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vendors exhibit their fresh wares； and the agents of the more wealthy
booksellers come and pick up everything worth having。 These agents
quite spoil the sport of the amateur。 They keep a strict watch on every
country dealer's catalogue； snap up all he has worth selling； and sell it over
again； charging pounds in place of shillings。 But M。 de Resbecq vows
that he once picked up a copy of the first edition of La Rochefoucauld's
〃Maxims〃 out of a box which two booksellers had just searched。 The
same collector got together very promptly all the original editions of La
Bruyere； and he even found a copy of the Elzevir 〃Pastissier Francais；〃 at
the humble price of six sous。 Now the 〃 Pastissier Francais；〃 an ill…
printed little cookery…book of the Elzevirs； has lately fetched 600 pounds
at a sale。 The Antiquary's story of Snuffy Davy and the 〃Game of
Chess；〃 is dwarfed by the luck of M。 de Resbecq。 Not one amateur in a
thousand can expect such good fortune。 There is； however； a recent
instance of a Rugby boy； who picked up； on a stall； a few fluttering leaves
hanging together on a flimsy thread。 The old woman who kept the stall
could hardly be induced to accept the large sum of a shilling for an
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original quarto of Shakespeare's 〃King John。〃 These stories are told that
none may despair。 That none may be over confident； an author may
recount his own experience。 The only odd trouvaille that ever fell to me
was a clean copy of 〃La Journee Chretienne；〃 with the name of Leon
Gambetta； 1844； on its catholic fly…leaf。 Rare books grow rarer every
day； and often 'tis only Hope that remains at the bottom of the fourpenny
boxes。 Yet the Paris book…hunters cleave to the game。 August is their
favourite season； for in August there is least competition。 Very few
people are； as a rule； in Paris； and these are not tempted to loiter。 The
bookseller is drowsy； and glad not to have the trouble of chaffering。 The
English go past； and do not tarry beside a row of dusty boxes of books。
The heat threatens the amateur with sunstroke。 Then； says M。 Octave
Uzanne； in a prose ballade of book…huntersthen； calm； glad； heroic； the
bouquineurs prowl forth； refreshed with hope。 The brown old calf…skin
wrinkles in the sun； the leaves crackle； you could poach an egg on the
cover of a quarto。 The dome of the Institute glitters； the sickly trees seem
to wither； their leaves wax red and grey； a faint warm wind is walking the
streets。 Under his vast umbrella the book…hunter is secure and content；
he enjoys the pleasures of the sport unvexed by poachers； and thinks less
of the heat than does the deer…stalker on the bare hill…side。
There is plenty of morality； if there are few rare books in the stalls。
The decay of affection； the breaking of friendship； the decline of ambition；
are all illustrated in these fourpenny collections。 The presentation
volumes are here which the author gave in the pride of his heart to the poet
who was his 〃Master；〃 to the critic whom he feared； to the friend with
whom he was on terms of mutual admiration。 The critic has not even cut
the leaves； the poet has brusquely torn three or four apart with his finger
and thumb； the friend has grown cold； and has let the poems slip into some
corner of his library； whence they were removed on some day of doom and
of general clearing out。 The sale of the library of a late learned prelate
who had Boileau's hatred of a dull book was a scene to be avoided by his
literary friends。 The Bishop always gave the works which were offered
to him a fair chance。 He read till he could read no longer； cutting the
pages as he went； and thus his progress could be traced like that of a
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THE LIBRARY10
backwoodsman who 〃blazes〃 his way through a primeval forest。 The
paper…knife generally ceased to do duty before the thirtieth page。 The
melancholy of the book… hunter is aroused by two questions； 〃Whence？〃
and 〃Whither？〃 The bibliophile asks about his books the question which
the metaphysician asks about his soul。 Whence came they？ Their value
depends a good deal on the answer。 If they are stamped with arms； then
there is a book （〃Armorial du Bibliophile；〃 by M。 Guigard） which tells
you who was their original owner。 Any one of twenty coats…of…arms on
the leather is worth a hundred times the value of the volume which it
covers。 If there is no such mark； the fancy is left to devise a romance
about the first owner； and all the hands through which the book has passed。
That Vanini came from a Jesuit college； where it was kept under lock and
key。 That copy of Agrippa 〃De Vanitate Scientiarum〃 is marked； in a
crabbed hand and in faded ink； with cynical Latin notes。 What pessimist
two hundred years ago made his grumbling so permanent？ One can only
guess； but part of the imaginative joys of the book…hunter lies ' in the
fruitless conjecture。 That other question 〃Whither？〃 is graver。 Whither
are our treasures to be scattered？ Will they find kind masters？ or； worst
fate of books； fall into the hands of women who will sell them to the
trunk…maker？ Are the leaves to line a box or to curl a maiden's locks？
Are the rarities to become more and more rare； and at last fetch prodigious
prices？ Some unlucky men are able partly to solve these problems in
their own lifetime。 They are constrained to sell their librariesan
experience full of bitterness； wrath； and disappointment。
Selling books is nearly as bad as losing friends； than which life has no
worse sorrow。 A book is a friend whose face is constantly changing。 If
you read it when you are recovering from an illness； and return to it years
after； it is changed surely； with the change in yourself。 As a man's tastes
and opinions are developed his books put on a different aspect。 He
hardly knows the 〃Poems and Ballads〃 he used to declaim； and cannot
recover the enigmatic charm of 〃Sordello。〃 Books change like friends；
like ourselves； like everything； but they are most piquant in the contrasts
they provoke； when the friend who gave them and wrote them is a success；
though we laughed at him； a failure； though we believed in him； altered in
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any case； and estranged from his old self and old days。 The vanished
past returns when we look at the pages。 The vicissitudes of years are
printed and packed in a thin octavo； and the shivering ghosts of desire and
hope return to their forbidden home in the heart and fancy。 It is as well
to have the power of recalling them always at hand； and to be able to take
a comprehensive glance at the emotions which were so powerful and full
of life； and now are more faded and of less account than the memory of
the dreams of childhood。 It is because our books are friends that do
change； and remind us of change； that we should keep them with us； even
at a little inconvenience； and not turn them adrift in the world to find a
dusty asylum in cheap bookstalls。 We are a part of all that we have read；
to parody the saying of Mr。 Tennyson's Ulysses； and we owe some respect；
and house…room at least； to the early acquaintances who have begun to
bore us； and remind us of the vanity of ambition and the weakness of
human purpose。 Old school and college books even have a r