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.
BEVERLY CHEW, OF NEW YORK, WHO COMBINES A PROFOUND LOVE OF ENGLISH LITERATURE WITH AN INEXHAUSTIBLE KNOWLEDGE OF FIRST EDITIONS
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?”
MR. HUNTINGTON AMONG HIS BOOKS
MR. HUNTINGTON AMONG HIS BOOKS
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.”
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.”
Harry Elkins Widener’s Book-Plate
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W.