to make books of such virtue that bibliomaniacs shall be
eager to possess the first editions thereof. It is proverbial that a
poet is able to show a farmer things new to him about his own farm.
Turn a bibliographer loose upon a poet's works, and he will amaze the
poet with an account of _his_ own doings. The poet will straightway
discover that while he supposed himself to be making 'mere literature'
he was in reality contributing to an elaborate and exact science.

The Bibliotaph was not a blind enthusiast on the subject of first
editions. He was one of the few men who understood the exceeding great
virtues of second editions. He declared that a man who was so
fortunate as to secure a second edition of Henry Crabb Robinson's
_Diary_ was in better case than he who had bothered himself to obtain
a first. When it fell in with his mood to argue against that which he
himself most affected, he would quote the childish bit of doggerel
beginning 'The first the worst, the second the same,' and then grow
eloquent over the dainty Templeman Hazlitts which are chiefly third
editions. He thought it absurd to worry over a first issue of
Carlyle's _French Revolution_ if it were possible to buy at moderate
price a copy of the third edition, which is a well-nigh perfect book,
'good to the touch and grateful to the eye.' But this lover of books
grew fierce in his special mania if you hinted that it was also
foolish to spend a large sum on an _editio princeps_ of _Paradise
Lost_ or of _Robinson Crusoe_. There are certain authors concerning
the desirability of whose first editions it must not be disputed.

The singular readiness with which bookish treasures fell into his way
astonished less fortunate buyers. Rare Stevensons dropped into his
hand like ripe fruit from a tree. The most inaccessible of pamphlets
fawned upon him, begging to be purchased, just as the succulent little
roast pigs in _The New Paul and Virginia_ run about with knives and
forks in their sides pleading to be eaten. The Bibliotaph said he did
not despair of buying Poe's _Tamerlane_ for twenty-five cents one of
these days; and that a rarity he was sure to get sooner or later was a
copy of that English newspaper which announced Shelley's death under
the caption _Now he Knows whether there is a Hell or Not_.

He unconsciously followed Heber in that he disliked large-paper
copies. Heber would none of them because they took up too much room;
their ample borders encroached