The Bibliotaph's major passion was for collecting books; but he had a
minor passion, the bare mention of which caused people to lift their
eyebrows suspiciously. He was a shameless, a persistent, and a
successful hunter of autographs. His desire was for the signatures of
living men of letters, though an occasional dead author would be
allowed a place in the collection, provided he had not been dead too
long. As a rule, however, the Bibliotaph coveted the 'hand of write'
of the man who was now more or less conspicuously in the public eye.
This autograph must be written in a representative work of the author
in question. The Bibliotaph would not have crossed the street to
secure a line from Ben Jonson's pen, but he mourned because the
autograph of the Rev. C. L. Dodgson was not forthcoming, nor likely to
be. His conception of happiness was this: to own a copy of the first
edition of _Alice in Wonderland_, upon the fly-leaf of which Lewis
Carroll had written his name, together with the statement that he had
done so at the Bibliotaph's request, and because that eminent
collector could not be made happy in any other Way.
The Bibliotaph liked the autograph of the modern man of letters
because it _was_ modern, and because there was a reasonable hope of
its being genuine. He loved genuineness. Everything about himself was
exactly what it pretended to be. From his soul to his clothing he was
honest. And his love for the genuine was only surpassed in degree by
his contempt for the spurious. I remember that some one gave him a bit
of silverware, a toilet article, perhaps, which he next day threw out
of a car window, because he had discovered that it was not sterling.
He scouted the suggestion that possibly the giver may not have known.
Such ignorance was inexcusable, he said. 'The likelier interpretation
was that the gift was symbolical of the giver.' The act seemed brutal,
and the comment thereon even more so. But to realize the atmosphere,
the setting of the incident, one must imagine the Bibliotaph's round
and comfortable figure, his humorous look, and the air of genial
placidity with which he would do and say a thing like this. It was as
impossible to be angry with him in behalf of the unfortunate giver of
cheap silver as to take offense at a tree or mountain. And it was
useless to argue the matter--nay it was folly, for he would
immediately become polysyllabic and talk one down.
It was this desire for genuine things which made him entirely
suspicious of autographs which had been bought and sold. He had no
faith in them, and he would weaken your faith, supposing you were a
collector of such things. Offer him an autograph of our first
president and he would reply, 'I don't believe that it's genuine; and
if it were I shouldn't care for it; I never had the honor of General
Washington's acquaintance.' The inference was that one could have a
personal relation with a living great man, and the chances were
largely in favor of getting an autograph that was not an object of
suspicion.
Few collectors in this line have been as happy as the Bibliotaph. The
problem was easily mastered with respect to the majority of authors.
As a rule an author is not unwilling to give such additional pleasure
to a reader of his book as may consist in writing his name in the
reader's copy. It is conceivable that the author may be bored by too
many requests of this nature, but he might be bored to an even greater
degree if no one cared enough for him to ask for his autograph. Some
writers resisted a little, and it was beautiful to see the Bibliotaph
bring them to terms. He was a highwayman of the Tom Faggus type, just
so adroit, and courteous, and daring. He was perhaps at his best in
cases where he had actually to hold up his victim; one may imagine the
scene,--the author resisting, the Bibliotaph determined and having the
masterful air of an expert who had handled just such cases before.
A humble satellite who disapproved of these proceedings read aloud to
the Bibliotaph that scorching little essay entitled _Involuntary
Bailees_, written by perhaps the wittiest living English essayist. An
involuntary bailee--as the essayist explains--is a person to whom
people (generally unknown to him) send things which he does not wish
to receive, but which _they_ are anxious to have returned. If a man
insists upon lending you a book, you become an involuntary bailee. You
don't wish to read the book, but you have it in your possession. It
has come to you by post, let us suppose, 'and to pack it up and send
it back again requires a piece of string, energy, brown paper, and
stamps enough to defray the postage.' And it is a question whether a
casual acquaintance 'has any right thus to make demands on a man's
energy, money, time, brown paper, string, and other capital and
commodities.' There are other ways of making a man an involuntary
bailee. You may ask him to pass judgment on your poetry, or to use his
influence to get your tragedy produced, or to do any one of a half
hundred things which he doesn't want to do and which you have no
business to ask him to do. The essayist makes no mention of the
particular form of sin which the Bibliotaph practiced, but he would
probably admit that malediction was the only proper treatment for the
idler who bothers respectable authors by asking them to write their
names in his copies of their books. For to what greater extent could
one trespass upon an author's patience, energy, brown paper, string,
and commodities generally? It was amusing to watch the Bibliotaph as
he listened to this arraignment of his favorite pursuit. The writer of
the essay admits that there may be extenuating circumstances. If the
autograph collector comes bearing gifts one may smile upon his suit.
