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.
