The Bibliotaph | Page 3

of the worst cases have been observed in America.
Clergymen and presidents of colleges have been known to be seized
with it. The victim becomes more or less irresponsible, and presently
runs mad. Such an one was John Bagford, of diabolical memory, who
mutilated not less than ten thousand volumes to form his vast collection
of title-pages. John Bagford died an unrepentant sinner, lamenting with
one of his later breaths that he could not live long enough to get hold of
a genuine Caxton and rip the initial page out of that.
The bibliotaph buries books; not literally, but sometimes with as much
effect as if he had put his books underground. There are several
varieties of him. The dog-in-the-manger bibliotaph is the worst; he uses
his books but little himself, and allows others to use them not at all. On
the other hand, a man may be a bibliotaph simply from inability to get
at his books. He may be homeless, a bachelor, a denizen of
boarding-houses, a wanderer upon the face of the earth. He may keep
his books in storage or accumulate them in the country, against the day
when he shall have a town house with proper library.
The most genial lover of books who has walked city streets for many a
day was a bibliotaph. He accumulated books for years in the huge
garret of a farmhouse standing upon the outskirts of a Westchester

County village. A good relative 'mothered' the books for him in his
absence. When the collection outgrew the garret it was moved into a
big village store. It was the wonder of the place. The country folk
flattened their noses against the panes and tried to peer into the gloom
beyond the half-drawn shades. The neighboring stores were in
comparison miracles of business activity. On one side was a
harness-shop; on the other a nondescript establishment at which one
might buy anything, from sunbonnets and corsets to canned salmon and
fresh eggs. Between these centres of village life stood the silent tomb
for books. The stranger within the gates had this curiosity pointed out
to him along with the new High School and the Soldiers' Monument.
By shading one's eyes to keep away the glare of the light, it was
possible to make out tall carved oaken cases with glass doors, which
lined the walls. They gave distinction to the place. It was not difficult
to understand the point of view of the dressmaker from across the way
who stepped over to satisfy her curiosity concerning the stranger, and
his concerning the books, and who said in a friendly manner as she
peered through a rent in the adjoining shade, 'It's almost like a cathedral,
ain't it?'
To an inquiry about the owner of the books she replied that he was
brought up in that county; that there were people around there who said
that he had been an exhorter years ago; her impression was that now he
was a 'political revivalist,' if I knew what that was.
The phrase seemed hopeless, but light was thrown upon it when, later, I
learned that this man of many buried books gave addresses upon the
responsibilities of citizenship, upon the higher politics, and upon
themes of like character. They said that he was humorous. The farmers
liked to hear him speak. But it was rumored that he went to colleges,
too. The dressmaker thought that the buying of so many books was
'wicked.' 'He goes from New York to Beersheba, and from Chicago to
Dan, buying books. Never reads 'em because he hardly ever comes
here.'
It became possible to identify the Bibliotaph of the country store with a
certain mature youth who some time since 'gave his friends the slip,

chose land-travel or seafaring,' and has not returned to build the town
house with proper library. They who observed him closely thought that
he resembled Heber in certain ways. Perhaps this fact alone would
justify an attempt at a verbal portrait. But the additional circumstance
that, in days when people with the slightest excuse therefor have
themselves regularly photographed, this old-fashioned youth refused to
allow his 'likeness' to be taken,--this circumstance must do what it can
to extenuate minuteness of detail in the picture, as well as
over-attention to points of which a photograph would have taken no
account.
You are to conceive of a man between thirty-eight and forty years of
age, big-bodied, rapidly acquiring that rotund shape which is thought
becoming to bishops, about six feet high though stooping a little,
prodigiously active, walking with incredible rapidity, having large
limbs, large feet, large though well-shaped and very white hands; in
short, a huge fellow physically, as big of heart as of body, and, in the
affectionate thought of those who knew him