pleasant to see her striving hard to feel due
reverence for the dusty inhabitants of the
doctor's study. She had, besides, a tinge of
romanticism, very refreshing in these flinty
days of ours, and was filled with a kind of
buoyant earnest faith, which she was not
long in communicating to others—delighting,
moreover, in rehearsing ghostly narrative,
and spectral appearances. This she did so
prettily, and so mysteriously, that I, before a
scoffer and unbeliever, came at last to feel
uneasy of nights, and rather shrank from the
idea of going up stairs in the dark.

In short, to this complexion it came at last,
as indeed was only to be expected—that the
Attic nights with the doctor grew to be insufferably
dull, and the doctor himself, and
the Johnsonian manner, something of a bore.
I soon began to see a deal of truth in that
passage of the ingenious Mr. Little, where he
informs us that his only books were woman's
looks. What if he had seen the precious
little volume always open before me, and
which I took such wondrous delight in perusing!
I felt the Poisoned Arrow with the
Golden Shaft smarting more keenly every
day. In brief, I found myself one morning
asking the Reverend Erasmus for a few
moments' private conversation, at the
conclusion of which I received a paternal accolade
and numberless benedictions. Then was sweet
Lizzie sent for, who came in blushing most
bewitchingly, as though she had a faint
suspicion of what was going on. After a month's
interval, during which time I conceived an
utter disgust for all things of leaves and
parchment, the usual ceremony took place,
and the happy pair departed for London en
route to foreign parts, as was only proper.

During the happy days that followed, I
never once thought of Elzevir or Aldine—
never felt the least yearning towards my old
objects of affection, until—yes, until we came
to the ancient city of Bruges. No human
virtue could have withstood that seductive
town. We had been admiring its halls,
churches, paintings, carvings, bits of Gothic,
all day long, and were returning pretty well
tired to our hostelry, when we suddenly found
ourselves before one of those picturesque
little alleys wherein this city abounds. "Oh!"
said sweet Lizzie, "how like a Turkish bazaar!
We must walk down—just once." With a
gentle remonstrance, as though I had a
presentiment of what was impending, I suffered
myself to be led into the fatal street, and
was utterly ravished, as the French say, with
all I saw. Dark monstrosities carved out of
oak, ancient china, arquebuses, vestiments of
rich stuffs, silver statues, bits of stained
glass, and Heaven knows what besides, were
gathered there, tempting sweet Lizzie to the
very verge of distraction. While I—my hour
had come at last—was irresistibly drawn to
some quaint shelves crowded with old tomes
in the livery that was so familiar to me.
With the first glance I saw they were of a
superior order, doubtless noble exiles from
some rich library in the Faubourg, bearing
on their backs the insignia of their haughty
masters. I took one in my hand, and, as I
did so, felt a queer sensation coming over
me. They were bound in that famous old
red morocco; and there was, besides, a second
series arrayed in rich mottled calf—altogether
a very choice and tempting lot. I was back
under the old dominion in a moment.

"Look here, sweet Lizzie," I said, "did you
ever see such a treasure?"

"Yes," said Lizzie, smiling; "very nice
indeed"—she was at that moment studying
an old Spanish rosary, thinking what a rare
armlet it would make.

"Look," continued I, in a perfect transport
—"such a superb piece of mottled calf;
veined and freckled like a bit of jasper!"

"It is very pretty," said poor Lizzie, trying
hard to admire it; " won't you buy it?"

Buy it! I hesitated—not for the price,
which was scarcely a hundred francs or so,
but because I knew how much depended on
that moment. A look at the old red morocco
decided me, and I was back again under the
thraldom of the Book Demon.

The next day was spent in diligent
investigation of my new-found prizes, and all their
beauties were dwelt on pitilessly for the
behoof of poor Lizzie. The day after, we were
to have commenced our journey home, but it
occurred to me that there were some famous
libraries at Ghent, scarce an hour's travel
from Bruges. It would be a positive sin to
leave these unexplored; such an opportunity
might never occur again. At Ghent, as everybody
knows, are temptations enough for the
book-gatherer; and from that city I returned
very late at night, with a small sack filled
with marvels of type and binding. Poor
Lizzie, who had been sitting up for hours
expecting me, looked ruefully at these
trophies as I tumbled them out on the carpet
before her. She was very tired, she said,
and had passed, a very weary day. What
could have kept me? "There is type!
There's margin!" I said, opening one wide.
"I tell you what, sweet Lizzie; I have a
rare scheme in my head—I planned it as I
came along. Suppose we go back to Brussels;
I hear there are things to be had there
literally for a song. We might stay—let me
see—a fortnight, whilst I rummage the great
libraries. What say you, Lizzie?"

This was too much. I saw her bright
little face suffused suddenly with a deeper
crimson. How could I be so cruel to her!
Especially when I knew she was dying to get
home to her poor father. But she had been
warned of this long, long ago. She ought to
have taken advice. She knew, that, in my
heart, I preferred those horrid books to her
and everything else in the world.

Good Heavens! here was a burst! I was
astonished and indignant. But the fact was,
women were so unreasonable, so very