r.
Rice's part. At the sale of the Rice library in 1870, however, this
curious, rare, and beautiful little book brought the extraordinary sum
of seven hundred and fifty dollars!

The Rice library contained about five thousand volumes, and it realized
at auction sale somewhat more than seventy-two thousand dollars. Rice
has often told me that for a long time he could not make up his mind to
part with his books; yet his health was so poor that he found it
imperative to retire from business, and to devote a long period of time
to travel; these were the considerations that induced him finally to
part with his treasures. "I have never regretted having sold them," he
said. "Two years after the sale the Chicago fire came along. Had I
retained those books, every one of them would have been lost."

Mrs. Rice shared her husband's enthusiasm for books. Whenever a new
invoice arrived, the two would lock themselves in their room, get down
upon their knees on the floor, open the box, take out the treasures and
gloat over them, together! Noble lady! she was such a wife as any good
man might be proud of. They were very happy in their companionship on
earth, were my dear old friends. He was the first to go; their
separation was short; together once more and forever they share the
illimitable joys which await all lovers of good books when virtue hath
mournfully writ the colophon to their human careers.

Although Mr. Rice survived the sale of his remarkable library a period
of twenty-six years, he did not get together again a collection of
books that he was willing to call a library. His first collection was
so remarkable that he preferred to have his fame rest wholly upon it.
Perhaps he was wise; yet how few collectors there are who would have
done as he did.

As for myself, I verily believe that, if by fire or by water my library
should be destroyed this night, I should start in again to-morrow upon
the collection of another library. Or if I did not do this, I should
lay myself down to die, for how could I live without the companionships
to which I have ever been accustomed, and which have grown as dear to
me as life itself?

Whenever Judge Methuen is in a jocular mood and wishes to tease me, he
asks me whether I have forgotten the time when I was possessed of a
spirit of reform and registered a solemn vow in high heaven to buy no
more books. Teasing, says Victor Hugo, is the malice of good men;
Judge Methuen means no ev