eyes, and an umbrella under his left arm, projecting awkwardly, which
he had not laid down, because he did not intend to stay more than two
minutes, and knew indeed, as the father of a family, that he ought
not to be there at all. He often drops in, for this is not one of
those stores where a tradesman hurries forward to ask what you want
and offers you the last novel which has captivated the juicy British
palate; the bookman regards such a place with the same feeling that a
physician has to a patent drug-store. The dealer in this place so
loved his books that he almost preferred a customer who knew them
above one who bought them, and honestly felt a pang when a choice
book was sold. Never can I forget what the great Quaritch said to me
when he was showing me the inner shrine of his treasure-house, and I
felt it honest to explain that I could only look, lest he should
think me an impostor. "I would sooner show such books to a man that
loved them though he couldn't buy them, than a man who gave me my
price and didn't know what he had got." With this slight anecdote I
would in passing pay the tribute of bookmen to the chief hunter of
big game in our day.

When the bookman is a family man, and I have sometimes doubts whether
he ought not to be a celibate like missionaries of religion and other
persons called to special devotion, he has of course to battle
against his temptation, and his struggles are very pathetic. The
parallel between dipsomania and bibliomania is very close and
suggestive, and I have often thought that more should be made of it.
It is the wife who in both cases is usually the sufferer and good
angel, and under her happy influence the bookman will sometimes take
the pledge, and for him, it is needless to say, there is only one
cure. He cannot be a moderate drinker, for there is no possibility
of moderation, and if he is to be saved he must become a total