THE BIBLIOMANIAC.
"Here," said he, drawing from one of his pockets a very small dirty black-letter book, "this is all I shall do to-day—my pursuit, you know—eh—old books—rare books—I don't care what I give so as I can secure them—this is a tract of 1486—seventeen pages originally—five only wanting—two damaged—got it for seventy-two pounds ten shillings—Caxton—only one other copy extant—that in the British Museum."
"Seventy-two pounds for that!" said I.
"To be sure," replied Hull; "why, my dear sir, it is not worth my while to come out of the city unless I spend seventy or eighty pounds in the morning—I cannot afford the time for less."
"And what is it about?" said I, innocently.
"Why, I do not happen to know that," said Hull; "it is an essay, I believe, to prove that Edward the Fourth never had the toothache; but it is, as you see, in Latin, and I don't read Latin."
"Then why buy it?" said I.
"Buy!" exclaimed he, looking at me through his glass with an expression of astonishment—"I buy thousands of books!—pooh, pooh! millions, my dear sir, in the course of a year, but I never think of reading them—my dear friend, I have no time to read."
I confess I did not exactly comprehend the character of the bibliomania, which appeared to engross my friend, nor the particular gratification which the purchase of the unreadable works seemed to afford him. But he only curled up his mouth, as much as to say that I was a dunce, and that there was a sort of delight—felt in common with magpies, I presume—of picking up objects and hiding them away in dark holes and corners.—Gilbert Gurney.