PROFESSOR NOTLEY’S CLOUDED BROW

New Zealand Tablet, 2 August 1917, Page 7

PROFESSOR NOTLEY’S CLOUDED BROW

(By Father Fitzgerald, 0.F.M., in the Catholic Bulletin-.)

There is a look of repose on those who gather in an auction-room where a library is to be sold, which is not noticeable in any other assemblage. Literary habits or bookish tastes leave their impress on the countenance, and the apparel often proclaims sedentary habits. Contempt of mere externals, tonsorial and sartorial, connotes high pursuits in the realms of thought. These were some of the natural features of the gathering when McCleod's famous library was up for sale in O'Halloran's auction-rooms that day in spring. Such a gathering, strange to say, is usually not gregarious, as each of the units suspects his neighbor and moves furtively about examining rare works, surreptitiously marking crosses before books in the catalogue he or she is after. To do this in -a nonchalant way and at the same time to keep a sharp eye on what other people are examining, is quite an art. Of course, the knowing ones, when they have dropped on something in their line, keep away as far as possible from that shelf lest they should furnish a clue. In that sedate, leisured-looking, semi-frowsy, nondescript assemblage that gathered in O'Halloran'a auction-rooms on this particular occasion there was one who was ill at ease, and wore a perturbed countenance. That countenance belonged to ex-Professor Notley. Indeed, he was quite a contrast to his charming daughter, who, radiant and comely, sat beside him on one of the long forms provided for bidders and purchasers. Not-

Icy was not one of these. He was there growl. -He was there to : protest. “Against what says somebody. Against the Bookworm Species, for Notley had a grievance. Being an ex-professor, possessing ■ ample means by his late "mother-in-law's will and having nothing to worry him and no cares, he naturally evolved a grievance. With others, easy circumstances produce nerves, for such people are never happy except they’re miserable. Notley’s was quite a cultured grievance, not - a mere plebeian one against tradespeople and artisans, but—as has been remarked—against Bookworms. If you wish to reduce your grievances to this standard then lose no time but become a professor and provide yourself with a genial and "wealthy mother-in-law with a weak heart and an ominous cough. Then such matters as food and rent will not trouble you and your mind will be free for a healthy crop of grievances.. °

The kind of bookworm Notley was out against was not the one that burrows little awl-hole tunnels through mouldy volumes, but rather the human specimen who often knows as little about the contents of his books as his tiny prototype. As the intending purchasers came into the auctionroom, towards noon the day of the sale, Notley now and then seemed to lose restraint of his feelings, which burst forth in such remarks as “Here’s another of the tribe!’’ as some inoffensive individual sidled in and took nis placehaving examined the collection of books ear ior in the day.

The auction went on as all such auctions :10, the ■veteran bookworms—usually men of meanspouncing on rare volumes, first editions, and the like, to the chagrin of the professional second-hand booksellers, and of others who come in quest of books which- thev had long yearned to possess as sources of information, to peruse and consult as occasion might demand. As the bidding became brisk for some “treasure’’ and the coveted tome was knocked down to one of the above collectors, Notley’s rage mounted higher and higher in spite of the gentle remonstrances of his sweet-faced daughter, who, it was evident, exercised considerable restraint on his excitable temperament. That the indignant ex-professor s wrath was shared bv many in the room was quite evident from the fiery glances that shot at the auctioneer when after the bidding had been keen and the price made prohibitive, he rapped his pencil on the rostrum and the book fell to one of the moneyed faddists.

