One would be hard put to imagine a greater contrast between the bookplate featured on the cover of this issue and the library it identifies: the one, "dull, uninspired, and otherwise undistinguished"; the other, "one of the greatest book-deals ever made." As the present curator of the Special Collection of the University of Chicago library was led to remark, "I guess one can now say that you can't tell a book by its bookplate."

            This "deal" grew out of a trip the new president of the University took to Berlin with his family in 1891. Even while relaxing, William Rainey Harper's mind was on the need for books to supplement the 40,000 volumes that were a relict of the University's predecessor. These, however, would not be sufficient for the kind of institution Harper had in mind: no mere college, but a full-fledged graduate university, in a day when the American landscape was not overly supplied with such schools. Nor was he unaware that Berlin might be a worthwhile hunting ground for the books he needed.

            While in the German capital, Harper had his attention directed to the old bookselling firm of S. Calvary and Company, whose elderly owner, G. Heinrich Simon, was hopeful of selling out, preferably en bloc. The description given of the book stock seemed too good to be true. Consisting of 300,000 volumes and 150,000 pamphlets, the material was strong in philology and the "philosophical sciences," but many other subjects were well represented, too, including one area not particularly values at the time but of great importance later, the physical sciences. Harper knew he had to have this material for his new university.

            After some negotiations, a price was agreed on. The University would pay 230,000 German Marks for the entire stock, duplicates included, or 180,000 Marks without duplicates. Two weeks only were given to raise the money, which for the collection without duplicates amounted to about $45,000. Harper appealed to his board of trustees, who in turn appealed to the men whose names are printed on the bookplate, and they subscribed the money in time to beat the deadline.

            A few persons around the University disagreed with Harper about the relative priority of buying books at that point instead of putting up buildings, but most observers, in Chicago and elsewhere, were full of praise and enthusiasm for the acquisition. However, more serious controversy about the collection was to come as the material was delivered. Not only was the number of volumes apparently not as high as claimed, but the two parties had not even agreed to a precise meaning for "volume" and "duplicate." As soon as the offer had been accepted Simon considerably lowered his estimate of the number of volumes, and dispute about an adjustment to the price commenced.

            Finally, in May 1892, 242 boxes were shipped from Berlin to Chicago containing in all 57,630 books and 39,020 dissertations—all the material that was ever received. The University had made an initial partial payment as agreed, but had held up further money as a precaution. Eventually perhaps about $28,000 was paid out for the collection, including shipping and other expenses. Disputes and threats of lawsuits went back and forth between the two cities for seven or eight year before the matter was finally resolved, or perhaps simply sank of its own weight.

            Was this really one of the "greatest book deals ever made"? Such an imprecise characterization can only encourage disagreement, but it does seem clear that these books, now dubbed officially the "Berlin Collection," gave the new University an immediate head start in the resources of scholarship, serving as honey that quickly drew both faculty and graduate students. By 1896 the University of Chicago possessed the second largest university library in the country, with 340,000 volumes. The Berlin books played their part in this achievement, in both quantity and quality.

            The bookplate used to identify the collection reflects the characters of the donors, who were, on the whole, self-made unadorned men. Only McCormick, as the son of the inventor of the reaper, and Crane, whose family owned a valve and fitting manufacturing firm, had been born into wealth, and even that was new money. Kohlsaat, for instance, acquired his money in the bakery business, and later became editor and publisher of the Chicago Times-Herald and the Evening Post. Sprague was a wholesale grocer and director of a number of companies. Smith was a banker and businessman, as was Hutchinson, who also showed the most outside interest in educational affairs, serving as trustee of the University as well as being involved with Hull House and the Egypt Exploration Fund. But, in their support of the new University and its library, they were clearly men of vision, and their vision had been borne out amply.

Phillip A. Metzger

Southern Illinois University

School of Medicine Library

Springfield, Illinois