Henry Clapp Smith

Henry Clapp Smith, quite apart from being one of the most knowledgeable book men in the world, was one of the most gifted mimes of his time. One of the more remarkable sights was a photograph taken of him, Austin Strong, and Theodore Steinway dressed as clowns in the Pierrot tradition. His astonishingly slender and boyish figure produced an almost Marcel Marceau look. The figure gradually became less boyish and considerably less slender, for Henry was a gourmet of distinction. Some of the hors d’oeuvres which have delighted Centurions for years were Henry’s inventions. Indeed, that famous fluid which has been responsible for much of the brilliance for which conversations at The Century are so famous is always thought of as a Silver Smith, rather than a silversmith.

A wordmonger of parts, Henry enlivened conversations with phrases which continue to delight. What could better convey a whole context than this title, “The War-march of the Fairies,” or the absurdity of a fussy man fussing by, “He went into a towering snit”?

Whenever he and Austin and Theodore were doing one of their incredible three-part verbal fugues, that particular part of the Club would periodically erupt in roars of laughter. The flights of fantasy were simply unbelievable. On one occasion they were holding forth on “atomic fission” to the astonished wonder of David King, Hal Erskine, and a group of equally distinguished kibitzers. One of the world’s most famous experts on the subject under discussion wandered in and stood transfixed by what he was hearing. Henry said coldly, “I spy strangers.” Austin turned around and said, “You know something about this, don’t you?” The great man modestly allowed that he did. Austin said, “Well go away, then, you’ll ruin a brilliant conversation.” Henry added, “Oh let him sit down, provided he doesn’t say anything.” The great man’s cheerful response to this is unprintable.

Henry’s knowledge of everything to do with the world of books was simply encyclopedic. Whether it were fine writing, fine edition, or fine binding, he knew everything there was to know. London’s dealers in rare books knew him well. Paris’s fine binders worked for him constantly. One of the reasons he commanded such respect in France was that he could himself do anything he required of others. Possibly it was that characteristic which so endeared him to his friends and colleagues in other fields. Cheerfully brutal in his honesty, he was yet as warm a man as lived, tender to his family, and loyal to his friends. He was the essence of a Centurion.

Edward Nason West
1975 Century Association Yearbook