If for example he accompanies his request for an autograph with
'several brace of grouse, or a salmon of noble proportions, or rare
old books bound by Derome, or a service of Worcester china with the
square mark,' he may hope for success. The essayist opines that such
gifts 'will not be returned by a celebrity who respects himself.'
'They bless him who gives and him who takes much more than tons of
manuscript poetry, and thousands of entreaties for an autograph.'
A superficial examination of the Bibliotaph's collection revealed the
fact that he had either used necromancy or given many gifts. The
reader may imagine some such conversation between the great collector
and one of his dazzled visitors:--
'Pray, how did you come by this?'
'His lordship has always been very kind in such matters.'
'And where did you get this?'
'I am greatly indebted to the Prime Minister for his complaisance.'
'But this poet is said to abhor Americans.'
'You see that his antipathy has not prevented his writing a stanza in
my copy of his most notable volume.'
'And this?'
'I have at divers times contributed the sum of five dollars to divers
Fresh Air funds.'
The Bibliotaph could not be convinced that his sin of autograph
collecting was not venial. When authors denied his requests, on the
ground that they were intrusions, he was inclined to believe that
selfishness lay at the basis of their motives. Some men are quite
willing to accept great fame, but they resent being obliged to pay the
penalties. They wish to sit in the fierce light which beats on an
intellectual throne, but they are indignant when the passers-by stop
to stare at them. They imagine that they can successfully combine the
glory of honorable publicity with the perfect retirement enjoyed only
by aspiring mediocrity. The Bibliotaph believed that he was a
missionary to these people. He awakened in them a sense of their
obligations toward their admirers. The principle involved is akin to
that enunciated by a certain American philosopher, who held that it is
an act of generosity to borrow of a man once in a while; it gives that
man a lively interest in the possible success or possible failure of
your undertaking.
He levied autographic toll on young writers. For mature men of letters
with established reputations he would do extraordinary and difficult
services. A famous Englishman, not a novelist by profession, albeit he
wrote one of the most successful novels of his day, earnestly desired
to own if possible a complete set of all the American pirated editions
of his book. The Bibliotaph set himself to this task, and collected
energetically for two years. The undertaking was considerable, for
many of the pirated editions were in pamphlet, and dating from twenty
years back. It was almost impossible to get the earliest in a spotless
condition. Quantities of trash had to be overhauled, and weeks might
elapse before a perfect copy of a given edition would come to light.
Books are dirty, but pamphlets are dirtier. The Bibliotaph declared
that had he rendered an itemized bill for services in this matter, the
largest item would have been for Turkish baths.
Here was a case in which the collector paid well for the privilege of
having a signed copy of a well-loved author's novel. He begrudged no
portion of his time or expenditure. If it pleased the great Englishman
to have upon his shelves, in compact array and in spotless condition,
these proofs of what he _didn't_ earn by the publication of his books
in America, well and good. The Bibliotaph was delighted that so modest
a service on his part could give so apparently great a pleasure. The
Englishman must have had the collecting instinct, and he must have
been philosophical, since he could contemplate with equanimity these
illegitimate volumes.
The conclusion of the story is this: The work of collecting the
reprints was finished. The last installment reached the famous
Englishman during an illness which subsequently proved fatal. They
were spread upon the coverlid of the bed, and the invalid took a great
and humorous satisfaction in looking them over. Said the Bibliotaph,
recounting the incident in his succinct way, 'They reached him on his
death-bed,--and made him willing to go.'
The Bibliotaph was true to the traditions of the book-collecting
brotherhood, in that he read but little. His knowledge of the world
was fresh from life, not 'strained through books,' as Johnson said of
a certain Irish painter whom he knew at Birmingham. But the Bibliotaph
was a mighty devourer of book-catalogues. He got a more complete
satisfaction, I used to think, in reading a catalogue than in reading
any other kind of literature. To see him unwrapping the packages which
his English mail had brought was to see a happy man. For in addition
to books by post, there would be bundles of sale-catalogues. Then
might you behold his eyes sparkle as he spread out the tempting lists;
the humorous lines about the corners of his mouth deepened, and he
would take on what a little girl who watched him called his 'pussy-cat
look.' Then with an indelible pencil in his huge and pudgy left fist
(for the Bibliotaph was a Benjaminite), he would go through the pages,
checking off the 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 published anonymously in 1767, and he who would might
then have bought it for 'one shilling.' It was to be 'sold also by J.
