An illustrious bibliophile among his books? A
birthday child, rather, among his toys.
Proudly he explained to me the general system under which the volumes
were ranged in this or that division of shelves. Then he conducted me
to a chair near the window, left me there, flew away, flew up the
rungs of a mahogany ladder, plucked a small volume, and in a twinkling
was at my side: `This, I think, will please you! `It did. It had a
beautifully engraved title-page and a pleasing scent of old, old
leather. It was editio princeps of a play by some lesser Elizabethan
or Jacobean. `Of course you know it?' my host fluted.
How I wished I could say that I knew it and loved it well! I revealed
to him (for by speaking very loudly towards his inclined head I was
able to make him hear) that I had not read it. He envied any one who
had such pleasure in store. He darted to the ladder, and came back
thrusting gently into my hands another volume of like date: `Of course
you know this?'
Again I had to confess that I did not, and to shout my appreciation of
the fount of type, the margins, the binding. He beamed agreement, and
fetched another volume. Archly he indicated the title, cooing, `You
are a lover of this, I hope?' And again I was shamed by my
inexperience.
I did not pretend to know this particular play, but my tone implied
that I had always been meaning to read it and had always by some
mischance been prevented.
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