"Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legs--"Hamilcar, somnolent
Prince of the City of Books--thou guardian nocturnal! Like that
Divine Cat who combated the impious in Heliopolis--in the night of
the great combat--thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books
which the old savant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and
indefatigable zeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this
library, that shelters thy military virtues; for verily in thy person
are united the formidable aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous
grace of a woman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous
Hamilcar, while awaiting the moonlight hour in which the mice will
come forth to dance before the Acta Sanctorum of the learned
Bolandists!"

The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied
it with a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But
as my voice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears
and by wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste
on my part so to declaim.

"This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, "talks to no purpose
at all while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full
of good sense, full of significance--containing either the announcement
of a meal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says.
But this old man puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing."

So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I
opened a book, which I began to read with interest; for it was a
catalogue of manuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more
fascinating, more delightful than that of a catalogue. The one