On the other hand, though actual visits to other men’s libraries rarely seem to give pleasure, the perusal of the catalogues of such libraries has always been a favourite pastime of collectors; but this can be accounted for without in any way aspersing the truth of the general statement that the only books a lover of them takes pleasure in are his own.

Mr. Gosse’s recent volume, Gossip in a Library, is a very pleasing example of the pleasure taken by a book-hunter in his own books.  Just as some men and more women assume your interest in the contents of their nurseries, so Mr. Gosse seeks to win our ears as he talks to us about some of the books on his shelves.  He has secured my willing attention, and is not likely to be disappointed of a considerable audience.

We live in vocal times, when small birds make melody on every bough.  The old book-collectors were a taciturn race—­the Bindleys, the Sykeses, the Hebers.  They made their vast collections in silence; their own tastes, fancies, predilections, they concealed.  They never gossiped of their libraries; their names are only preserved to us by the prices given for their books after their deaths.  Bindley’s copy fetched L3 10s., Sykes’ L4 15s.  Thus is the buyer of to-day tempted to his doom, forgetful of the fact that these great names are only quoted when the prices realized at their sales were less than those now demanded.

But solacing as is the thought of those grave, silent times, indisposed as one often is for the chirpy familiarities of this present, it is, or it ought to be, a pious, and therefore pleasant, reflection that there never was a time when more people found delight in book-hunting, or were more willing to pay for and read about their pastime than now.

Rich people may, no doubt, still be met with who think it a serious matter to buy a book if it cost more than 3s. 9d.  It was recently alleged in an affidavit made by a doctor in lunacy that for a well-to-do bachelor to go into the Strand, and in the course of the same morning spend L5 in the purchase of ‘old books,’ was a ground for belief in his insanity and for locking him up.  These, however, are but vagaries, for it is certain that the number of people who will read a book like Mr. Gosse’s steadily increases.  This is its justification, and it is a complete one.  It can never be wrong to give pleasure.  To talk about books is better than to read about them, but, as a matter of hard fact, the opportunities life affords of talking about books are very few.  The mood and the company seldom coincide; when they do, it is delightful, but they seldom do.