There is no more fascinating type of bedside book than the catalogue of a great private library. “Bedside book” I say: but that is hardly just, for I would willingly retire to a desert island (as all the best people appear to be prepared to do these days) with a comfortable handful of such records of greatness. These can conjure up visions for me as no other books can. I find the Abbotsford catalogue as spell‐binding as The Three Musketeers, and old Kirk‐patrick Sharpe's curious collections as intriguing as the adventures of young Waverley. Are there others who share my taste? I hope so, though I admit that it is not everyone's meat. Might I be pardoned for trying to suggest why I like this bye‐way? Bear with me while in the manner of Hill Burton I summon up a few of the famous bookmen of a former day. And pardon me again if it be found that they are all Scots.
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