books often produces a very deplorable result when an old collector
dies. His "womankind," as the Antiquary called them, sell all his
treasures for the price of waste-paper, to the nearest country
bookseller. It is a melancholy duty which forces one to introduce
such topics into a volume on "Art at Home." But this little work
will not have been written in vain if it persuades ladies who
inherit books not to sell them hastily, without taking good and
disinterested opinion as to their value. They often dispose of
treasures worth thousands, for a ten pound note, and take pride in
the bargain. Here, let history mention with due honour the paragon
of her sex and the pattern to all wives of book-collecting men--
Madame Fertiault. It is thus that she addresses her lord in a
charming triolet ("Les Amoureux du Livre," p. xxxv):-


"Le livre a ton esprit . . . tant mieux!
Moi, j'ai ton coeur, et sans partage.
Puis-je desirer davantage?
Le livre a ton esprit . . . tant mieux!
Heureuse de te voir joyeux,
Je t'en voudrais . . . tout un etage.
Le livre a ton esprit . . . tant mieux!
Moi, j'ai ton coeur, et sans partage."


Books rule thy mind, so let it be!
Thy heart is mine, and mine alone.
What more can I require of thee?
Books rule thy mind, so let it be!
Contented when thy bliss I see,