the art that sought to make These Russia joints the spoil of years defy! That fain would have this crest armorial take No blemish on its spotless argentry!

These leaves are stained, this portrait quaint and old,
Is foxed throughout by time's pervading touch;
Gone are the borders and the clasps of gold
The ancient bookworm justly prized so much.

Enough of mere condition and estate,

And naught of postils learned or leaves destroyed; Enter, who will, this charnel-house of fate!

There's much to fear, but more to be enjoyed.

What scenes of havoc and of blood are here!
What strife for empery, what lust for gain!
What trampling horse, what armoured knights appear!
What shouts of victory and what cries of pain!

What fiery escalades this leaf portrays!

This answering leaf, what brawls unpeaceable! What strains Alcmanian the next disgrace!

What tale of broken hearts does this one tell!

What scents ambrosial these lines pervade!

What sweets nectarean these lovers sip! What ardu rous vows of constancy are made! What amorous kisses fly from lip to lip!

See how this well-conned page preserves the trace
Of tears that sprang belike from lovely eyes,
The while, distraught, her bosom heaved apace,
And all the air was rent with pitying sighs.

Anon do we read of revel and debauch,

Of wide-mouthed tankards foaming at the lips;
Of wanton jest and song and merry catch
That close the scene in drunkenness and eclipse,
Here king armigerous conflicts with king,
Here fortunes toss and vassals flee in rout;
Here brazen-throated cannon headlong fling
Their heavy charge, and roar destruction out.
Here inauspicious stars defeat, and there
A scorpion-crested Fury bristling shows;
While following hard, self-murder and despair
Bring the long siege of miseries to a close.

And there are darker colourings at times,
Of purity assoiled, of love betrayed;

Of shameful deeds that burn the cheek, and crimes
Against the laws not man but nature made.

These were the follies of an age that broke

In native strength from sleepy Custom's rule;

Its influence is active yet, for look!

It moulds and humanizes every school.

Then live, dark master of the human heart, The genius of thy book that speaketh still; I cherish it as thine own counterpart, And drink from fabled Helicon at will. Chicago. ---ST. GEORGE BEST.

THE ROMANCE OF BOOK COLLECTING.

BY J. H. SLATER.

CHAPTER I.

IN EULOGY OF CATALOGUS.

There are plenty of people-in fact, they are in the great majority even among bookish menwho regard antiquated sale-catalogues in the light of so much rubbish, and yet, when inteiligently consulted, these memorials of a bygone day not only have their uses, but are positively interesting. Truly enough, they are not popular, like the last new novel which, for one reason or another, has taken the town by storm, and it would not pay to reprint a single one of them, even the best or most important that has ever held the frequenters of auction-rooms spellbound.

Sometimes a "parcel" will be sold for what it will fetch, and on investigation may prove to contain a few simple-minded pamphlets on subjects of no importance, "and others," the latter consisting of book catalogues of the last or the earlier portion of the present century. This happens sufficiently often to make it possible for a bookish enthusiast of an antiquarian turn of mind to lose himself with marvelous rapidity in a maze of oldtime dispersions. But the enthusiast, unless very determined indeed, knows better than to choke his library with such material. He is aware that an exhaustive index is indispensable to the proper appreciation of such literature, and to make that would occupy his nights indefinitely.

And so it comes to pass that old sale-catalogues of books are consigned for the most part to the rubbish heap, or perhaps sent to the mills, to reappear later on in another guise. They may be scarce in the sense that, if you wanted a particular one, it could only be got with great difficulty and at considerable expense (here the art of selling to advantage comes in), or perhaps not at all. This, however, makes no matter, for the fact remains that such things are not inquired for as a general rule, and that an occasional demand is insufficient to give them any kind of status in the world of letters.

Some five or six years ago a member of the Johnson Club, a literary society which meets at intervals in various parts of London, but more particularly in Fleet street, discovered a catalogue of the sale of the old doctor's library, neatly marked with the prices each book had brought. Whether this was a sale post mortem or a casual interlocutory dispersal at the instance of some soulless creditor, I do not know. In any case the relic was a find-a fact which the bookseller who bought it was not slow to appreciate, for he at once assessed its value, to the society man, at something like forty shillings. This was paid

without demur, because at the time all the other Johnson catalogues were in mufti, and it had struck no one to exhibit them, and also because it was, under the circumstances of the case, a very desirable memorial to present to the society which flourishes on the fame of the great lexicographer. Here, at any rate, is one exceptional instance of an old catalogue possessing a distinct pecuniary value up to £2, and though the noise this discovery made in certain circles led to a general search and the rescue of other copies, the circumstances are not in the least affected on that account.

