The Bibliotaph | Page 9

to its hiding-place. He himself ordered but seldom
from catalogues, and went regularly to and fro among the dealers in
books, seeking the volume which his heart desired. He enjoyed those
shops where the book-seller kept open house, where the stock was large
and surprises were common, where the proprietor was prodigiously
well-informed on some points and correspondingly ill-informed on
others. He bought freely, never disputed a price, and laid down his cash
with the air of a man who believes that unspent money is the root of all
evil.
These travels brought about three results: the making of friends, the
compilation of scrap-books, and the establishment of 'bins.' Before
speaking of any one of these points, a word on the satisfactions of
bibliographical touring.

In every town of considerable size, and in many towns of
inconsiderable size, are bookshops. It is a poor shop which does not
contain at least one good book. This book bides its time, and usually
outstays its welcome. But its fate is about its neck. Somewhere there is
a collector to whom that book is precious. They are made for one
another, the collector and the book; and it is astonishing how
infrequently they miss of realizing their mutual happiness. The
book-seller is a marriage-broker for unwedded books. His business is to
find them homes, and take a fee for so doing. Sugarman the Shadchan
was not more zealous than is your vendor of rare books.
Now, it is a curious fact that the most desirable of bookish treasures are
often found where one would be least likely to seek them. Montana is a
great State, nevertheless one does not think of going to Montana for
early editions of Shakespeare. Let the book-hunter inwardly digest the
following plain tale of a clergyman and a book of plays.
There is a certain collector who is sometimes called 'The Bishop.' He is
not a bishop, but he may be so designated; coming events have been
known to cast conspicuous shadows in the likeness of mitre and crosier.
The Bishop heard of a man in Montana who had an old book of plays
with an autograph of William Shakespeare pasted in it. Being a wise
ecclesiastic, he did not exclaim 'Tush' and 'Fie,' but proceeded at once
to go book-hunting in Montana. He went by proxy, if not in person; the
journey is long. In due time the owner of the volume was found and the
book was placed in the Bishop's hands for inspection. He tore off the
wrappers, and lo! it was a Fourth Folio of Shakespeare excellently well
preserved, and with what appeared to be the great dramatist's signature
written on a slip of paper and pasted inside the front cover. The
problem of the genuineness of that autograph does not concern us. The
great fact is that a Shakespeare folio turned up in Montana. Now when
he hears some one express desire for a copy of Greene's Groatsworth of
Wit, or any other rare book of Elizabeth's time, the Bishop's thoughts
fly toward the setting sun. Then he smiles a notable kind of smile, and
says, 'If I could get away I'd run out to Montana and try to pick up a
copy for you.'

There is a certain gentleman who loves the literature of Queen Anne's
reign. He lives with Whigs and Tories, vibrates between coffee-house
and tea-table. He annoys his daughter by sometimes calling her
'Belinda,' and astonishes his wife with his mock-heroic apostrophes to
her hood and patches. He reads his Spectator at breakfast while other
people batten upon newspapers only three hours old. He smiles over the
love-letters of Richard Steele, and reverences the name and the writings
of Joseph Addison. Indeed, his devotion to Addison is so radical that he
has actually been guilty of reading The Campaign and the Dialogue on
Medals. This gentleman hunted books one day and was not successful.
It seemed to him that on this particular afternoon the world was stuffed
with Allison's histories of Europe, and Jeffrey's contributions to the
Edinburgh Review. His heart was filled with bitterness and his nostrils
with dust. Books which looked inviting turned out to be twenty-second
editions. Of fifty things upon his list not one came to light. But it was
predestined that he should not go sorrowing to his home. He pulled out
from a bottom shelf two musty octavo volumes bound in dark brown
leather, and each securely tied with a string; for the covers had been
broken from the backs. The titles were invisible, the contents a mystery.
The gentleman held the unpromising objects in his hand and meditated
upon them. They might be a treatise on conic sections, or a Latin
Grammar, and again they might be a Book. He untied the string and