It was on that particular day that various booklovers and literary men, inspired by ex-Professor Notley, met after the auction and discussed the formation of the now famous anti-Bookworm Society. For McCleod s library was of the choicest and contained many volumes which were marked “rare” and “very rare” or “only fifty printed for presentation,” and all these were snapped up by private collectors, to the bitter disappointment of many genuine men of letters who would have enriched the reading public with the lore which those “finds” contained. " To be brief, a movement was originated that day which grew 'in momentum during the following weeks, and culminated in a public meeting which can only be described as an epoch-making event. Those interested in such matters should turn back to the newspaper files for an account of the interesting proceedings we recall and which are here barely summarised. Ex-Professor Notley presided at the meeting, which was thoroughly representative of the world of letters. There was a large sprinkling of the fair sex amongst the audience, many of whom had passed the age of frivolity and romance and were devoted to literary culture and kindred pursuits. Savantswhose grave countenances suggested the Stone Age—sat on the platform, fixity of purpose sculptured on their features. There was no boisterousness whatever, no unseemly interruptions, none of that banter which one expects at political or municipal assemblies. -That meeting was about to break new ground. As those who filled the body of the hall came in and took their places they nodded to right and left, for there is a freemasonry

among book-loving _? people which : levels all social distinctions. Motors continued' to buzz up to the door of the hall from which old gentlemen t and ladies in furs and wraps' alighted whom only a great cause could have drawn from their homes on such a night. Young gentlemen in evening dress piloted the arrivals to their places, with silent foot-fall. and ! graceful gesture. At length a subdued air of expectancy settled on the gathering - and ex-Professor Notley rose in his place and was greeted with prolonged applause, the audience standing.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he,* “I think that we may flatter ourselves that the purpose for which we are assembled here this evening is unique in the annals of any country at any period of its most chequered history. We are about to strike a blow for culture, for the dissemination of rare literature. We look with feelings of admiration on those who embody their thoughts in current literature and provide the masses with a mental pabulum which is at once educative and ennobling, or who by flashes of genius dispel the gloom that broods over multitudes of silent toilers whose paths lie amid the cypress-clad slopes of existence. But tonight we inaugurate a work which bids fair to eclipse the most prolific energy of modern writers, for our object is to rescue from oblivion the pearls of thought which lie locked up in books to which the public are debarred access, for they are in the possession of men who—to put it gently— careless of the common weal. Let us not mince matters, ladies and gentlemen, we declare war to-night on the Bookworm Tribe.” (Enthusiastic applause, which lasted several minutes.) Have the great writers (continued the speaker) of the dim and distant past committed their thoughts to paper or to vellum that their intellectual parturitions might be buried in some library of a private collector who can neither appreciate their contents nor estimate the good which their publication would confer on society at large ? A private collector, ladies and gentlemen, is justly called a Bookworm. Igo farther. I stigmatise him as a dog-in-the-manger. (Murmurs of approval.) Hitherton the appellation of Bookworm has been a title of respect ambitioned by small-minded individuals who regard it as a claim to rank as litterateurs, and are credited by an unreflecting public as persons of worth, falsely presumed to be acquainted with the message of the volumes which they so graspingly retain in the recesses of their studios. We proclaim our conviction here-to-night, that rare volumes are the property of the nation at large, and we call upon the Government which asserts its rights to resume or if needs be, commandeer, whatever may promote the public welfarewe call on the Government, I repeat, to order an inspection of private libraries or collections with a view to compelling the owners of suchwith reasonable compensation^to deliver over their precious spoils to competent custodians ho will so allocate them as to be at the disposal of the general community. Mr. Notley sat down amidst a storm of applause while his charming daughter helped him on with his fur-lined overcoat, lest he should catch a chill.

“May I make a few remarks?” shrilled a littleold man from the left side of the hall, with ferret eyes. All heads were turned in his direction. Many recognised the distinguished Vivisectionist of European fame, - Dr. Steinbach. “I rise,” said he, “purely in the interest of public health. While admiring the intellectual aims of-the promoters of this select gathering, may I bo permitted to submit some reflections of a humanitarian kind

“Certainly, certainly,” said the president of the meeting.