From a literary or even a sentimental standpoint a long story, full of speculation and romance, might be written on Dr. Johnson's longforgotten catalogue. We might, for instance, trace, by the aid of Boswell, many of the books mentioned in it to the very hand of the master himself. We might conjecture the use he made of this volume or that in his "Lives of the Poets," "The Vanity of Human Wishes," or in the ponderous Dictionary that cemented his fame, and by way of interlude beguile an hour occasionally br contrasting the character of the books he affected with the quality of those on the shelves of some modern Johnson, assuming, of course, that his counterpart is to be found. Then we might look at the prices realized, and compare them with those ruling at the present day. Some books then in fashion, we may be sure, now despised and rejected, others have not been appreciably affected by the course of time, while others, again, are now sought after throughout the world, and are hardly to be met with at all. There is no old catalogue whatever which is not capable of affording considerable instruction if we only read between the lines.

Then, again, there is one speculation that no true book-lover can stifle; it haunts him as he passes the barrows with their loads of sermons and scholastic primers, and it is this: "Time works wonders." Some day may not this heterogeneous mass of rubbish produce as fine a pearl as ever a diseased oyster was ever robbed of? May not fashion go off at a tangent and dote on lexicons or what not? There have been men--Rossie, for example, who was so saturated with the suspicion that fashion might change any moment that the stalls which he passed were "like towns through which Attila or the Tartars had swept, with ruin in their train"-who would buy any book whatever, whether they wanted it or not, on the bare chance of some one else wanting it, either at the time or in the days to come.

Such may be the outcome of a too eager perusal of catalogues, focussed till it produces an absorbing passion, which only departs with life itself. After a time, discrimination, naturally enough, becomes impossible, and whole masses of books

are bought up for what they may become, not for what they are. This may appear to be an ignoble sort of pastime, but in reality it is far otherwise, since wholesale purchasers of this stamp are invariably well read, and know more about their author than his mere name. I personally was acquainted with a book worm who absorbed whole collections at a time. His house was full of books; they were under the beds, in cupboards, piled up along the walls, under the tables and chairs and even on the rafters under the roof. If you walked without due care, you would, more likely than not, tumble over a folio in the dark, or bring down a wall of literature, good, bad or indifferent, on your head. This library was chaotic to the general, though the worm himself knew very well. where to burrow for anything he required, and, what is more to the point, would feed for hours on volumes that few people had ever so much as heard of. The monetary value of his treasures did not trouble him, though one of his favorite anecdotes related to the hunting down of a fourth folio Shakespeare which, after much haggling, he purchased for a song from a poor woman who lived in an almshouse. When the delight of the chase was over, he recompenses her to the full market value, thereby proving that, in his case at least, a greed for books does not necessarily carry with it a stifled conscience. Sad to relate, this bibliophile died like other men, and the collection of a lifetime came to the inevitable hammer. Most of his books then proved to be portions of sets. If a work were complete in, say, ten volumes, he would perhaps possess no more than five or six of the full number in various bindings and editions, while others, though complete, were imperfect, and many were in rags. Yet among the whole there were some pearls of great price. Even in his day the fashion had changed in his favor.

Now, this changing of fashion which is always going on cannot be prophesied at haphazard, or perhaps at all; but if there is a way of forestalling it, it is by the careful comparison of prices realized for books of a certain kind at different periods of time, and this can only be accomplished by a study of catalogues. The bookman likes to think that history repeats itself in this as in other matters, and that what has happened once will probably occur again in process of time. Nay, he might, without any great stretch of credulity, persuade himself that it must occur, if only he live long enough. That's the rub, for half a dozen lifetimes might not be sufficient to witness a return to favor of, say, the ponderous works of the Fathers, which were in such great demand a couple of centuries ago. As of them, so of many other kinds of books which are only read now by the very few. Some day they will rise again

after their long sleep, but not for us. As a corollary to this eulogy of catalogues, let us take a few of them and see where the bookman's steps are leading him. In his wanderings abroad he must many a time be painfully conscious of the fact that his own quest is that of everyone else whose tastes are similar to his own. Let a first edition of the immortal "Angler" so much as peep from among the grease and filth of a rag-and-bone shop, and a magnetic current travels at lightning speed to the homes of a score cr more of pickers-up of unconsidered trifles, who forthwith race for the prize. How they get to know of its existence is a mystery. Perhaps some strange psychological influence is at work to prompt them to dive down a pestilential alley for the first and last times in their lives. Did you ever see a millionaire groping in the gutter for a dropped coin? His energy is nothing to that of the bookman who has reason to suspect-why, he knows not--that here or there may perhaps lie hid and unrecognized a volume which fashion has made omnipotent. And his energy is not confined to himself alone, for one decree of a naughty world changes not-it is ever the same. What many men want, more men will search for; what one man only has, many will want. The path of the book-hunter is trodden flat and hard with countlesss footsteps, and this is the reason why it is so unsatisfactory to look specially for anything valuable.

We may take it, therefore, that, though hunting for books may be a highly exhilarating pastime, it is seldom remunerative from a pecuniary point of view. There are, no doubt, hundreds of good and useful volumes which can be bought at any time for next to nothing; but they have no halo round them at the moment, and so they are abandoned to their fate by the typical collector, who insists not only on having the best editions in exchange for his money, but that his books shall be of a certain description-that is to say, of a kind to please him, or which for the time being is in great demand.

