in failure, and all the personal library which he had collected
through patient years was swallowed up in the disaster. After this he
returned to Brentano's, where he remained until his death. About a year
before his death he was run over by a taxicab, which shook his nerves a
great deal.

At some time during his career he came into intimate friendly contact
with Ambrose Bierce, and used to tell many entertaining anecdotes about
that erratic venturer in letters. He edited one of Bierce's volumes,
adding a pleasant and scholarly little introduction. He was an
occasional contributor to _Reedy's Mirror_, where he enjoyed indulging
in his original vein of satire and shrewd comment. He was a great lover
of quaint and exotic restaurants, and was particularly fond of the
Turkish cafe, the Constantinople, just off Madison Square. It was a
treat to go there with him, see him summon the waiter by clapping his
hands (in the eastern fashion), and enjoy the strangely compounded
dishes of that queer menu. He had sampled every Bulgar, Turkish, Balkan,
French, and Scandinavian restaurant on Lexington Avenue. His taste in
unusual and savoury dishes was as characteristic as his love for the
finer flavours of literature. I remember last November I elicited from
him that he had never tasted gooseberry jam, and had a jolly time
hunting for a jar, which I found at last at Park and Tilford's, although
the sales-girl protested there was no such thing. I took it to him and
made him promise to eat it at his breakfasts.

He had the true passions of the book-lover, which are not allotted to
many. He had read hungrily, enjoying chiefly those magical draughts of
prose which linger in the mind: Bacon, Sir Thomas Browne, Pater,
Thoreau, Conrad. He was much of a recluse, a little saddened and
sharpened perhaps by some of his experiences; and he loved, above all,
those writers who can present truth with a faint tang of acid flavour,
the gooseberry jam of literature as it were. One of my last
satisfactions was to convert him (in some measure) to an enthusiasm for
Pearsall Smith's "Trivia."

As one looks back at that quiet, honourable life, one is aware of a
high, noble spirit shining through it: a spirit that sought but little
for itself, welcomed love and comradeship that came its way, and was
content with a modest round of routine duty because it afforded inner
contact with what was beautiful and true. One remembers an innate
gentleness, and a loyal