that a luxurious habit could suggest and good taste would not
refuse, made a retreat that could almost reconcile a sinner to solitude.
There were a few good paintings, many rare engravings, on the walls, a
notable absence, even in the sleeping-room, of photographs of actresses
and professional beauties, but here and there souvenirs of travel
and evidences that the gentler sex had contributed the skill of their
slender fingers to the cheerfulness of the bachelor's home. Scattered
about were the daily and monthly products of the press, the newest
sensations, the things talked about at dinners, but the walls for
the most part were lined with books that are recognized as the proper
possessions of the lover of books, and most of them in exquisite
bindings. Less care, I thought, had been given in the collection to
"sets" of "standards" than to those that are rare, or for some reason,
either from distinguished ownership or autograph notes, have a peculiar
value.

In this atmosphere, when we were prepared to take our ease, the talk was
no longer of stocks, or railways, or schemes, but of books. Whether or
not Henderson loved literature I did not then make up my mind, but he
had a passion for books, especially for rare and first editions; and
the delight with which he exhibited his library, the manner in which he
handled the books that he took down one after the other, the sparkle
in his eyes over a "find" or a bargain, gave me a side of his character
quite different from that I should have gained by seeing him "in the
street" only. He had that genuine respect and affection for a "book"
which has become almost traditional in these days of cheap and flimsy
publications, a taste held by scholars and collectors, and quite beyond
the popular comprehension. The respect for a book is essential to the
dignity and consideration of the place of literature in the world, and
when books are treated with no more regard than the newspaper, it is a
sign that literature is losing its power. Even the collector, who may
read little and care more for the externals than for the soul of his
favorites, by the honor he pays them, by the solicitude he expends
upon their preservation without spot, by the lavishness of expense upon
binding, contributes much to the dignity of that art which preserves
for the race the continuity of its thought and development. If Henderson
loved books merely as a collector whose taste for luxury and expense
takes this dire