And men are pleased at various times by books of a widely different character, as the old catalogues tell us plainly enough. In 1676, when William Cooper, bookseller, dwelling at the Sign of the Pelican in Little Britain, held the first auction sale ever advertised in England-that of the library of Dr. Lazarus Seaman-works of the Fathers and Schoolmen; learned and critical volumes of distressing profundity, appealed to the comparative few who could read and write sufficiently well to make reading a pleasurable occupation. Poetry is absent entirely. Shakespeare and Milton are elbowed out by Puritan fanatics who fulminate curses against mankind. No doubt, if a bookman of those days had been asked

what kind of literature would be in vogue a couple of centuries hence, he would have pointed to Seaman's collection and replied: "Books like those can never die. So long as learning hoids its sway over the few, they will be bought and treasured by the many." In this they would have been wrong, for few people care nowadays for volumes such as these. The times have changed utterly, and we with them.

At this same sale was a book which sold for less than almost any other, and it lay hidden away under this bald and misleading title, "Veteris et Novi Testamenti in Ling. Indica, Cantabr. in Nova Anglia." Simply this, and nothing more. No statement as to date, condition or binding appears in Cooper's catalogue, and yet this Bible is none other than John Eliot's translation into the Indian language, with a metrical version of the Psalms in the same vernacular, published at Cambridge, Mass., in 1663-61. An auctioneer of the present day would print the title of this volume in large capitals, and tell us whether or no it had the rare dedication to King Charles II., of pious memory, which was only inserted in twenty copies sent to England as presents. If it had, then this book, wherever it may be, is now worth much more than its weight in gold, for at Lord Hardwicke's sale, held in London on June 29, 1888, such a desirable copy was knocked down for £580.

Why this immense advance in price, seeing that probably there is no man in England to-day who could read a single line of John Eliot's free translation? The reason is plain. Since 1661 sleepy New England has vanished like the light canoes of countless Indians, and in the busy United States there has grown up a great demand for anything which illustrates the early history of North America. Had such a contingency struck old Lazarus Seaman, he would have made his will to suit the exigences of the case, and perhaps taken more interest in John Eliot and his missionary enterprises than any one did. at the time, or has done since.

It may perhaps be said that Seaman's library must have been of a special kind, one which such a learned divine might be expected to gather within his walls; but as a matter of fact this was not so. Between 1676 and 1682, October to October in each of those years, exactly thirty sales of books were held by auction in London, among them the libraries of Sir Kenelm Digby, Dr. Castell, the author of the "Lexicon Heptaglotton"; Dr. Gataker, Lord Warwick and other noted perThe general character of all the seventeenth-century catalogues which time has spared for our perusal is substantially the same. Every one of them reflects the taste and fashion of the day, as did Agrippa's magic glass the forms of

sons.

absent friends. Still harping chiefly on theology, as Polonius might say, these catalogues are crammed with polemics and books of grave discourse. Anything which could not, by hook or by crook, be dragged, as to its contents, within the circumference of the fashionable craze, was disposed of for a trifling sum. Even in 1682 the learned world, or at least our narrow corner of it, was inhabited almost entirely by crop-eared Puritans, with sugar-loaf hats on their heads and broad buckles to their shoes, and by philosophers. True, Cromwell had gone to his account, and Charles II. held court at St. James' and elsewhere, but the king and his merry companions were not reading men-unless a profound knowledge of "Hudibras," that book which Pepys could not abide the sight of, could make them so. The antiPuritans patronized Butler and doted on Sir Charles Sedley, the Earl of Rochester and a few more, who scribbled love verses by day and gambled and fought and drank at night. But these worshipped Thalia and Erato only, with music and dancing and other delights, and knew nothing of solid hard work by the midnight oil. They had no books to speak of, and the few they had were light and airy like themselves, and for the most part as worthless.

On November 25, 1678, a great sale was held at the White Hart, in Bartholomew Close. The books were "bought out of the best libraries abroad, and out of the most eminent seats of learning beyond the seas," or, more truthfully, had been removed from the shops of seven London book-sellers who had combined to "rig" the market. Books of all kinds were dispersed at this sale, which continued de die in diem till the heptarchy was satisfied. Were the members of this pioneer combination alive now, they would weep to think that they gave away on that occasion-practically gave away-scores of what have long since become aristocrats among books. Americana were there in plenty, and some of these are now so extremely rare and valuable that they are hardly to be procured for love or money; some few, indeed, have completely disappeared, tossed lightly aside, probably, by disgusted purchasers, or carted back again to the shops from whence they came, to be stacked once more till they perished utterly of damp and neglect, mothmice and rust.

On the other hand, our old friends, the Puritans, reveled in grim folios bought up at prices which, the change in the value of money notwithstanding, would hardly be exceeded now. Walton's "Biblia Sacra Polyglotta" was an immense favorite, a distinction it doubtless deserved, and, indeed, deserves yet, though we can see that Walton must have "gone down" woefully in the last hundred years, when we come to calculate