I fear that he is too much given to
lonely study, to self-companionship, to all sorts of questionings, to
looking at life as at a solemn show where he is only a spectator. I dare
not build up a romance on what I have yet seen. My reader may, but I
will answer for nothing. I shall wait and see.
The old Master and I have at last made that visit to the Scarabee which
we had so long promised ourselves.
When we knocked at his door he came and opened it, instead of saying,
Come in. He was surprised, I have no doubt, at the sound of our
footsteps; for he rarely has a visitor, except the little monkey of a
boy, and he may have thought a troop of marauders were coming to rob him
of his treasures. Collectors feel so rich in the possession of their
rarer specimens, that they forget how cheap their precious things seem to
common eyes, and are as afraid of being robbed as if they were dealers in
diamonds. They have the name of stealing from each other now and then,
it is true, but many of their priceless possessions would hardly tempt a
beggar. Values are artificial: you will not be able to get ten cents of
the year 1799 for a dime.
The Scarabee was reassured as soon as he saw our faces, and he welcomed
us not ungraciously into his small apartment. It was hard to find a
place to sit down, for all the chairs were already occupied by cases and
boxes full of his favorites.
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