The first thing, naturally, when one enters a scholar's study or
library, is to look at his books. One gets a notion very speedily of his
tastes and the range of his pursuits by a glance round his bookshelves.
Of course, you know there are many fine houses where a library is a part
of the upholstery, so to speak. Books in handsome binding kept locked
under plate-glass in showy dwarf bookcases are as important to stylish
establishments as servants in livery, who sit with folded arms, are to
stylish equipages. I suppose those wonderful statues with the folded
arms do sometimes change their attitude, and I suppose those books with
the gilded backs do sometimes get opened, but it is nobody's business
whether they do or not, and it is best not to ask too many questions.
This sort of thing is common enough, but there is another case that may
prove deceptive if you undertake to judge from appearances. Once in a
while you will come on a house where you will find a family of readers
and almost no library. Some of the most indefatigable devourers of
literature have very few books. They belong to book clubs, they haunt
the public libraries, they borrow of friends, and somehow or other get
hold of everything they want, scoop out all it holds for them, and have
done with it.--O. W. HOLMES. _The Poet at the Breakfast-Table._