son, never legitimately explained, Byron's friends always held themselves entitled to dispose of his income. If they did not If they did not want it themselves, they knew of others. who did. When "The Siege of Corinth" was published, Rogers and Sir James Mackintosh wrote him genially, proposing that he should give six hundred poundstwo-thirds of the purchase money-to William Godwin, who was then—as ever— "in difficulties." Byron, being in difficulties himself, paid his own debts instead of Godwin's, and was branded as mercenary forever.

These are the magnificent aspects of borrowing, its splendid insolences, its stately condescensions. The same spirit holds good in trivial matters, in the inconspicuous appropriation of umbrellas, walking-sticks, and books. The library of Lucullus was, we are told, "open to all," and it would be interesting to know how many precious manuscripts remained in his possession. Richard Heber, that most princely of collectors, so well understood the perils of his position that he met them bravely by buying three copies of every book, one for show, one for use, and one for the service of his friends. The position of the show book seems rather melancholy, but perhaps it replaced in time the borrowed volume. Heber's generosity has been nobly praised by Scott, who contrasts the hard-heartedness of other bibliophiles, those "gripple" owners who preferred holding on to their treasures, with his friend's careless liberality.

"Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Delight, amusement, science, art, To every ear and eye impart.

Yet who, of all who thus employ them, Can, like the owner's self, enjoy them?"

The "gripple" niggards might have pleaded feebly in their own behalf that they could not all afford to spend, like Heber, a hundred thousand pounds in the purchase of books, and that an occasional reluctance to part with some hard-earned, hard-won volume might be pardoned, if it could never be replaced. Lamb aptly compares a man who is rash enough to praise his books before a possible borrower to a lover who extolls the beauty of his mistress before a formidable rival; and the

heaviest curse he launches at the nead of a grievous ill-doer is, "May he lend a third volume, before he has finished the second, to a friend who shall lose it."

This formidable anathema offsets that wayward utterance, "Books belong with the highest propriety to those who understand 'em best,"-a phrase which has been too often quoted in defence of depredations that Lamb would have scorned to commit. By this ruling, Garrick's books belonged rather to Johnson than to Garrick, a point which could never be settled satisfactorily between the two friends. and which went near to wrecking their friendship. Garrick loved books with the chilly yet imperative love of a collector. Johnson loved them as he loved his own soul. Garrick took pride in their immaculate sumptuousness, in their unstained virginal splendor. ginal splendor. Johnson gathered them to his heart with scant regard for outward magnificence, for the glories of calf and vellum. Garrick bought books. Johnson borrowed them. Each considered he had the prior right to the objects of his legitimate affection. We, looking back with softened hearts, are fain to think that we should hold our volumes doubly dear if they had lain for a space by Johnson's humble fireside; if he had pored over them at three o'clock in the morning, and had left the imprint of that 'observant thumb" (Johnson, his mark) upon many a spotless page. But it is hardly fair to blame Garrick for not dilating with these emotions. Every grease spot, every spattering of snuff upon his stately folios hurt him too sorely for endurance. The time came when he refused to lend, and one set of sympathies between livelong friends was broken rudely and forever. "The history of book-collecting," says a caustic critic. "is a history relieved but rarely by acts of pure and undiluted unselfishness." This is true, but are there not virtues so heroic that plain human nature can hardly hope to compass them?

There is something piteous in the unavailing efforts of reluctant lenders to save their property from depredation. They place their reliance upon feeble makeshifts. that never yet were known to stay the borrower's hand. They have their names and addresses engraved on foolish little plates. which, riveted to their which, riveted to their umbrellas, they

think will suffice to insure the return of these too useful articles. As well might the lowland farmers have engraved their engraved their names and addresses on the collars of their grazing flocks, in the hope that mountain. raiders would respect these symbols of ownership. The history of book-plates is largely the history of borrower versus lender. The sanguine mind is wont to believe that a distinctive mark, irrevocably attached to every volume, will ensure permanent possession. I have heard people say as much before they learned their error. It has even happened that some churlish maxim, like "Loan oft loses both itself and friend," has been engraved upon the plate, by way of discouragement to marauders. When I was a girl, I had access to a slender and well-chosen library (not greatly exceeding Montaigne's fourscore volumes), each book enriched with a quaint device of scaly serpent guarding the apples of Hesperides. Beneath the apples was the Johnsonian motto (Johnsonian in form, not substance), "Honour and

Obligation demand the prompt return of borrowed Books." These words—I was very young-ate into my soul all the time I was reading. Doubts as to the exact nature of "prompt return" made me painfully uncertain as to whether a day, a week, or a month were the prescribed limit. But other borrowers were less sensitive, and I have reason to believe that-books being a rarity in that small Southern townmost of the volumes were eventually absorbed by the gaping shelves of neighbors. Perhaps even now-their generous owner long since dead-these antiquated copies of Elia, of Herrick, of Byron and Sir Thomas Browne may still be found buried in dusty and forgotten corners, like the gems that magpies hide.

It is vain to struggle with fate, with the elements, and with the borrower. "Lend therefore cheerfully, O man ordained to lend. When thou seest the proper authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were half-way.' Resistance to an appointed force is but a foolish waste of strength.

