ose
books which treat of books. He is amusing when he is purely an
imaginary creature. For example, there was one Thomas Blinton. Every
one who has ever read the volume called _Books and Bookmen_ knows
about Thomas Blinton. He was a man who wickedly adorned his volumes
with morocco bindings, while his wife 'sighed in vain for some old
_point d'Alencon lace_.' He was a man who was capable of bidding
fifteen pounds for a Foppens edition of the essays of Montaigne,
though fifteen pounds happened to be 'exactly the amount which he owed
his plumber and gas-fitter, a worthy man with a large family.' From
this fictitious Thomas Blinton all the way back to Richard Heber, who
was very real, and who piled up books as other men heap together
vulgar riches, book-collectors have been a picturesque folk.

The name of Heber suggests the thought that all men who buy books are
not bibliophiles. He alone is worthy the title who acquires his
volumes with something like passion. One may buy books like a
gentleman, and that is very well. One may buy books like a gentleman
and a scholar, which counts for something more. But to be truly of the
elect one must resemble Richard Heber, and buy books like a gentleman,
a scholar, and a madman.

You may find an account of Heber in an old file of _The Gentleman's
Magazine_. He began in his youth by making a library of the classics.
Then he became interested in rare English books, and collected them
_con amore_ for thirty years. He was very rich, and he had never given
hostages to fortune; it was therefore possible for him to indulge his
fine passion without stint. He bought only the best books, and he
bought them by thousands and by tens of thousands. He would have held
as foolishness that saying from the Greek which exhorts one to do
nothing too much. According to Heber's theory, it is impossible to
have too many good books. Usually one library is supposed to be enough
for one man. Heber was satisfied only with eight libraries, and then
he was hardly satisfied. He had a library in his house at Hodnet. 'His
residence in Pimlico, where he died, was filled, like Magliabecchi's
at Florence, with books from the top to the bottom; every chair, every
table, every passage containing piles of erudition.' He had a house in
York Street which was crowded with books. He had a library in Oxford,
one at Paris, one at Antwerp, one at Brussels, and one at Ghent. The
most accurate estimate of his collections places