having to move him out
of the large guest-chamber into another one, smaller and higher
up,--this because of an unexpected accession of visitors. He replied
that it did not incommode him; and as for being up another flight of
stairs, 'it was a comfort to him to know that when he was in a state
of somnolent helplessness he was as near heaven as it was possible to
get in an actor's house.' The same lady was taking him roundly to task
on some minor point in which he had quite justly offended her;
whereupon he turned to her husband and said, 'Jane worships but little
at the shrine of politeness because so much of her time is mortgaged
to the shrine of truth.'

When asked to suggest an appropriate and brief cablegram to be sent to
a gentleman who on the following day would become sixty years of age,
and who had taken full measure of life's joys, he responded, 'Send him
this: "_You don't look it, but you've lived like it._"'

His skill in witty retort often expressed itself by accepting a verbal
attack as justified, and elaborating it in a way to throw into shadow
the assault of the critic. At a small and familiar supper of bookish
men, when there was general dissatisfaction over an expensive but
ill-made salad, he alone ate with apparent relish. The host, who was
of like mind with his guests, said, 'The Bibliotaph doesn't care for
the quality of his food, if it has filling power.' To which he at once
responded, 'You merely imply that I am like a robin: I eat cherries
when I may, and worms when I must.'

His inscriptions in books given to his friends were often singularly
happy. He presented a copy of _Lowell's Letters_ to a gentleman and
his wife. The first volume was inscribed to the husband as follows:--

'To Mr. ---- ----, who is to the owner of the second volume of these
Letters what this volume is to that: so delightful as to make one glad
that there's another equally as good, if not better.'

In volume two was the inscription to the wife, worded in this
manner:--

'To Mrs. ---- ----, without whom the owner of the first volume of
these Letters would be as that first volume without this one:
interesting, but incomplete.'

Perhaps this will illustrate his quickness to seize upon ever so minute
an occasion for the exercise of his humor. A young woman whom he admired,
being brought up among brothers, had received the nickname, half
affectionately and half patronizingly bestowed, of 'the Kid.' Among
her holiday gift