Dodsley in Pall Mall, T. Davies in Russell-Street, Covent Garden, and
by the Book-sellers of Scotland.' This T. Davies was the very man who
introduced Boswell to Johnson. He was an actor as well as a
bookseller. _Dorando_ was a story with a key. Under the names of Don
Stocaccio, Don Tipponi, and Don Rodomontado real people were
described, and the facts of the 'famous Douglas cause' were presented
to the public. The little volume was suppressed in so far as that was
possible. It is rare, so rare that Boswell's latest biographer speaks
of it as the 'forlorn hope of the book-hunter,' though he doubts not
that copies of it are lurking in some private collection. One copy at
least is lurking in the Bibliotaph's library. He bought it, not for a
song to be sure, but very reasonably. The Bibliotaph declares that
this book is good for but one thing,--to shake in the faces of Boswell
collectors who haven't it.
The Bibliotaph had many literary heroes. Conspicuous among them were
Professor Richard Porson and Benjamin Jowett, the late master of
Balliol. The Bibliotaph collected everything that related to these two
men, all the books with which they had had anything to do, every
newspaper clipping and magazine article which threw light upon their
manners, habits, modes of thought. He especially loved to tell
anecdotes of Porson. He knew many. He had an interleaved copy of J.
Selby Watson's Life of Porson into which were copied a multitude of
facts not to be found in that amusing biography. The Bibliotaph used
to say that he would rather have known Porson than any other man of
his time. He used to quote this as one of the best illustrations of
Porson's wit, and one of the finest examples of the retort satiric to
be found in any language. One of Porson's works was assailed by
Wakefield and by Hermann, scholars to be sure, but scholars whose
scholarship Porson held in contempt. Being told of their attack Porson
only said that 'whatever he wrote in the future should be written in
such a way that those fellows wouldn't be able to reach it with their
fore-paws if they stood on their hind-legs to get at it!'
The Bibliotaph gave such an air of contemporaneity to his stories of
the great Greek professor that it seemed at times as if they were the
relations of one who had actually known Porson. So vividly did he
portray the marvels of that compound of thirst and scholarship that no
one had the heart to laugh when, after one of his narrations, a
gentleman asked the Bibliotaph if he himself had studied under Porson.
'Not _under_ him but _with_ him,' said the Bibliotaph. 'He was my
coeval. Porson, Richard Bentley, Joseph Scaliger, and I were all
students together.'
Speaking of Jowett the Bibliotaph once said that it was wonderful to
note how culture failed to counteract in an Englishman that
disposition to heave stones at an American. Jowett, with his
remarkable breadth of mind and temper, was quite capable of observing,
with respect to a certain book, that it was American, 'yet in perfect
taste.' 'This,' said the Bibliotaph, 'is as if one were to say, "The
guests were Americans, but no one expectorated on the carpet."' The
Bibliotaph thought that there was not so much reason for this
attitude. The sins of Englishmen and Americans were identical, he
believed, but the forms of their expression were different. 'Our sin
is a voluble boastfulness; theirs is an irritating, unrestrainable,
all-but-constantly manifested, satisfied self-consciousness. The same
results are reached by different avenues. We praise ourselves; they
belittle others.' Then he added with a smile: 'Thus even in these
latter days are the Scriptures exemplified; the same spirit with
varying manifestations.'
He was once commenting upon Jowett's classification of humorists.
Jowett divided humorists 'into three categories or classes; those who
are not worth reading at all; those who are worth reading once, but
once only; and those who are worth reading again and again and for
ever.' This remark was made to Swinburne, who quotes it in his all too
brief _Recollections of Professor Jowett_. Swinburne says that the
starting-point of their discussion was the _Biglow Papers_, which
'famous and admirable work of American humour' Jowett placed in the
second class. Swinburne himself thought that the _Biglow Papers_ was
too good for the second class and not quite good enough for the third.
'I would suggest that a fourth might be provided, to include such
examples as are worth, let us say, two or three readings in a
life-time.'
The Bibliotaph made a variety of comments on this, but I remember only
the following; it is a reason for not including the _Biglow Papers_ in
Jowett's third and crowning class. 'Humor to be popular permanently
must be general rather than local, and have to do with a phase of
character rather than a fact of history; that is, it must deal in a
great way with what is always interesting to all men. Humor that does
not meet this requirement is not likely, when its novelty has worn
off, to be read even occasionally save by those who enjoy it as an
intellectual performance or who are making a critical study of its
author.' The observation, if not profound, is at least sensible, and
it illustrates very well the Bibliotaph's love of alliteration and
antithesis. But it is easier to remember and to report his caustic and
humorous remarks.
