Lord Byron's Novel by John Crowley Page B

possessed the papers still. He did. I further asked if this gentleman had considered depositing them with Lord Byron’s executors, with the firm of John Murray, his publishers, or otherwise delivering them up to his heirs and assigns. The man had so considered, he said, and might have done, but for a number of difficulties. The chain of events that had led to his possession of the manuscript could be interpreted as the reception of stolen property, an imputation that could only be strengthened by the length of time he had held it without informing anyone. Moreover the possessor believed (my informant said) that the manuscript was of such value that it could be traded for money, of which the Republican cause was badly in need, and therefore he was loath to bring it to the attention of those who might claim it by right, without compensation. It was this obstacle which my interlocutor put before me. He would, he said, by any means he might, acquire this relict of my father, which by the laws of men and of Heaven belonged to me and to my children, and ask nothing in return, for himself or any other party or cause, no matter how worthy; but he begged me before enlisting his aid in this action to think first of the commotion that would immediately ensue upon any attempt to wrest the manuscript—containing who knew what—from the present possessor.
    I did indeed bethink myself. What, for instance, would such a manuscript be worth? My father regarded his own manuscripts with a cavalier lack of interest, and often (after ensuring that a fair copy had been made) bestowed the originals on whomever stood by. Though the present age considers the remains of our famous authors to be worth having—certain collectors even paying goodly sums for such things—the amounts are in most cases but inconsiderable. How much good could the likely asking price do in the struggle for Italian freedom? Perhaps, I thought, it was not the provenance so much as the contents of the manuscript that in the possessor’s eyes made it worth acquiring; but of that I could know nothing without personal perusal. How, furthermore, could I be confident—it seemed impossible to be certain —that the monies demanded would actually benefit the cause to which my friends were devoted? If I received assurance on that score, then the acquisition of the manuscript might be considered as simply a means to an end desired in itself, even if the sum were incommensurate with the value of the thing bought. These calculations—and they arose as the operations of a mind stringently logical in its operations, as I may aver few minds are—were akin to those that devotees of the turf are accustomed to make when pondering the imponderables of a race card.
    Having come to a conclusion in which I could have confidence, I implored my friends’ assistance. I wished, I said, even if it were unwise for me to negotiate for the papers in my own person, to have at least a look at the present possessor of them; and my informant said that this might be arranged—I could observe, if I liked, an examination of the aforesaid manuscripts in a public place, where I might remain anonymous. The funds wherewith to purchase the papers I could supply from my own resources, and after negotiations to which I was not a party, a sum was named to me, to which I agreed. The meeting-place settled upon, where a first examination would take place, was the Crystal Palace exhibition halls, specifically the Dome of Discovery where Dr. Merryweather’s Tempest Prognosticator was then displayed, an engine which I had in any case a curiosity to see. Accompanied by my trustworthy acquaintance, and a female companion who was uninformed of our intentions, veiled and inconspicuous, I went to the gallery above named at the hour specified. I cannot now say with any certainty what I may have learned of Dr. Merryweather’s interesting device, for all my attention was upon the meeting, at a little distance from where my