The Bibliotaph | Page 6

ill-made
salad, he alone ate with apparent relish. The host, who was of like mind
with his guests, said, 'The Bibliotaph doesn't care for the quality of his
food, if it has filling power.' To which he at once responded, 'You
merely imply that I am like a robin: I eat cherries when I may, and
worms when I must.'
His inscriptions in books given to his friends were often singularly
happy. He presented a copy of Lowell's Letters to a gentleman and his
wife. The first volume was inscribed to the husband as follows:--
'To Mr. ---- ----, who is to the owner of the second volume of these
Letters what this volume is to that: so delightful as to make one glad

that there's another equally as good, if not better.'
In volume two was the inscription to the wife, worded in this manner:--
'To Mrs. ---- ----, without whom the owner of the first volume of these
Letters would be as that first volume without this one: interesting, but
incomplete.'
Perhaps this will illustrate his quickness to seize upon ever so minute
an occasion for the exercise of his humor. A young woman whom he
admired, being brought up among brothers, had received the nickname,
half affectionately and half patronizingly bestowed, of 'the Kid.'
Among her holiday gifts for a certain year was a book from the
Bibliotaph, a copy of Old-Fashioned Roses, with this dedication: 'To a
Kid, had Abraham possessed which, Isaac had been the burnt-offering.'
It is as a buyer and burier of books that the subject of this paper showed
himself in most interesting light. He said that the time to make a library
was when one was young. He held the foolish notion that a man does
not purchase books after he is fifty; I shall expect to see him ransacking
the shops after he is seventy, if he shall survive his eccentricities of diet
that long. He was an omnivorous buyer, picking up everything he could
lay his hands upon. Yet he had a clearly defined motive for the
acquisition of every volume. However absurd the purchase might seem
to the bystander, he, at any rate, could have given six cogent reasons
why he must have that particular book.
He bought according to the condition of his purse at a given time. If he
had plenty of money, it would be expensive publications, like those
issued by the Grolier Club. If he was financially depressed, he would
hunt in the out-of-door shelves of well-known Philadelphia bookshops.
It was marvelous to see what things, new and old, he was able to
extract from a ten-cent alcove. Part of the secret lay in this idea: to be a
good book-hunter one must not be too dainty; one must not be afraid of
soiling one's hands. He who observes the clouds shall not reap, and he
who thinks of his cuffs is likely to lose many a bookish treasure. Our
Bibliotaph generally parted company with his cuffs when he began
hunting for books. How many times have I seen those cuffs with the

patent fasteners sticking up in the air, as if reaching out helplessly for
their owner; the owner in the mean time standing high upon a ladder
which creaked under his weight, humming to himself as he
industriously examined every volume within reach. This ability to live
without cuffs made him prone to reject altogether that orthodox bit of
finish to a toilet. I have known him to spend an entire day in New York
between club, shops, and restaurant, with one cuff on, and the other
cuff--its owner knew not where.
He differed from Heber in that he was not 'a classical scholar of the old
school,' but there were many points in which he resembled the famous
English collector. Heber would have acknowledged him as a son if only
for his energy, his unquenchable enthusiasm, and the exactness of his
knowledge concerning the books which he pretended to know at all.
For not alone is it necessary that a collector should know precisely
what book he wants; it is even more important that he should be able to
know a book as the book he wants when he sees it. It is a lamentable
thing to have fired in the dark, and then discover that you have shot a
wandering mule, and not the noble game you were in pursuit of. One
cannot take his reference library with him to the shops. The tests, the
criteria, must be carried in the head. The last and most inappropriate
moment for getting up bibliographical lore is that moment when the
pressing question is, to buy or not to buy. Master Slender, in the play,
learned the difficulties which beset a man whose knowledge is