d but seldom from catalogues, and went regularly to and
fro among the dealers in books, seeking the volume which his heart
desired. He enjoyed those shops where the book-seller kept open house,
where the stock was large and surprises were common, where the
proprietor was prodigiously well-informed on some points and
correspondingly ill-informed on others. He bought freely, never
disputed a price, and laid down his cash with the air of a man who
believes that unspent money is the root of all evil.

These travels brought about three results: the making of friends, the
compilation of scrap-books, and the establishment of 'bins.' Before
speaking of any one of these points, a word on the satisfactions of
bibliographical touring.

In every town of considerable size, and in many towns of
inconsiderable size, are bookshops. It is a poor shop which does not
contain at least one good book. This book bides its time, and usually
outstays its welcome. But its fate is about its neck. Somewhere there
is a collector to whom that book is precious. They are made for one
another, the collector and the book; and it is astonishing how
infrequently they miss of realizing their mutual happiness. The
book-seller is a marriage-broker for unwedded books. His business is
to find them homes, and take a fee for so doing. Sugarman the Shadchan
was not more zealous than is your vendor of rare books.

Now, it is a curious fact that the most desirable of bookish treasures
are often found where one would be least likely to seek them. Montana
is a great State, nevertheless one does not think of going to Montana
for early editions of Shakespeare. Let the book-hunter inwardly digest
the following plain tale of a clergyman and a book of plays.

There is a certain collector who is sometimes called 'The Bishop.' He
is not a bishop, but he may be so designated; coming events have been
known to cast conspicuous shadows in the likeness of mitre and
crosier. The Bishop heard of a man in Montana who had an old book of
plays with an autograph of William Shakespeare pasted in it. Being a
wise ecclesiastic, he did not exclaim 'Tush' and 'Fie,' but proceeded
at once to go book-hunting in Montana. He went by proxy, if not in
person; the journey is long. In due time the owner of the volume was
found and the book was placed in the Bishop's hands for inspection. He
tore off the wrappers, and lo! it was a Fourth Folio of Shakespeare
excellently well preserved, and with