The Bachelors. William Dana Orcutt

we all have been eager to discover who the master was. Where did you learn so much?"

      "I have been interested in the mechanics of printing ever since, as a boy, I had my first press," explained Hamlen; "but I only turned to it seriously after I came here and felt the need of something to keep my mind engaged. I have in my library examples from probably most of the great printers and binders, but—I'm afraid you won't understand me when I say it—they have never interested me particularly, nor do they now. I am only interested in what I do myself; and when I explain I am sure you will not think me egotistical."

      "Go on," Huntington urged as Hamlen paused, but there was a break before the speaker continued.

      "You said a moment ago that you did not sympathize with some of my books; that is perfectly natural. I said just now that I was only interested in my own work; that, too, I believe, is natural. I have no knowledge of the great incunabula, I know nothing of the history of printing, and in making these few books I have had no thought of producing examples of the printer's or the binder's art: they stand to me simply as symbolic of certain phases of myself—some good, perhaps, some bad; but all representative of my mood when they were made. I tell you, Huntington"—Hamlen continued with deep intensity—"I tell you now what I have never before put into words, that those are not books at all; they are simply the expression of a something in my soul which demands an outlet, and it comes out through my finger-tips. That sounds absurd, but it is the solemn truth!"

      "Absurd?" cried Huntington. "My dear fellow, what you have just said is the explanation of the books which we collectors, poor simple fools, haven't been able to give. Don't you see that by your very act you have placed yourself among the masters? What else are the sculptures of Michelangelo, the paintings of Raphael, but the expression of their messages to the world made through the media with which they were familiar? With them it was stone and canvas, with you it is type and paper and leather. Thank God you couldn't write!"

      Hamlen listened to him in amazement, unable to grasp at once the significance or the breadth of all he heard. It was natural that Huntington's last words should be the first in his hearer's mind.

      "What do you mean—'thank God you couldn't write'?"

      "I mean that what you have just told me is the reason why the arts of painting, architecture and sculpture have stood still these four hundred and fifty years. Stop and think, man! Who in those arts has surpassed the work of the old masters within that limit of time? No one, I say; no one! And why? Think of your dates! Four hundred and fifty years take us back to the invention of printing. That was what did it! With all it accomplished for the cause of learning it was the death-knell to the further development of the arts; for with the invention of printing came an easier way to give to the world that message which the human soul contains. Since then the real artist, whoever he was, instead of laboring to express his message in stone, or bronze, or on canvas, has simply taken pen and ink and patient paper and given the outpourings of his soul to the dear public in the form of a book. Again I say, thank God you couldn't write!"

      When Huntington turned to his companion he was amazed to see that he had dropped upon a stool, with bowed head resting on his hands, was sobbing like a child. With a woman's tenderness and intuition Huntington gently rested his hand upon his head.

      "We have torn off the bandages too fast, my friend," he said quietly. "Philip Hamlen doesn't belong among the 'missing men'; he belongs among the masters of art of his generation."