The Country Squire had a card-catalogue of the books in his library,
and he delighted to make therein entries of his past and his new
purchases. But it was not always possible to find upon the shelves
books that were mentioned in the catalogue. The Bibliotaph took
advantage of a few instances of this sort to prod his moneyed friend.
He would ask the Squire if he had such-and-such a book. The Squire
would say that he had, and appeal to his catalogue in proof of it.
Then would follow a search for the volume. If, as sometimes happened,
no book corresponding to the entry could be found, the Bibliotaph
would be satirical and remark:--
'I'll tell you what you ought to name your catalogue.'
'What?'
'Great expectations!'
Another time he said, 'This is not a list of your books, this is a
list of the things that you intend to buy;' or he would suggest that
the Squire would do well to christen his catalogue _Vaulting
Ambition_. Perhaps the variation might take this form. After a
fruitless search for some book, which upon the testimony of the
catalogue was certainly in the collection, the Bibliotaph would
observe, 'This catalogue might not inappropriately be spoken of as the
substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.'
Another time the Bibliotaph said to the Squire, calling to mind the
well-known dictum as to the indispensableness of certain books,
'Between what one sees on your shelves and what one reads in your
card-catalogue one would have reason to believe that you were a
gentleman.'
Once the Bibliotaph said to me in the presence of the Squire: 'I think
that our individual relation to books might be expressed in this way.
You read books but you don't buy them. I buy books but I don't read
them. The Squire neither reads them nor buys them,--only
card-catalogues them!'
To all this the Squire had a reply which was worldly, emphatic, and
adequate, but the object of this study is not to exhibit the virtues
of the Squire's speech, witty though it was.
One of the Bibliotaph's friends began without sufficient provocation
to write verse. The Bibliotaph thought that if the matter were taken
promptly in hand the man could be saved. Accordingly, when next he
gave this friend a book he wrote upon a fly-leaf: 'To a Poet who is
nothing if not original--and who is not original!' And the injured
rhymester exclaimed when he read the inscription: 'You deface every
book you give me.'
He could pay a compliment, as when he was dining with a married pair
who were thought to be not yet disenchanted albeit in the tenth year
of their married life. The lady was speaking to the Bibliotaph, but in
the eagerness of conversation addressed him by her husband's first
name. Whereupon he turned to the husband and said: 'Your wife implies
that I am a repository of grace and a bundle of virtues, and calls me
by your name.'
He once sent this same lady, apropos of the return of the shirt-waist
season, a dozen neckties. In the box was his card with these words
penciled upon it: 'A contribution to the man-made dress of a God-made
woman.'
The Squire had great skill in imitating the cries of various domestic
fowl, as well as dogs, cats, and children. Once, in a moment of social
relaxation, he was giving an exhibition of his power to the vast
amusement of his guests. When he had finished, the Bibliotaph said:
'The theory of Henry Ward Beecher that every man has something of the
animal in him is superabundantly exemplified in _your_ case. You, sir,
have got the whole Ark.'
There was a quaint humor in his most commonplace remarks. Of all the
fruits of the earth he loved most a watermelon. And when a
fellow-traveler remarked, 'That watermelon which we had at dinner was
bad,' the Bibliotaph instantly replied: 'There is no such thing as a
_bad_ watermelon. There are watermelons, and _better_ watermelons.'
I expressed astonishment on learning that he stood six feet in his
shoes. He replied: 'People are so preoccupied in the consideration of
my thickness that they don't have time to observe my height.'
Again, when he was walking through a private park which contained
numerous monstrosities in the shape of painted metal deer on
pedestals, pursued (also on pedestals) by hunters and dogs, the
Bibliotaph pointed to one of the dogs and said, 'Cave cast-iron
canem!'
He once accompanied a party of friends and acquaintances to the summit
of Mt. Tom. The ascent is made in these days by a very remarkable
inclined plane. After looking at the extensive and exquisite view, the
Bibliotaph fell to examining his return coupon, which read, 'Good for
one Trip Down.' Then he said: 'Let us hope that in a post-terrestrial
experience our tickets will not read in this way.'
He was once ascending in the unusually commodious and luxurious
elevator of a new ten-story hotel and remarked to his companion: 'If
we can't be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease, we can at
least start in that direction under not dissimilar conditions.' He
also said that the advantage of stopping at this particular hotel was
that you were able to get as far as possible from the city in which it
was located.
