that the gentler sex had contributed the skill of their slender fingers to the cheerfulness of the bachelor’s home.  Scattered about were the daily and monthly products of the press, the newest sensations, the things talked about at dinners, but the walls for the most part were lined with books that are recognized as the proper possessions of the lover of books, and most of them in exquisite bindings.  Less care, I thought, had been given in the collection to “sets” of “standards” than to those that are rare, or for some reason, either from distinguished ownership or autograph notes, have a peculiar value.

In this atmosphere, when we were prepared to take our ease, the talk was no longer of stocks, or railways, or schemes, but of books.  Whether or not Henderson loved literature I did not then make up my mind, but he had a passion for books, especially for rare and first editions; and the delight with which he exhibited his library, the manner in which he handled the books that he took down one after the other, the sparkle in his eyes over a “find” or a bargain, gave me a side of his character quite different from that I should have gained by seeing him “in the street” only.  He had that genuine respect and affection for a “book” which has become almost traditional in these days of cheap and flimsy publications, a taste held by scholars and collectors, and quite beyond the popular comprehension.  The respect for a book is essential to the dignity and consideration of the place of literature in the world, and when books are treated with no more regard than the newspaper, it is a sign that literature is losing its power.  Even the collector, who may read little and care more for the externals than for the soul of his favorites, by the honor he pays them, by the solicitude he expends upon their preservation without spot, by the lavishness of expense upon binding, contributes much to the dignity of that art which preserves for the race the continuity of its thought and development.  If Henderson loved books merely as a collector whose taste for luxury and expense takes this direction, his indulgence could not but have a certain refining influence.  I could not see that he cultivated any decided specialty, but he had many rare copies which had cost fabulous prices, the possession of which gives a reputation to any owner.  “My shelves of Americana,” he said, “are nothing like Goodloe’s, who has a lot of scarce things that I am hoping to get hold of some day.  But there’s a little thing” (it was a small coffee-colored tract of six leaves, upon which the binder of the city had exercised his utmost skill) “which Goodloe offered me five hundred dollars for the other day.  I picked it up in a New Hampshire garret.”  Not the least interesting part of the collection was first editions of American authors—­a person’s value to a collector is often in proportion to his obscurity—­and what most delighted him among them were certain thin volumes of poetry,