or a nap, and divine hours of leisure--
To taste thus forgetfulness--sweet, in the midst of life's troubles.

In an article written for The Bibliophile Society's (1903) Year
Book, Caroline Ticknor says, "The true book-lover loves his books for
their helpfulness, for their companionship; but he regards them as
well for their elegant settings." She also observes that "strange as
the anomaly may seem, there are still many persons of ample means, and
some education, who, although they would be horrified at the very
thought of admitting to the home a cheap rug or vase, to destroy the
harmony and bring discord and confusion into the luxuriance of the
furnishings, yet will nonchalantly tolerate the incongruity of a
miserable fragment of a library made up of the cheapest and meanest
editions to be found in the market, such as would be scorned by those
of the most limited means and plebeian tastes. These will be found
inappropriately housed amid the most sumptuous surroundings. A single
rug to adorn the floor, or a single vase resting on a mantle, will
often be found to have cost ten times as much as the whole home
library. And yet the intellects of these people have been nurtured and
trained in their youth by the brilliant thoughts of ancient and modern
writers! Even the favorite author, be it Shakespeare, Dickens,
Longfellow, Tennyson, or some other, is frequently represented by a
half dozen or so disconsolate-looking volumes, the remainder of the
set either never having been bought, or else, if bought, thrown aside,
or strewn around the attic, or abandoned as a child would discard a
toy which afforded it no further amusement.

"It is worthy of remark, however, that the enormously increased
demand of late for beautiful books evinces the fact that cultured and
wealthy people are growing to appreciate the importance not only of
having a good library, but that its quality should embody a degree of
estheticism to correspond with the surroundings."

Many of the most delightful persons, well read and competent to
discourse intelligently upon the merits of books and authors, have
never experienced a single pulsation of true bibliophilism; they have
never known the joy of possessing and admiring a beautiful book, and
that the attachment one bears for such a treasure is wholly
reciprocal. They have not learned that fine books, like human beings,
are capable of mutual affection, and that it is not necessary to
devour them in orde