In the meanwhile, my books are scattered about in cases in different parts of a double sitting-room, where the cats carouse on one side, and the hurdy-gurdy man girds up his loins on the other.  A friend of Boethius had a library lined with slabs of ivory and pale green marble.  I like to think of that when I am jealous of Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, as the peasant thinks of the White Czar when his master’s banqueting hall dazzles him.  If I cannot have cabinets of ebony and cedar, I may just as well have plain deal, with common glass doors to keep the dust out.  I detest your Persian apparatus.

It is a curious reflection, that the ordinary private person who collects objects of a modest luxury, has nothing about him so old as his books.  If a wave of the rod made everything around him disappear that did not exist a century ago, he would suddenly find himself with one or two sticks of furniture, perhaps, but otherwise alone with his books.  Let the work of another century pass, and certainly nothing but these little brown volumes would be left, so many caskets full of passion and tenderness, disappointed ambition, fruitless hope, self-torturing envy, conceit aware, in maddening lucid moments, of its own folly.  I think if Mentzelius had been worth his salt, those ears of his, which heard the book-worm crow, might have caught the echo of a sigh from beneath many a pathetic vellum cover.  There is something awful to me, of nights, and when I am alone, in thinking of all the souls imprisoned in the ancient books around me.  Not one, I suppose, but was ushered into the world with pride and glee, with a flushed cheek and heightened pulse; not one enjoyed a career that in all points justified those ample hopes and flattering promises.

The outward and visible mark of the citizenship of the book-lover is his book-plate.  There are many good bibliophiles who abide in the trenches, and never proclaim their loyalty by a book-plate.  They are with us, but not of us; they lack the courage of their opinions; they collect with timidity or carelessness; they have no need for the morrow.  Such a man is liable to great temptations.  He is brought face to face with that enemy of his species, the borrower, and dares not speak with him in the gate.  If he had a book-plate he would say, “Oh! certainly I will lend you this volume, if it has not my book-plate in it; of course, one makes a rule never to lend a book that has.”  He would say this, and feign to look inside the volume, knowing right well that this safeguard against the borrower is there already.  To have a book-plate gives a collector great serenity and self-confidence.  We have laboured in a far more conscientious spirit since we had ours than we did before.  A learned poet, Lord De Tabley, wrote a fascinating volume on book-plates, some years ago, with copious illustrations.  There is not, however, one specimen in his book which I would exchange for mine, the work and the gift of one of the most imaginative