suppose that "dans ce bas monde it fut permis aux joies du
bibliophile d'aller encore plus loin." He imagined that the
delights of the amateur could only go further, in heaven. It
chanced, however, one day that he was turning over the "Oeuvres
Inedites" of Rousseau, when he found a letter, in which Jean
Jacques, writing in 1763, asked Motiers-Travers to send him the
"Imitatio Christi." Now the date 1764 is memorable, in Rousseau's
"Confessions," for a burst of sentiment over a periwinkle, the first
he had noticed particularly since his residence at Les Charmettes,
where the flower had been remarked by Madame de Warens. Thus M.
Tenant de Latour had recovered the very identical periwinkle, which
caused the tear of sensibility to moisten the fine eyes of Jean
Jacques Rousseau.

We cannot all be adorers of Rousseau. But M. de Latour was an
enthusiast, and this little anecdote of his explains the sentimental
side of the bibliophile's pursuit. Yes, it is SENTIMENT that makes
us feel a lively affection for the books that seem to connect us
with great poets and students long ago dead. Their hands grasp ours
across the ages. I never see the first edition of Homer, that
monument of typography and of enthusiasm for letters, printed at
Florence (1488) at the expense of young Bernardo and Nerio Nerli,
and of their friend Giovanni Acciajuoli, but I feel moved to cry
with Heyne, "salvete juvenes, nobiles et generosi; [Greek text]."

Such is our apology for book-collecting. But the best defence of
the taste would be a list of the names of great collectors, a
"vision of mighty book-hunters." Let us say nothing of Seth and
Noah, for their reputation as amateurs is only based on the
authority of the tract De Bibliothecis Antediluvianis. The library