ago? I never sought such a career, and I had no knowledge of fine prints; but I was pitchforked into it (pitchforks again!) by a quaint and curious occurrence. Among my New York acquaintances was an elderly London printseller who had set up a shop in New York. During his frequent visits to me he wasted my time sadly by his incessant grumbling. Everything in New York was wrong. Day and night, summer and winter, were all wrong. The people of New York got on his nerves because some of them talked with a nasal twang, and it afflicted him that vehicles took the right side of the street instead of driving to the left “as they very properly do in London."

At length he could endure his annoyances no longer, so he clapped his entire stock into Leavitt's Rooms and had it sold at auction. The result of this sale was (this was forty years ago) that the inferior prints all sold at good prices, but in the course of the sale our old pessimist found it necessary to bid in some sixty-two of his finest prints so as not to have them sacrificed at the auction. Then he came to me, with the portfolio of his prints under his arm, and said: "These prints are the last tie that binds me to this hateful place, and there is a steamer sailing for England on Saturday. I believe I shall go mad if I have to stay in this abominable town for another week, and so I want you to make me an offer for these prints which I saved from slaughter at the auction. I assure you that they cost me, in London, well over a hundred pounds sterling."

For my part, I had no more use for his old prints than I would have had for the collection of echoes which Mark Twain's hero spent a fortune in purchasing, and so to "let him down easy" I said I would not pay more than a hundred dollars for them. But, to my dismay, he accepted my offer, and I found myself in a similar predicament to that of the old lady who had won an elephant at a raffle! However, the prints were mine, and I soon learned to hate the sight of them.

This brings me to mention a Philadelphia man who had, in several ways, a strong influence in making my life what it has been. He was George Gebbie, a Scotchman by birth, and one of the finest among the admirable men whom it has been my privilege to know. He had his faults, however, including a very irritable and pugnacious temper; but apart from that I have never known a more thoroughly manly man. Mr. Gebbie had a passionate love for fine literature, and, indeed, he himself could write very well both in prose and verse. It was he who first indoctrinated me into the love of the writings of Shakespeare and of Thackeray. I remember that when he recommended me to read Thackeray I asked him what was the main characteristic of that author's writings. His answer was so good that it ought to be preserved in print: "Well, it's a kindly sneer at poor humanity." I do not think that Thackeray could be better characterized in one short phrase.

Mr. Gebbie was, at that time, a publisher and bookseller in Philadelphia and for years I had so much business to transact with him that I often went there. On one occasion I had to remain in Philadelphia for an entire week. Before leaving New York I wrote to my friend Gebbie, announcing my visit, and in my letter I made mention of the portfolio of prints which I had so foolishly bought from the grim old Londoner. I said in the letter: "You remember the story in the Vicar of Wakefield of Moses, the vicar's guileless son, who took a horse to sell at the fair, and instead of bringing back the much-needed money he brought home, in payment for the horse, a gross of green spectacles, which had been palmed off on him by a knave." I added that I myself, no wiser than young Moses, had bought a gross of green spectacles in the shape of a portfolio of ancient and dingy looking prints. My friend, in answering my letter, told me to bring my gross of green spectacles" along with me when I came to Philadelphia, and he added, "You may not know it, but there are people who collect these smoky, poky old prints."

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Arriving in Philadelphia with my hated portfolio, Mr. Gebbie gave me a letter of introduction to the late John S. Phillips, a wealthy old Philadelphian who had spent most of his life in collecting fine old engravings, and whose collection is now one of the chief treasures of the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. I showed him my sixty-two prints and told him how they

came into my possession. Mr. Phillips looked them over and asked me what was their price. I answered that, like a fool, I had paid a hundred dollars for them and that all I asked was to get my money back if I could. The gracious old gentleman answered, "You say you know nothing as to the value of these prints. That being so, it would be a dishonest act on my part to buy the lot from you for a hundred dollars. I find six among them which are well worth that sum to me, and I will buy them from you.'

Old Mr. Phillips, being full of his hobby and learning that I was to remain in Philadelphia for a week, undertook my first education in printlore. He put some questions to me: "Can you translate from the French?" I answered "Yes." "Can you translate German?" "No." "Can you translate Italian?" "With the aid of what Latin I know, yes." Then he showed me rows and rows of books in his library and said to me: "These are all books of reference describing the works of various great engravers. They are mainly in the French language. You shall come here every day, take some of your prints, and identify them in my books." This was my first lesson in my specialty.

Mr. Phillips also marked the approximate value on each one of my prints and gave me letters of introduction to other Philadelphia collectors. Among these were the late John Huneker, father of Mr. James G. Huneker, of New York, the distinguished writer on art and on music. I was

also introduced to the greatest print-collector of his time, James L. Claghorn. During my long life it has been my privilege to have known many notable men and women, but a finer specimen of humanity, mentally and morally, than Mr. Claghorn I have never known. He was of a type which is very rare except in America; a strong, forceful man who would have been a master under nearly any circumstances, a great financier, a powerful man of affairs, but yet a genuine lover and collector of works of art. He was a huge man, weighing more than three hundred pounds, but he had a heart nearly as big as his own girth! The poorest and obscurest art student in Philadelphia was as welcome to examine and study his art treasures as was the greatest person in the community. Mr. Claghorn, at the suggestion of Mr. Phillips, bought a number of prints from my gross of green spectacles," and I returned to New York with money enough to make me decide to become a printseller. To do this it was necessary for me to go to Europe to procure my stock, and to Europe I went. It did not take long for me to expend my little store of money, so I packed up my stock and engaged my passage to New York on a steamer which was to sail in a few days. The day following I learned that the greatest printseller in all Europe could be found at number 109, The Strand. I went there and read on the signboard the name of Noseda. I entered, inquired for Mr. Noseda, and learned that the head of the house was Mrs.

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