items of interest, rolling with delight in his chair
as he exclaimed from time to time, 'Good books! Such good books!' Say
to him that you yourself liked to read a catalogue, and his response
was pretty sure to be, 'Pleasant, isn't it?' This was expressive of a
high state of happiness, and was an allusion. For the Bibliotaph was
once with a newly-married man, and they two met another man, who, as
the conversation proceeded, disclosed the fact that he also had but
recently been wed. Whereupon the first bridegroom, marveling that
there could be another in the world so exalted as himself, exclaimed
with sympathetic delight, 'And _you_, too, are married.' 'Yes,' said
the second, 'pleasant, isn't it?' with much the same air that he would
have said, 'Nice afternoon.' This was one of the incidents which made
the Bibliotaph skeptical about marriage. But he adopted the phrase as
a useful one with which to express the state of highest mental and
spiritual exaltation.

People wondered at the extent of his knowledge of books. It was very
great, but it was not incredible. If a man cannot touch pitch without
being defiled, still less can he handle books without acquiring
bibliographical information. I am not sure that the Bibliotaph ever
heard of that professor of history who used to urge his pupils to
handle books, even when they could not get time to read them. 'Go to
the library, take down the volumes, turn over the leaves, read the
title-pages and the tables of contents; information will stick to
you'--this was the professor's advice. Information acquired in this
way may not be profound, but so far as it goes it is definite and
useful. For the collector it is indispensable. In this way the
Bibliotaph had amassed his seemingly phenomenal knowledge of books. He
had handled thousands and tens of thousands of volumes, and he never
relinquished his hold upon a book until he had 'placed' it,--until he
knew just what its rank was in the hierarchy of desirability.

Between a diligent reading of catalogues and an equally diligent
rummaging among the collections of third and fourth rate old
book-shops, the Bibliotaph had his reward. He undoubtedly bought a
deal of trash, but he also lighted upon nuggets. For example, in
Leask's Life of Boswell is an account of that curious little romance
entitled _Dorando_. This so-called _Spanish Tale_, printed for J.
Wilkie at the Bible in St. Paul's Church-Yard, was the work of James
Boswell. It was p