what appeared to be the great
dramatist's signature written on a slip of paper and pasted inside the
front cover. The problem of the genuineness of that autograph does not
concern us. The great fact is that a Shakespeare folio turned up in
Montana. Now when he hears some one express desire for a copy of
Greene's _Groatsworth of Wit_, or any other rare book of Elizabeth's
time, the Bishop's thoughts fly toward the setting sun. Then he smiles
a notable kind of smile, and says, 'If I could get away I'd run out to
Montana and try to pick up a copy for you.'

There is a certain gentleman who loves the literature of Queen Anne's
reign. He lives with Whigs and Tories, vibrates between coffee-house
and tea-table. He annoys his daughter by sometimes calling her
'Belinda,' and astonishes his wife with his mock-heroic apostrophes to
her hood and patches. He reads his _Spectator_ at breakfast while
other people batten upon newspapers only three hours old. He smiles
over the love-letters of Richard Steele, and reverences the name and
the writings of Joseph Addison. Indeed, his devotion to Addison is so
radical that he has actually been guilty of reading _The Campaign_ and
the _Dialogue on Medals_. This gentleman hunted books one day and was
not successful. It seemed to him that on this particular afternoon the
world was stuffed with Allison's histories of Europe, and Jeffrey's
contributions to the _Edinburgh Review_. His heart was filled with
bitterness and his nostrils with dust. Books which looked inviting
turned out to be twenty-second editions. Of fifty things upon his list
not one came to light. But it was predestined that he should not go
sorrowing to his home. He pulled out from a bottom shelf two musty
octavo volumes bound in dark brown leather, and each securely tied
with a string; for the covers had been broken from the backs. The
titles were invisible, the contents a mystery. The gentleman held the
unpromising objects in his hand and meditated upon them. They might be
a treatise on conic sections, or a Latin Grammar, and again they might
be a Book. He untied the string and opened one of the volumes. Was it
a breath of summer air from Isis that swept out of those pages, which
were as white as snow in spite of the lapse of nearly two centuries?
He read the title, MUSARUM ANGLICANARUM ANALECTA. The date was 1699.
He turned to the table of contents, and his heart gave a contented
throb. There was the name he wished to see, J