While I was in college I had a chance to go to Italy and study Renaissance art through an historical lens.In preparation it was arranged that I get a position at the local Historical Society as sort of a "poop boy"in order to save some money for the trip.  The building was constructed of white marble by the State of New York for the Pan American exposition in 1901 where McKinley was shot and the "cowboy" became president.  I have a nephew who plays base in a band called the goo Goo Dolls and they have a song--We shot McKinley as thought that was something to be proud of.  Buffalo needs something other than chicken wings.Anyway, while working there I was called to the Director's office and given an unusual assignment.People are always leaving things to the Historical Society and in the culling most of it is consigned to thedumpster.  My assignment was to go through a huge trunk that had been carted into the basement and see what of value might be inside.  I thought of gold, rare historical artifacts, revealing photos or unpublished short stories by Scott Fitzgerald.  It was not to be.  The huge trunk was filled with notebooksfrom the estate of a local doctor who had died sometime in the 1920's and whose heirs were merely cleaning house.  There must have been 200 notebooks containing the doctors collection of autographs.My job was to list the contents and write a short report to the Director--piece of cake.  They were old, dusty and filled with yellowed papers.  I figured I would just toss them.  I was wrong.Unhappily I suffer from allergies and so I spent the summer in a dusty basement sneezing all daybecause of the dust going through this collection which seemed absurd to me.  The collection wasorganized around what the person did--there were notebooks for politicians, historical figures, divines,scientists, inventors and presidents.  I was astonished to see letters or commissions or letters  signed by Washington, Lincoln, Napoleon and a host of other historical luminaries.  Now the point is that nobody knew what was in the trunk--just me.  The notebooks were not in the best of shape as some of the autographs had become unattached from pages and whole pages were torn or loose.  I never even knewthat people collected autographs.  It seemed silly until I remembered that I knew people who collected beer cans.Needless to say, I was tempted to filch a few and although I had no idea of what they might be worth, Iknew that a letter signed by Alexander Hamilton had to be worth something to somebody somewhere.To reiterate--nobody knew what was in the trunk--the Director--the heirs--the cops--my fellow workers--nobody--just me.  My head was swimming with the thoughts of buying a new car or a Hickey -Freeman vested suit!In the end I filched nothing.  I wish I could say that this was done out of virtue, but that would be untrue.  I did not steal because I was afraid of the consequences if I were caught.  I completed theassignment, turned in my report and left for Italy where I bought a Vespa and found out why Cimabue so loved the young Giotto.Fast forward about five years.  I am now teaching at a local college and I read in the paper that someofficial of the Historical Society has been arrested foe selling purloined autographs to collectors inNew York city.  According to the article, the collectors knew of this obscure collection--the doctor was aplayer--and reported to the authorities that certain documents were being offered for sale from his collection.  Needless to say even the most mediocre detectives figured out the case and I was contactedas I was the first person to crack the trunk in 40 odd years.  The official was fired ,  prosecuted fortheft and sentenced to prison for a year on a state charge--a felony.  Apparently the autographs he was trying to sell were worth lots of money--I had no idea!  It might have made the difference.As I said, it was not virtue, but fear that kept me from doing exactly as the other guy did.  It seemedlike a lucrative scheme, but I should have known that a Lincoln letter or even a  signature would beknown by scholars all over the country.  The lesson I learned was--follow your gut--which in this case proved to be the right course.  The Director of the Society--a real carbuncle--was kind enough to write me a nice letter for graduate school; bless him.