The Bibliotaph | Page 5

was happy in each. He had his favorite hotel, his favorite
bath, his work, bushels of newspapers and periodicals, friends who
rejoiced in his coming as children in the near advent of Christmas, and
finally book-shops in which to browse at his pleasure. It was interesting
to hear him talk about city life. One of his quaint mannerisms consisted
in modifying a well-known quotation to suit his conversational needs.
'Why, sir,' he would remark, 'Fleet Street has a very animated
appearance, but I think the full tide of human existence is at the corner
of Madison and State.'
His knowledge of cities was both extensive and peculiar. I have heard
him name in order all the hotels on Broadway, beginning at the lower
end and coming up as far as hotels exist, branching off upon the

parallel and cross streets where there were noted caravansaries, and
connecting every name with an event of importance, or with the life
and fortunes of some noted man who had been guest at that particular
inn. This was knowledge more becoming in a guide, perhaps, but it will
illustrate the encyclopædic fullness of his miscellaneous information.
As was natural and becoming in a man born within forty miles of the
metropolis, he liked best the large cities of the East, and was least
content in small Western cities. But this was the outcome of no illiberal
prejudice, and there was a quizzical smile upon his lips and a teasing
look in his eyes when he bantered a Westerner. 'A man,' he would
sometimes say, 'may come by the mystery of childbirth into Omaha or
Kansas City and be content, but he can't come by Boston, New York, or
Philadelphia.' Then, a moment later, paraphrasing his remark, he would
add, 'To go to Omaha or Kansas City by way of New York and
Philadelphia is like being translated heavenward with such violence
that one passes through--into a less comfortable region!'
Strange to say, the conversation of this most omnivorous of
book-collectors was less of books than of men. True, he was deeply
versed in bibliographical details and dangerously accurate in his talk
about them, but, after all, the personality back of the book was the
supremely interesting thing. He abounded in anecdote, and could
describe graphically the men he had met, the orators he had heard, the
occasions of importance where he had been an interested spectator. His
conversation was delightfully fresh and racy because of the vividness
of the original impressions, the unusual force of the ideas which were
the copies of these impressions, and the fine artistic sense which
enabled him to determine at once what points should be omitted, and
what words should be used most fittingly to express the ideas retained.
He had no pride in his conversational power. He was always modest,
but never diffident. I have seen him sit, a respectful listener, absolutely
silent, while some ordinary chatterer held the company's attention for
an hour. Many good talkers are unhappy unless they have the privilege
of exercising their gifts. Not so he. Sometimes he had almost to be
compelled to begin. On such occasions one of his intimates was wont

to quote from Boswell: 'Leave him to me, sir; I'll make him rear.'
The superficial parts of his talk were more easily retained. In mere
banter, good-humored give-and-take, that froth and bubble of
conversational intercourse, he was delightful. His hostess, the wife of a
well-known comedian, apologized to him for having to move him out
of the large guest-chamber into another one, smaller and higher
up,--this because of an unexpected accession of visitors. He replied that
it did not incommode him; and as for being up another flight of stairs,
'it was a comfort to him to know that when he was in a state of
somnolent helplessness he was as near heaven as it was possible to get
in an actor's house.' The same lady was taking him roundly to task on
some minor point in which he had quite justly offended her; whereupon
he turned to her husband and said, 'Jane worships but little at the shrine
of politeness because so much of her time is mortgaged to the shrine of
truth.'
When asked to suggest an appropriate and brief cablegram to be sent to
a gentleman who on the following day would become sixty years of age,
and who had taken full measure of life's joys, he responded, 'Send him
this: "You don't look it, but you've lived like it."'
His skill in witty retort often expressed itself by accepting a verbal
attack as justified, and elaborating it in a way to throw into shadow the
assault of the critic. At a small and familiar supper of bookish men,
when there was general dissatisfaction over an expensive but