He studied the dictionary with great diligence and was unusually
accurate in his pronunciation. He took an amused satisfaction in
pronouncing exactly certain words which in common talk had shifted
phonetically from their moorings. This led a gentleman who was
intimate with the Bibliotaph to say to him, 'Why, if I were to
pronounce that word among my kinsfolk as you do they'd think I was
crazy.' 'What you mean,' said the Bibliotaph, 'is, that they would
look upon it in the light of supererogatory supplementary evidence.'
He himself indulged overmuch in alliteration, but it was with humorous
intent; and critics forgave it in him when they would have reprehended
it in another. He had no notion that it was fine. Taken, however, in
connection with his emphatic manner and sonorous voice he produced a
decided and original effect. Meeting the Squire's wife after a
considerable interval, I asked whether her husband had been behaving
well. She replied 'As usual.' Whereupon the Bibliotaph said, 'You mean
that his conduct in these days is characterized by a plethora of
intention and a paucity of performance.'
He objected to enlarging the boundaries of words until they stood for
too many things. Let a word be kept so far as was reasonable to its
earlier and authorized meaning. Speaking of the word 'symposium,'
which has been stretched to mean a collection of short articles on a
given subject, the Bibliotaph said that he could fancy a honey-bee
which had been feasting on pumice until it was unable to make the line
characteristic of its kind, explaining to its queen that it had been
to a symposium; but that he doubted if we ought to allow any other
meaning.
The Bibliotaph got much amusement from what he insisted were the
ill-concealed anxieties of his friend the actor on the subject of a
future state. 'He has acquired,' said the Bibliotaph, 'both a pathetic
and a prophetic interest in that place which begins as heaven does,
but stops off monosyllabically.'
The two men were one day discussing the question of the permanency of
fame, how ephemeral for example was that reputation which depended
upon the living presence of the artist to make good its claim; how an
actor, an orator, a singer, was bound to enjoy his glory while it
lasted, since at the instant of his death all tangible evidence of
greatness disappeared; he could not be proven great to one who had
never seen and heard him. Having reached this point in his
philosophizing the Bibliotaph's player-friend became sentimental and
quoted a great comedian to the effect that 'a dead actor was a mighty
useless thing.' 'Certainly,' said the Bibliotaph, 'having exhausted
the life that now is, and having no hope of the life that is to come.'
Sometimes it pleased the Bibliotaph to maintain that his friend of the
footlights would be in the future state a mere homeless wanderer,
having neither positive satisfaction nor positive discomfort. For the
actor was wont to insist that even if there were an orthodox heaven
its moral opposite were the desirable locality; all the clever and
interesting fellows would be down below. 'Except yourself,' said the
Bibliotaph. 'You, sir, will be eliminated by your own reasoning. You
will be denied heaven because you are not good, and hell because you
are not great.'
On the whole it pleased the Bibliotaph to maintain that his friend's
course was downward, and that the sooner he reconciled himself to his
undoubted fate the better. 'Why speculate upon it?' he said paternally
to the actor, 'your prospective comparisons will one day yield to
reminiscent contrasts.'
The actor was convinced that the Bibliotaph's own past life needed
looking into, and he declared that when he got a chance he was going
to examine the great records. To which the Bibliotaph promptly
responded: 'The books of the recording angel will undoubtedly be open
to your inspection if you can get an hour off to come up. The
probability is that you will be overworked.'
The Bibliotaph never lost an opportunity for teasing. He arrived late
one evening at the house of a friend where he was always heartily
welcome, and before answering the chorus of greetings, proceeded to
kiss the lady of the mansion, a queenly and handsome woman. Being
asked why he--who was a large man and very shy with respect to women,
as large men always are--should have done this thing, he answered that
the kiss had been sent by a common friend and that he had delivered it
at once, 'for if there was anything he prided himself upon it was a
courageous discharge of an unpleasant duty.'
Once when he had been narrating this incident he was asked what reply
the lady had made to so uncourteous a speech. 'I don't remember,' said
the Bibliotaph, 'it was long ago; but my opinion is that she would
have been justified in denominating me by a monosyllable beginning
with the initial letter of the alphabet and followed by successive
sibilants.'
One of the Bibliotaph's fellow book-hunters owned a chair said to have
been given by Sir Edwin Landseer to Sir Walter Scott. The chair was
interesting to behold, but the Bibliotaph after attempting to sit in
it immediately got up and declared that it was not a genuine relic:
'Sir Edwin had reason to be grateful to rather than indignant at Sir
Walter Scott.'
