oks; not literally, but sometimes with as much
effect as if he had put his books underground. There are several
varieties of him. The dog-in-the-manger bibliotaph is the worst; he
uses his books but little himself, and allows others to use them not
at all. On the other hand, a man may be a bibliotaph simply from
inability to get at his books. He may be homeless, a bachelor, a
denizen of boarding-houses, a wanderer upon the face of the earth. He
may keep his books in storage or accumulate them in the country,
against the day when he shall have a town house with proper library.

The most genial lover of books who has walked city streets for many a
day was a bibliotaph. He accumulated books for years in the huge
garret of a farmhouse standing upon the outskirts of a Westchester
County village. A good relative 'mothered' the books for him in his
absence. When the collection outgrew the garret it was moved into a
big village store. It was the wonder of the place. The country folk
flattened their noses against the panes and tried to peer into the
gloom beyond the half-drawn shades. The neighboring stores were in
comparison miracles of business activity. On one side was a
harness-shop; on the other a nondescript establishment at which one
might buy anything, from sunbonnets and corsets to canned salmon and
fresh eggs. Between these centres of village life stood the silent
tomb for books. The stranger within the gates had this curiosity
pointed out to him along with the new High School and the Soldiers'
Monument.

By shading one's eyes to keep away the glare of the light, it was
possible to make out tall carved oaken cases with glass doors, which
lined the walls. They gave distinction to the place. It was not
difficult to understand the point of view of the dressmaker from
across the way who stepped over to satisfy her curiosity concerning
the stranger, and his concerning the books, and who said in a friendly
manner as she peered through a rent in the adjoining shade, 'It's
almost like a cathedral, ain't it?'

To an inquiry about the owner of the books she replied that he was
brought up in that county; that there were people around there who
said that he had been an exhorter years ago; her impression was that
now he was a 'political revivalist,' if I knew what that was.

The phrase seemed hopeless, but light was thrown upon it when, later,
I learned that this man of many buried books gave addresses upon the
responsibilitie