ΤΗ

force his attendance. As a consequence he grew up among the old women of the village, especially those in the poorhouse, whose stories furnished the required food for his extraordinarily vivid imagination and supplied material for the dreams that were inseparably a part of his existence. He did manage to learn to read fairly well, and this accomplishment was put to the test in the perusal of every old romance and play that he could lay hands on. When he was about nine years old his father died, and a few years later the boy's passion for the stage ripened into a resolve to go to Copenhagen, there to become an actor. He arrived in the Danish capital in the Fall of 1819, and then commenced his struggles. It was only too evident, from the first, that the long, lanky youth would make almost anything better than an actor. At the same time, his eccentric manner, his infectious enthusiasm, soon made him a conspicuous figure in the town, and notoriety led to friendships, some of them with people of prominence and culture. Had Andersen not been so proud he would have suffered far less, but he would not uncover his extreme poverty to

his richer acquaintances and he had often great difficulty in making both ends meet.

The first drama that he tried to write was, "Alfsol," and the second "The Robbers at Visenberg." This he sent anonymously to the Royal Theatre. It was rejected, of course, and a stinging comment made upon its plain display of defects in fundamental education. Nothing daunted, the confident author dispatched "Alfsol" after it, this time with better result. The play could not, it is true, be used for presentation, but there were some who found in it evidences of a talent that seemed worth cultivation, and the upshot of the matter was Andersen's introduction to Jonas Collin, from then on his benefactor and friend, through whom was made possible a three years' term at the Latin School at Slagelse. But Andersen never learned to write in a style such as his other abilities warranted; in fact, his difficulty in mastering even his own language is somewhat ludicrous. The old fault of lack of application, a penchant for daydreaming and a resentment of criticism are largely to blame for the defect without doubt, and the last resulted in his return to Copenhagen in 1827 and settling

down there, trouble having arisen between him and the master under whom he was studying. A new tutor was, however, provided and Andersen managed to scramble through with his final examinations.

He was now to make his debut as an author, which he did with the "Journey on Foot from Holm Canal to the East Point of Amager," a work which Edward. Collin, son of Jonas Collin, brought out for him by subscription. The book,

though frequently plagiaristic, was favorably received, and traces of the genius that was later to blossom forth are to be discerned in it.

Andersen's travels properly begin in 1831, when he set out for Hamburg, toured Switzerland, visited Dresden and Berlin, and upon his return brought out the "Silhouettes of a Journey to the Hartz and to Saxon Switzerland." He was always in his element when traveling. He calls himself "a bird of passage" and while "on the wing" took the most profound delight in faithfully recording his impressions. His observation was keen, and with his fine sense of humor he made his books of travel most delectable.

In the meantime he had also published a small volume of poems and one of his dramatic works, "Love on the Nikolai Tower" had been accepted. His reputation as a writer was now in some degree established. But still the aspiration to become a great dramatist haunted him, and this more than anything else led him into pitfalls and caused so much of that unhappiness which criticism always caused

him.

In 1833 Andersen visited Paris, but here again his enjoyment had its leaven. of bitterness, supplied by his critics, from whom the author could tolerate so little. He began a long poem and with this he was to silence them once and forever. He had always an implicit faith in the merit of everything that he undertook to write, and now his enthusiasm waxed hot and he continued his journey through France and into Italy in a perfect glow of anticipated triumph. But again he was to suffer. "Agnete" was dispatched to Collins and issued in the absence of the author. It proved a complete failure. It was again sadly evident that Andersen's genius was not of the higher poetic order, and he was

still prone to make use of other people's ideas. Yet the agony which he endured at every rebuff cannot fail to stir the heart, for this spectacle of wounded vanity in a man, who after all was but a child, with a child's conceit in its own performances, forms as always the piteous episode in Andersen's life. After the disappointment of "Agnete" he continued his travels, dreading to return to the land which to his contorted imagination had so failed to appreciate him, but when finally he did. make up his mind to go back he was both surprised and delighted to be so cordially, even lovingly, received.

In 1835 his first novel appeared, "Improvisatoren," a picture of life in Italy, and this time he had small reason for complaint, for, faulty as the book was in many particulars, it received an ovation, and its author was from that forward secure in his reputation as a writer.

But even then Andersen had not discovered that form of literary expression in which he was to excel, and on which all his future fame must rest. In the coming years he was to write more novels, "O. T.," "Only a Fiddler," "The Two Baronesses" and "To Be or Not to Be:" he was to write more poems and more dramas, some of the last of which were to be accepted and some few even produced successfully, as, for example, "The Mulatto," a drama in five acts, and the one-act plays, "The King Dreams" and "The Lying-In Room." But always would his novels be prolix, weak in characterization, indifferent in construction and marred by an ill-judged intrusion of the author's personality; always would the plays lack invention and show an inability to sustain a poetic narrative beyond a certain length. Writes Dr. Brandes,

"His prose has fancy, unrestrained sentiment, rhythm and melody; . . . his poems are frequently distinguished by a peaceful and childlike spirit, a warm and gentle sentiment;

but the nurs

ery story remains his sole individual creation."

The first of the famous fairy-tales, "folk-tales," Mr. R. Nisbet Bain says would be a more correct rendition of the Danish "Eventyr," appeared in a little pamphlet in 1835. There were four stories