“Mr. President, ladies, and gentlemen, I feel it incumbent on me to sound a note of warning on this momentous occasion, lest your zeal for the enlightenment of our fellow beings should cloud your vision as to the exigencies of public health. I view the matter solely from a humanitarian standpoint. Have you sufficiently pondered on the risk to general health

which you run by compelling private collectors, commonly called Bookworms, to bring forth from ‘ their secret receptacles, stuffy librariesj and dusty presses, those dreadful old books and manuscripts which are nurseries and breeding-grounds of the most deadly microbes that menace the health of our common humanity ? I would as soon open the cages marked dangerous in the Zoological Gardens and allow the ravenous beasts to range at will through the city. While those old parchments and worm-eaten tomes are securely kept under lock and key their virulent activities are restrained. They harm no one, not even their proprietors, who never read them, and if they do now and then handle them for purposes of vain display, they contract no disease because the class of persons called Bookworms are simply microbe-proof and impervious to contagion. Although they are invariably persons of means, they seldom tub or change their apparel, for disregard of every-day conventionalities is unfortunately regarded by them as one of the chief marks of literary genius. Pause, ladies and gentlemen ; pause, I say, before you resurrect the dormant potentialities which have slumbered innocuously for ages in the covers and between the leaves of those volumes which I as a scientist would not, I solemnly aver, handle, except with a tongs.” It must be said that the speech of Dr. Stcinbach chilled the ardor of the anti-Bookwormitcs. The distinguished speaker had certainly presented an aspect of the subject which was well worth serious reflection. His incisive, clear-cut sentences awakened in many a bosom the sense of self-preservation, for not a few of those present had attended lectures on hygiene, and avoided dust as thev would sin, which is saying much. Mr. Notley and his supporters on the platform looked slightly apprehensive, and a subdued discussion had already begun in the audience when another speaker rose and absolutely claimed a right to be heard. He said ; —•

“Mr. President, ladies, and gentlemen, allow me to enter a protest and to say that those who are called by the opprobrious epithet of Bookworms are the most inoffensive members of society. Are they ever seen in riotous gatherings? Have they any predilections, political, religious, social? Are they not absorbed in the one noble passion of book-collecting? But I am not here to claim your attention, except to the social and domestic side of the subject. These gentlemen who are collectors of rare books are—let us confess it—overmastered by a hobby, or a fad, or, I will go further, by a craze. Granted. Is it not highly providential that they have such a safety-valve for their superfluous energy? Deprive them of that and you throw them back on themselves without an object in life on which to concentrate their abilities. May they not have been counselled by their medical advisers to seek distraction in some congenial pursuit, lacking which, they are confronted with mental collapse or cerebral trituration, which conies to the same thing? Are not our places of public detention already overcrowded ? The domestic point of view is not less appalling. The ordinary rare book collector is not by any means a clubbable bon rivn/r. He is never, never seen on a racecourse. He loathes whist-drives. Being a man of means and talent he naturally devotes himself to literature or art, in which pursuit he is warmly encouraged by his wife and daughters, who can enjoy that freedom when he is absent which his presence would inevitably mar. Indeed, it may be asserted without fear of contradiction that many young ladies fail to get suitably settled in life through having a thoroughly domestic and home-loving papa, who has an exaggerated idea of his perental duties. Does this meeting take sufficiently to heart the result of robbing a gentleman of his hobby and making him become a hete voir , a kill-fun, a Imre to his once happy family?”

Several mammas and young ladies in the audience whose papas were often absent at literary circles seemed to feel the force of the last speaker's points. A momentary silence—shall we term it hesitancy

—seemed to ensue, but it was broken by an intruder who felt that the proceedings were marked by an unhealthy serenity. In raucous tones he said:' “As this meeting is called for the purpose of discussing books and book-buyers and sellers, may I ask for a list of those Unionist booksellers- and stationers in this city and throughout Ireland who have netted small fortunes during the last twelve months by selling the books of insurgents and their photographs. Will any proceedings be taken against them by the proper authorities for thus propagating —” The President ruled the question out of order, to the great comfort of the very cultured members of the audience. In an instant another objector, conscientious or otherwise, was on his feet. “I rise, sir,” said he, in a voice like the tearing of calico, “to say that I am a private book collector. lam proud, sir, to be called a Bookworm.”

