t was almost impossible to get the earliest in a spotless
condition. Quantities of trash had to be overhauled, and weeks might
elapse before a perfect copy of a given edition would come to light.
Books are dirty, but pamphlets are dirtier. The Bibliotaph declared
that had he rendered an itemized bill for services in this matter, the
largest item would have been for Turkish baths.

Here was a case in which the collector paid well for the privilege of
having a signed copy of a well-loved author's novel. He begrudged no
portion of his time or expenditure. If it pleased the great Englishman
to have upon his shelves, in compact array and in spotless condition,
these proofs of what he _didn't_ earn by the publication of his books
in America, well and good. The Bibliotaph was delighted that so modest
a service on his part could give so apparently great a pleasure. The
Englishman must have had the collecting instinct, and he must have
been philosophical, since he could contemplate with equanimity these
illegitimate volumes.

The conclusion of the story is this: The work of collecting the
reprints was finished. The last installment reached the famous
Englishman during an illness which subsequently proved fatal. They
were spread upon the coverlid of the bed, and the invalid took a great
and humorous satisfaction in looking them over. Said the Bibliotaph,
recounting the incident in his succinct way, 'They reached him on his
death-bed,--and made him willing to go.'

The Bibliotaph was true to the traditions of the book-collecting
brotherhood, in that he read but little. His knowledge of the world
was fresh from life, not 'strained through books,' as Johnson said of
a certain Irish painter whom he knew at Birmingham. But the Bibliotaph
was a mighty devourer of book-catalogues. He got a more complete
satisfaction, I used to think, in reading a catalogue than in reading
any other kind of literature. To see him unwrapping the packages which
his English mail had brought was to see a happy man. For in addition
to books by post, there would be bundles of sale-catalogues. Then
might you behold his eyes sparkle as he spread out the tempting lists;
the humorous lines about the corners of his mouth deepened, and he
would take on what a little girl who watched him called his 'pussy-cat
look.' Then with an indelible pencil in his huge and pudgy left fist
(for the Bibliotaph was a Benjaminite), he would go through the pages,
checking off the