s who, though younger
than himself, were rapidly losing their natural head-covering. He
prodded them with ingeniously worded reflections upon their unhappy
condition. He would take as a motto Erasmus's unkind salutation, 'Bene
sit tibi cum tuo calvitio,' and multiply amusing variations upon it.
He delighted in sending them prescriptions and advertisements clipped
from newspapers and medical journals. He quoted at them the remark of
a pale, bald, blond young literary aspirant, who, seeing him, the
Bibliotaph, passing by, exclaimed audibly and almost passionately,
'Oh, I perfectly adore _hair_!'

Of his clothes it might be said that he did not wear them, but rather
dwelt at large in them. They were made by high-priced tailors and were
fashionably cut, but he lived in them so violently--that is, traveled
so much, walked so much, sat so long and so hard, gestured so
earnestly, and carried in his many pockets such an extraordinary
collection of notebooks, indelible pencils, card-cases, stamp-boxes,
penknives, gold toothpicks, thermometers, and what not--that within
twenty-four hours after he had donned new clothes all the artistic
merits of the garments were obliterated; they were, from every point
of view, hopelessly degenerate.

He was a scrupulously clean man, but there was a kind of civilized
wildness in his appearance which astonished people; and in perverse
moments he liked to terrify those who knew him but little by affirming
that he was a near relative of Christopher Smart, and then explaining
in mirth-provoking phrases that one of the arguments used for proving
Smart's insanity was that he did not love clean linen.

His appetite was large, as became a large and active person. He was a
very valiant trencher-man; and yet he could not have been said to love
eating for eating's sake. He ate when he was hungry, and found no
difficulty in being hungry three times a day. He should have been an
Englishman, for he enjoyed a late supper. In the proper season this
consisted of a bountiful serving of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, with
a glass of lemonade. As a variant upon the beverage he took milk. He
was the only man I have known, whether book-hunter or layman, who
could sleep peacefully upon a supper of cucumbers and milk.

There is probably no occult relation between first editions and
onions. The Bibliotaph was mightily pleased with both: the one, he
said, appealed to him aesthetically, the other dietetically. He
remar