A titter ran through the audience as all faces turned towards the speaker, who wore a topcoat and an anarchist’s cap which partly shrouded his left eye, giving him a sinister look. “I have listened,” said he, with suppressed indignation, “to the slights that have been cast on my profession. Yes, sir, I call it a profession. You may scoff at it as a hobby or a craze. If I spent my money in horse-racing or in the gratification of convivial tastes or in elegant attire, I would be condoned. But because

my predilections run in grooves unfamiliar except to the privileged few I am to be branded as a faddist. May I remark, sir, that I am an author?” (It may be parenthetically recorded that this was true. He was guilty of a work entitled Butterflies os Sonnt-amhoJi-sfs, ss. The edition was partly consumed in a fire. Malicious gossip says that, on seeing a copy of his work for sale at a second-hand shop he interviewed the proprietor and brought off a remarkable coup by squaring him to mark the volume £2 10s, “very scarce.” It made his name. Authors, please note.)

The indignation which swelled in the bosom of the last speaker choked his utterance, which dwindled into hoarse incoherent squeaks. A burly gentleman who had been trying to catch the president’s eye several times, suddenly rose as if projected upwards by an electrified chair. “Are we not,” thundered he, “trifling with the subject, merely toying with the fringe of it? Is this audience not aware that the class of persons styled Bookworms are one and all dominated in a greater or less degree by homicidal mania? They scan the ‘Deaths’ column of the daily papers with feverish expectancy every morning in the hope of seeing chronicled therein the demise of some literary man who has a choice library so that they may call as sympathisers and, if possible, strike a bargain for his rare books before the corpse is cold. They have been known to visit the apothecary with a view to finding out what malady some dear friend, alas! of their own is suffering from so that they may mature their plans for the acquisition of his literary heirlooms. Mr. President, ladies, and gentlemen, if I were the happy possessor of some priceless volume, I would never be so rash as to accompany a Bookworm on a lonely walk, nor would I, if even on the verge of starvation, accept food or drink from one of those dangerous members of society !” (Sensation.)

The speaker sat down and mopped his forehead, while those who sat near the little ferret-eyed man with the anarchist’s cap edged away from his vicinity. It looked bad for the Bookworms. They certainly had cause to wriggle. But ex-Professor Notley, as president of the meeting, completed their discomfiture and literally trod them under foot. He said: “Ladies and gentlemen. You have heard the engrossing subject of our deliberations threshed out in a spirit of sangfroid and fair-mindedness. This all important matter has been viewed from many standpoints—literary, social, domestic, hygienic, and homicidal. It remains for me to give the genesis of the Bookwoimi. This human specimen is born with the germ of acquisitiveness already highly developed. Have you ever noticed when in one of our city trams a baby in

arms holding out its tiny hand for disused tram-tickets It cries and screams under the impulse of the passion of acquisitiveness until every disused ticket is picked from the floor by good-natured but non-reflecting passengers, and the little fist can hold no. more/, There you have the book-collector, the Bookworm in embryo." (The audience looked at each other in admiring amazement as each recalled having noticed the phenomenon.) "Pursue that baby through the . dawning years of childhood. See him when he is ten. You will notice his pockets bulging. They are full to repletion with every sort of knick-knack, marbels, tops, pieces of cord, knives, brass buttons, in fact his pockets resemble a magpie's nest. There you have the unmistakable brand of the future Bookworm. In years to come he gives full scope, if his means allow, to this grasping, grinding spirit of acquisitiveness. Nor is their hobby, as one speaker too indulgently described 'it, limited to books. I know for a fact that several private bookcollectors in this city possess rare treasures of antique jewellery and the choicest objects of vertu and bijoutterie. Their wealth allows of it. It is they who have run up the prices of books so immeasurably, especiallv Irish books. The second-hand booksellers are not to blame. Eliminate, ladies and gentlemen, from the auction rooms those Bookworms, rather those human sharks, and the price-lists from being unduly inflated will resume their normal state. But let it be remembered, we contemplate no drastic measures at present. We merely intend to requisition the Government, as a preliminary step, to have an inspection made of the private collections of certain collectors in this city, that we may gauge precisely the literary wealth of the community. That initial stage we enter on this evening. Tables are provided at the door, books for signatories are ready for those who will append their names to be forwarded in due course to the proper authorities, who will, we are convinced, deal with this important matter in a high-spirited and statesmanlike manner." * * * * *

