caulled by quietnesse, thought it good to couche myself in Cambridge
ageyn.'

Yet although we may seek solitude among our books, how far removed are we
from being really alone! 'A man is never less alone than when he is
alone,' said the noble Scipio[16]; and this is especially true of the
book-lover. What bibliophile does not prefer the companionship of his
books to that of all other friends? What friends so steadfast, so
reliable in their friendship, so helpful in our difficulties, so apt upon
all occasions, as the books which form our library? They are never elated
at our mistakes, they are never 'superior' when we display ignorance.
Human friendships are limited; but to the number of our most intimate
acquaintances in cloth, vellum, and morocco, there is no end.

It is this universal sympathy afforded by our books that makes our
sanctum such a delicious retreat. Here we need never be bored, for we can
put aside the tedious or insipid at will, and turn to whatever subject or
companion our fancy indicates. We are not bound to talk with persons or
on themes that have no interest for us. There is no clashing of ideas,
and complete harmony reigns amid our comfort.

To the man of literary tastes there are few things more depressing than
the conversations of 'small-talk' which an exacting society occasionally
demands. Who has not suffered from their enervating effects? We are not
all possessed of that mental abstraction which La Fontaine succeeded in
carrying with him throughout life, forming a buffer from which all idle
talk rebounded. He was once asked to dinner by a 'fermier-general' to
amuse the guests. Thoroughly bored, La Fontaine ate much and said little,
and rising very early from the table said that he had to go to the
Academy. 'Oh,' said his host, 'but you are much too early for it.' 'Oh
well,' replied Jean, '_I shall go the longest way to it._' Poor Jean was
really very absent-minded. He had a son whom he confided at the age of
fourteen to a friend to educate. Not having seen the youth for a long
time, he met him one day at the house of a savant without knowing him.
Afterwards he happened to mention that he thought him a youth of wit and
taste. Some one told him that the lad was his own son. 'Is he indeed,'
said Jean, 'well I'm very glad to hear it.'

There is no end to the delightful hobbies that we may cultivate in a
library. Here we may go fishing or whaling, fighting battles or exploring
new countries, tr