A Farce in Little

— In this present year of grace, four people who love literature were hearing the chimes at midnight in a little apartment off the Strand, and talking about old books. Old wine and old friends had no shadow of a chance. Volume after precious volume had been brought forth, handled reverently, and set up for the worship of the eyes. The three guests had no reason to hate the master of the house save for his extreme riches ; but hate him they did, what time they were not praying to find themselves his residuary legatees. For only bibliomania induces in brother bibliomaniacs the thirst for blood. There was the little book of Christina Rossetti’s verse printed in her girlhood ; there were Stevenson’s manuscripts richly bound ; there were autograph copies from Browning, Meredith, and the other giants. It was a literary Olympus here on earth. And then suddenly, without preamble, the curtain went up on a little farce. The host came forward bearing a dingy volume ; from his mien, it might have been the crown of three kingdoms. “ Here,” said he, “is the apex of my achievement, — The Compleat Angler, of 1653.”

The brow of one guest, who had at home a collection inferior only to this, clouded over. “That recalls,” he said, “ the great tragedy of my book-collecting career. I had a Compleat Angler, this adorable first edition, and somebody borrowed it. Curious as it may seem, I can never remember who. I was just coming down with influenza, and my head was of no more use than a cork tossing at sea. I know that five or six people called, one day, and that they looked over my books at their own sweet will. When I got well, I remembered having loaned my Angler. But to whom ? I never found out. And he never returned it.”

“ Serves you right for lending it,” growled the Ursa Major of collectors, he who keeps his own treasures under lock and key.

“ Yes ; but I was n’t myself ! And when we are not ourselves, we ’re some other man ; and then we get changed back, and have to bear the consequence of his misdeeds.”

Meanwhile, the host, who had been rummaging on laden shelves, returned with more grapes from Eshcol. “ By the way,” one guest greeted him, “ how did you come upon your Angler ? ”

His eyes lighted with that joy which is not of earth, but only of the market of first editions. “ I got it through a hellish plot,” said he. “ It belonged to an acquaintance who knew no more about books than I of Hecuba. But he owned the Angler; and though he was entirely ignorant of its significance, he had a terrible bump of acquisitiveness, and I knew that if he should once be made to recognize his treasure he would cling to it for dear life. I found it, one evening, in his library. You never saw me swoon ? I came near it then. ‘ Queer old book,’ I said. ‘ Interesting ? ’ ‘I fancy not,’he answered. ‘ Never read it.’ ‘ What did you buy it for?’ ‘I did n’t. I borrowed it, so long ago that I don’t remember where.’ Well, gentlemen, I borrowed that book. I borrowed it with a volume of Hugh Miller, and one of Marie Corelli, and Tapper’s Poems, and five or six more. I had to call a cab to take them home. And when I returned the others, I kept the Angler. More than that, I swore an oath, by oak, ash, and thorn, never to return it unless he asked for It. And he never did. In a month he died. He ” — The narrator’s check paled. His voice faltered. A thought had struck him, as it had all the others. Like an incoming wave, it knocked them off their feet. But no one spoke.

The supper was at that moment brought in, and suspicion temporarily lulled in ’alfand-’alf. But when the three guests were outside the door, the one who had been bereft of his Angler turned fiercely to the other two. “ All that remains for me,” he said, “is to go over the list of my friends or acquaintances who died after I had influenza. I will never ask a syllable of that harpy in there. For he’s got my Angler! ”