He said of a highly critical person that if that man were to become a
minister he would probably announce as the subject of his first
sermon: 'The conditions that God must meet in order to be acceptable
to me.' He said of a poor orator who had copyrighted one of his most
indifferent speeches, that the man 'positively suffered from an excess
of caution.' He remarked once that the great trouble with a certain
lady was 'she labored under the delusion that she enjoyed occasional
seasons of sanity.'
The _nil admirari_ attitude was one which he never affected, and he
had a contempt for men who denied to the great in literature and art
that praise which was their due. This led him to say apropos of an
obscure critic who had assailed one of the poetical masters: 'When the
Lord makes a man a fool he injures him; but when He so constitutes him
that the man is never happy unless he is making that fact public, He
insults him.'
He enjoyed speculating on the subject of marriage, especially in the
presence of those friends who unlike himself knew something about it
empirically. He delighted to tell his lady acquaintances that their
husbands would undoubtedly marry a second time if they had the chance.
It was inevitable. A man whose experience has been fortunate is bound
to marry again, because he is like the man who broke the bank at Monte
Carlo. A man who has been unhappily married marries again because like
an unfortunate gamester he has reached the time when his luck has got
to change. The Bibliotaph then added with a smile: 'I have the idea
that many men who marry a second time do in effect what is often done
by unsuccessful gamblers at Monte Carlo; they go out and commit
suicide.'
The Bibliotaph played but few games. There was one, however, in which
he was skillful. I blush to speak of it in these days of much muscular
activity. What have golfers, and tennis-players, and makers of century
runs to do with croquet? Yet there was a time when croquet was spoken
of as 'the coming game;' and had not Clintock's friend Jennings
written an epic poem upon it in twelve books, which poem he offered to
lend to a certain brilliant young lady? But Gwendolen despised boys
and cared even less for their poetry than for themselves.
At the house of the Country Squire the Bibliotaph was able to gratify
his passion for croquet, and verily he was a master. He made a
grotesque figure upon the court, with his big frame which must stoop
mightily to take account of balls and short-handled mallets, with his
agile manner, his uncovered head shaggy with its barbaric profusion of
hair (whereby some one was led to nickname him Bibliotaph Indetonsus),
with the scanty black alpaca coat in which he invariably played--a
coat so short in the sleeves and so brief in the skirt that the figure
cut by the wearer might almost have passed for that of Mynheer Ten
Broek of many-trowsered memory. But it was vastly more amusing to
watch him than to play with him. He had a devil 'most undoubted.' Only
with the help of black art and by mortgaging one's soul would it have
been possible to accomplish some of the things which he accomplished.
For the materials of croquet are so imperfect at best that chance is
an influential element. I've seen tennis-players in the intervals of
_their_ game watch the Bibliotaph with that superior smile suggestive
of contempt for the puerility of his favorite sport. They might even
condescend to take a mallet for a while to amuse _him_; but presently
discomfited they would retire to a game less capricious than croquet
and one in which there was reasonable hope that a given cause would
produce its wonted effect.
The Bibliotaph played strictly for the purpose of winning, and took
savage joy in his conquests. In playing with him one had to do two
men's work; one must play, and then one must summon such philosophy as
one might to suffer continuous defeat, and such wit as one possessed
to beat back a steady onslaught of daring and witty criticisms. 'I
play like a fool,' said a despairing opponent after fruitless effort
to win a just share of the games. 'We all have our moments of
unconsciousness,' purred the Bibliotaph blandly in response. This same
despairing opponent, who was an expert in everything he played, said
that there was but one solace after croquet with the Bibliotaph; he
would go home and read Hazlitt's essay on the Indian Jugglers.
* * * * *
Here ends the account of the Bibliotaph. From these inadequate notes
it is possible to get some little idea of his habits and conversation.
The library is said to be still growing. Packages of books come
mysteriously from the corners of the earth and make their way to that
remote and almost inaccessible village where the great collector hides
his treasures. No one has ever penetrated that region, and no one, so
far as I am aware, has ever seen the treasures. The books lie
entombed, as it were, awaiting such day of resurrection as their owner
shall appoint them. The day is likely to be long delayed. Of the
collector's whereabouts now no one of his friends dares to speak
positively; for at the time when knowledge of him was most exact THE
BIBLIOTAPH was like a newly-discovered comet,--his course was
problematical.