t confine all his attentions to what he called the
"book-bandits" to his reports on the proceedings in the Saints' and
Sinners' Corner. Scattered throughout his writings from 1887 onward
were paragraphs, ballads, and jests, praising, berating, and "joshing"
the maniac crew who held that "binding's the surest test," and who
bought books, as some would-be connoisseurs do wine, by the label. With
all his professions of sympathy with the maniacs, he never missed an
opportunity to make merry over what he regarded as their rivalries and
disappointments, and he never wearied of egging them on to imitate his
own besetting disposition to buy the curio you covet and "settle when
you can," as indicated in the beautiful hymn that concludes the
following paragraph:

Francis Wilson, the comedian, is the possessor of the chair which
Sir Walter Scott used in his library at Abbotsford. A beautiful bit
of furniture it is, and well worth, aside from all sentimental
consideration, the large price paid by the enterprising and
discriminating curio. As we understand it, Bouton, the New York
dealer, had this chair on exhibition for several months. Mr. Wilson
happened along one day, having just returned from a professional
tour in the West. Mr. William Winter, dramatic critic of the
Tribune, was looking at the chair; he had been after it for some
time, but had been waiting for the price to abate somewhat.

"The Players' Club should have that chair," said he to Bouton, "and
if you'll give better terms I'll get a number of the members to chip
in together and buy it."

To this appeal Bouton sturdily remained deaf. After Mr. Winter had
left the place, Wilson said to Bouton, "Send the chair up to my
house; here is a check for the money."

There are rumors to the effect that when Mr. Winter heard of this
transaction he rent his garments and gnashed his teeth, and wildly
implored somebody to hang a millstone about his neck and cast him
into outer darkness.

Horace Greeley used to say that the best way to resume was to
resume; so, in the science of collecting, it behooves the collector
never to put off till to-morrow what he can pick up to-day. This
theory has been most succinctly and beautifully set forth in one of
the hymns recently compiled by the Archbishop of the North Side
(page 217):

_How foolish of a man to wait
When once his chance is nigh:
To-morrow it may be too late