The Bibliotaph | Page 4

best, as big of intellect as
of heart.
His head might be described as leonine. It was a massive head, covered
with a tremendous mane of brown hair. This was never worn long, but
it was so thick and of such fine texture that it constituted a real beauty.
He had no conceit of it, being innocent of that peculiar German type of
vanity which runs to hair, yet he could not prevent people from
commenting on his extraordinary hirsute adornment. Their occasional
remarks excited his mirth. If they spoke of it again, he would protest.
Once, among a small party of his closest friends, the conversation
turned upon the subject of hair, and then upon the beauty of his hair;
whereupon he cried out, 'I am embarrassed by this unnecessary display
of interest in my Samsonian assertiveness.'
He loved to tease certain of his acquaintances who, though younger
than himself, were rapidly losing their natural head-covering. He
prodded them with ingeniously worded reflections upon their unhappy
condition. He would take as a motto Erasmus's unkind salutation, 'Bene
sit tibi cum tuo calvitio,' and multiply amusing variations upon it. He

delighted in sending them prescriptions and advertisements clipped
from newspapers and medical journals. He quoted at them the remark
of a pale, bald, blond young literary aspirant, who, seeing him, the
Bibliotaph, passing by, exclaimed audibly and almost passionately, 'Oh,
I perfectly adore hair!'
Of his clothes it might be said that he did not wear them, but rather
dwelt at large in them. They were made by high-priced tailors and were
fashionably cut, but he lived in them so violently--that is, traveled so
much, walked so much, sat so long and so hard, gestured so earnestly,
and carried in his many pockets such an extraordinary collection of
notebooks, indelible pencils, card-cases, stamp-boxes, penknives, gold
toothpicks, thermometers, and what not--that within twenty-four hours
after he had donned new clothes all the artistic merits of the garments
were obliterated; they were, from every point of view, hopelessly
degenerate.
He was a scrupulously clean man, but there was a kind of civilized
wildness in his appearance which astonished people; and in perverse
moments he liked to terrify those who knew him but little by affirming
that he was a near relative of Christopher Smart, and then explaining in
mirth-provoking phrases that one of the arguments used for proving
Smart's insanity was that he did not love clean linen.
His appetite was large, as became a large and active person. He was a
very valiant trencher-man; and yet he could not have been said to love
eating for eating's sake. He ate when he was hungry, and found no
difficulty in being hungry three times a day. He should have been an
Englishman, for he enjoyed a late supper. In the proper season this
consisted of a bountiful serving of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, with a
glass of lemonade. As a variant upon the beverage he took milk. He
was the only man I have known, whether book-hunter or layman, who
could sleep peacefully upon a supper of cucumbers and milk.
There is probably no occult relation between first editions and onions.
The Bibliotaph was mightily pleased with both: the one, he said,
appealed to him æsthetically, the other dietetically. He remarked of
some particularly large Spanish onions that there was 'a globular

wholesomeness about them which was very gratifying;' and after eating
one he observed expansively that he felt 'as if he had swallowed the
earth and the fullness thereof.' His easy, good-humored exaggerations
and his odd comments upon the viands made him a pleasant table
companion: as when he described a Parker House Sultana Roll by
saying that 'it looked like the sanguinary output of the whole Crimean
war.'
High-priced restaurants did not please him as well as humbler and less
obtrusive places. But it was all one,--Delmonico's, the Bellevue, a stool
in the Twelfth Street Market, or a German café on Van Buren Street.
The humors of certain eating-houses gave him infinite delight. He went
frequently to the Diner's Own Home, the proprietor of which, being
both cook and Christian, had hit upon the novel plan of giving
Scriptural advice and practical suggestions by placards on the walls.
The Bibliotaph enjoyed this juxtaposition of signs: the first read, 'The
very God of peace sanctify you wholly;' the second, 'Look out for your
Hat and Coat.'
The Bibliotaph had no home, and was reputed to live in his post-office
box. He contributed to the support of at least three clubs, but was very
little seen at any one of them. He enjoyed the large cities, and was
contented in whichever one he happened to find himself. He was
emphatically a city man, but what city was of less import. He knew
them all, and