He loved her so much that he wanted to give her a gift which no money in the world could purchase--exclusive, unique. So, he bought an old Washington hand press, rusty and prehistoric type, and wrote a book for her; he set it up letter by letter, word by word, line by line, page by page; distributing the type after he had made only one impression. It took him three years to complete his book. It took him another year to illuminate it with rare wood cuts by Durer and Kranach, with miniatures taken from old hand-written cloister books. He bound it with his own hands, and tooled the leather of its covers with exquisite golden arabesques. His old mother in Pennsylvania could not read a word of English, though born and brought up in America. She used Pennsylvania Dutch exclusively. Julius Doerner never slept in a bed but was accustomed to sit up all night in a Morris chair in the back of his shop. His most exquisite pleasure, and only recreation was to play Bach, Mozart and Beethoven on an old spinet. He wore the same celluloid collar for twelve years, and washed it every Monday morning with sapolio. The same cake and collar were purchased from a starving peddler on a very cold night, as an alternative to giving the peddler two bits for a night’s lodging. Goethe and Franz Lieber were his favorites; Whitman, Poe and Wilde, his vaudeville stage. He cooked vegetable soup in a big tin kettle each Tuesday, and drank it cold for the rest of the week, until the kettle was empty. He knew what was great and beautiful in art, letters and life. To him Jesus was the greatest of men, and Rockefeller the meanest. Money was as unreal as people who buy books according to auction catalogues and bindings. He died in his Morris chair with a book on his knees. There he was found, rigid and cold, several days afterwards by the grocer, who came to dun him for last month’s bill, which amounted to one dollar and eighty-five cents. Julius Doerner had a big heart, a fine mind, was a Spartan by nature, German in sentimentality, a Yankee in shrewdness, a lover of truth, an enemy of hypocrisy and idleness; a friend of outcasts. He knew books and men, and therefore could not make a success in selling books to men. Chicagoans who met him on the street saw his long hair, his alpaca coat and his straw hat, and called him a freak; others who had met him thought him a queer one; the chosen few to whom he gave his friendship, loved him. He was five feet, eight inches tall, wore locks and a beard that hadn’t been touched by shears for twenty-five years, didn’t give a damn for conventions and appearances, lived his own life, subservient to no one, lording over no one. The world thought him poor. He was rich. Requiescat in pace! * * * * *