The meeting closed with great enthusiasm. The tables were besieged by crowds desirous of signing the memorial which when completed presented an array of names distinguished in every branch of literature, science, and art. Ex-Professor Notley, accompanied by his charming and beaming daughter, was vociferously cheered as he regained his motor. That the sought-for inspection obtained Government sanction is matter of history. The occasion furnished the man, in the person of the accomplished Professor Brookland, who forwarded his credentials and a resume of his academic distinctions and degrees, honorary and otherwise of Continental Universities. Ex-Professor Notley felt that a complete stranger would perform the delicate duties allotted to him with strict impartiality. Brookland's urbanity, his polished manners, his cultured diction betokened the savant and the gentleman, while his presence could not fail to impress. Professor Notley and his daughter enjoyed his company immensely for a few days before he settled down to work. Professor Brookland immediately mastered. the details and the niceties of his rather arduous and indeed, unique task, which postulated accurate information of the realm of bookland and a refined sensitiveness not to offend the susceptibilities of the private collectors, alias Bookworms, whose sanctums he was about to invade. He was furnished with a list of the most noteworthy of these in the city and in one day he visited their respective homes. * -X- -X- * -xThe following day Brookland and Professor Notley's daughter . disappeared simultaneously and took steamer for South America. The same evening Wiskyonticative, a distinguished Hebrew book-collector whose studio had been inspected,

reported the loss of a rare case of jewellery valued? at several, thousand. ; Other Bookworms or private collectors whose libraries had been inspected ". by the great expert, Professor Brookland, examined their premises and reported extensive/ losses .of priceless objects = of vertu. As * the day wore on other members of the Bookworm fraternity missed valuables which they averred could not be replaced. They clamored round ex-Professor Notley's residence. Indeed, it looked as if all the water in the Liffey could not wash him from participation in the crime. Needless to say that poor gentleman was at home to no one, for he was stunned and fairly prostrate with grief. The detective from Scotland Yard, which had been notified, duly arrived, obtained an interview with the Mr. Notley and showed him a photograph. "It is he! it is he!" moaned the broken-hearted gentleman. "It is Professor Brookland." The detective laughed derisively. "Professor Brookland !" said he. "Why that is the most notorious swell cracksman in England. He can play any part, or adopt any disguise." Poor ex-Professor Notley collapsed. "My honored name is shamed for ever," groaned he as a trim maid fluttered in with restoratives. ***** When ex-Professor Notley was next seen he had aged dreadfully. His once proud, erect form was stooped. We was obsessed with the idea that it was thought that he was a party in the plot, and originated the scheme for the robbery of the Bookworms' treasures. He now walks only at night, never reads current literature nor consorts with any of his kind. Otherwise these circumstantial details could not be chronicled in cold print. His lugubrious figure may be seen on dark nights lurching along unfrequented streets, and in the neighborhood of lonely squares. It was on one of these nightly rounds that our correspondent collided with him near a street lamp. Professor Notley's hat fell off and our correspondent hastened to pick it up and adjust it on his head, but while he did so he caught a glimpse of what will be to him for ever a haunting vision, Professor Notley' clouded brow.