books as a Hottentot knows about icebergs. John Bunyan was tied
tightly to Nat Gould, and Thomas Carlyle was firmly fastened to Charles
Garvice. I looked round; took a note of the numbers of those lots that
contained books that I wanted, and waited for the auctioneer to get to
business. In due time I became the purchaser of half a dozen lots. I
had bought six books that I wanted, and thirty that I didn't. Now the
question arose: What shall I do with these thirty waifs and strays? I
glanced over them and took pity on them. Many of them dealt with
matters in which I had never taken the slightest interest. But were
they to blame for that? or was I? I saw at once that the fault was
entirely mine, and that these unoffending volumes had absolutely
nothing to be ashamed of. I vowed that I would read the lot, and I
did. From one or two of them I derived as far as I know, no profit at
all. But these were the exceptions. Some of these volumes have been
the delight of my life during all the days of my pilgrimage. And as I
look tenderly up at them, as they stand in their very familiar places
before me, I salute them as the two old comrades saluted each other
across the hearthstone. But I cannot help laughing at the odd manner
of our first acquaintance. It was thus that I learned one of the most
valuable lessons that experience ever taught me. It is sometimes a
fine thing to sample infinity.

IV

When I was a small boy I dreaded the policeman; when I grew older I
feared the bookseller. And as the years go by I find that my dread of
the policeman has quite evaporated, but my fear of the bookseller grows
upon me. I had an idea as a boy that one day a policeman, mistaking my
identity, would snatch me up and hurl me into some horrid little
dungeon, where I might languish for many a long day. But since I have
grown up I have discovered that it is only the bookseller who does that
sort of thing. And in his case he does it deliberately and of malice
aforethought. It is no case of mistaken identity; he knows who you
are, and he knows you are innocent. But he has his dungeon ready. The
bookseller is a very dangerous person, and every member of the
community should guard against his blandishments. It is not that he
will sell you too many books. He will probably not sell you half as
many as are good for you. But he will sell you the wrong books. He
will sell you the books you least need, and keep on his own she