The Library-第2部分

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ling。　　But　there　are　little　tributary　streets；　with　humbler　stalls；　shy　pools；　as　it　were；　where　the　humbler　fisher　of　books　may　hope　to　raise　an　Elzevir；　or　an　old　French　play；　a　first　edition　of　Shelley；　or　a　Restoration　edy。　　It　is　usually　a　case　of　hope　unfulfilled；　but　the　merest　nibble　of　a　rare　book；　say　Marston's　poems　in　the　original　edition；　or　Beddoes's　〃Love's　Arrow　Poisoned；〃　or　Bankes's　〃Bay　Horse　in　a　Trance；〃　or　the　〃Mel　Heliconicum〃　of　Alexander　Ross；　or　〃Les　Oeuvres　de　Clement　Marot；　de　Cahors；　Vallet　de　Chambre　du　Roy；　A　Paris；　Ches　Pierre　Gaultier；　1551；〃　even　a　chance　at　something　of　this　sort　will　kindle　the　waning　excitement；　and　add　a　pleasure　to　a　man's　walk　in　muddy　London。　　Then；　suppose　you　purchase　for　a　couple　of　shillings　the　〃Histoire　des　Amours　de　Henry　IV；　et　autres　pieces　curieuses；　A　Leyde；　Chez　Jean　Sambyx　（Elzevir）；　1664；〃　it　is　certainly　not　unpleasant；　on　consulting　M。　Fontaine's　catalogue；　to　find　that　he　offers　the　same　work　at　the　ransom　of　10　pounds。　　The　beginner　thinks　himself　in　singular　luck；　even　though　he　has　no　idea　of　vending　his　collection；　and　he　never　reflects　that　CONDITIONspotless　white　leaves　and　broad　margins；　make　the　market　value　of　a　book。

Setting　aside　such　bare　considerations　of　profit；　the　sport　given　by　bookstalls　is　full　of　variety　and　charm。　　In　London　it　may　be　pursued　in　most　of　the　cross　streets　that　stretch　a　dirty　　between　the　British　Museum　and　the　Strand。　　There　are　other　more　shy　and　less　frequently　poached　resorts　which　the　amateur　may　be　allowed　to　find　out　for　himself。　　In　Paris　there　is　the　long　se　eighty　bouquinistes　set　their　boxes　on　the　walls　of　the　embankment　of　the　Seine。　　There　are　few　country　towns　so　small　but　that　books；　occasionally　rare　and　valuable；　may　be　found　lurking　in　secondhand　furniture　warehouses。　　This　is　one　of　the　advantages　of　living　in　an　old　country。　　The　Colonies　are　not　the　home　for　a　collector。　　I　have　seen　an　Australian　bibliophile　enraptured　by　the　rare　chance　of　buying；　in　Melbourne；　an　early　work　onthe　history　of　Port　Jackson！　　This　seems　but　poor　game。　　But　in　Europe　an　amateur　has　always　occupation　for　his　odd　moments　in　town；　and　is　for　ever　lured　on　by　the　radiant　apparition　of　Hope。　　All　collectors　tell　their　anecdotes　of　wonderful　luck；　and　magnificent　discoveries。　　There　is　a　volume　〃Voyages　Litteraires　sur　les　Quais　de　Paris〃　（Paris；　Durand；　1857）；　by　M。　de　Fontaine　de　Resbecq；　which　might　convert　the　dullest　soul　to　bookhunting。　　M。　de　Resbecq　and　his　friends　had　the　most　amazing　good　fortune。　　A　M。　N　found　six　original　plays　of　Moliere　（worth　perhaps　as　many　hundreds　of　pounds）；　bound　up　with　Garth's　〃Dispensary；〃　an　English　poem　which　has　long　lost　its　vogue。　　It　is　worth　while；　indeed；　to　examine　all　volumes　marked　〃Miscellanea；〃　〃Essays；〃　and　the　like；　and　treasures　may　possibly　lurk；　as　Snuffy　Davy　knew；　within　the　battered　sheepskin　of　school　books。　　Books　lie　in　out　of　the　way　places。　Poggio　rescued　〃Quintilian〃　from　the　counter　of　a　wood　merchant。　The　best　time　for　bookhunting　in　Paris　is　the　early　morning。　　〃The　take；〃　as　anglers　say；　is　〃on〃　from　halfpast　seven　to　halfpast　nine　a。m。　　At　these　hours　the　vendors　exhibit　their　fresh　wares；　and　the　agents　of　the　more　wealthy　booksellers　e　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　illprinted　little　cookerybook　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　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　flyleaf。　　Rare　books　grow　rarer　every　day；　and　often　'tis　only　Hope　that　remains　at　the　bottom　of　the　fourpenny　boxes。　　Yet　the　Paris　bookhunters　cleave　to　the　game。　August　is　their　favourite　season；　for　in　August　there　is　least　petition。　　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　bookhuntersthen；　calm；　glad；　heroic；　the　bouquineurs　prowl　forth；　refreshed　with　hope。　　The　brown　old　calfskin　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　bookhunter　is　secure　and　content；　he　enjoys　the　pleasures　of　the　sport　unvexed　by　poachers；　and　thinks　less　of　the　heat　than　does　the　deerstalker　on　the　bare　hillside。

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　backwoodsman　who　〃blazes〃　his　way　through　a　primeval　forest。　　The　paperknife　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　coatsofarms　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　bookhunter　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　trunkmaker？　　Are　the　leaves　to　line　a　box　or　to　curl　a　maiden's　locks？　　Are　the　rarities　to　bee　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　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　prehensive　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　houseroom　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　reproachful　and　salutary　power　of　whispering　how　much　a　man　knew；　and　at　the　cost　of　how　much　trouble；　that　he　has　absolutely　fotten；　and　is　neither　the　better　nor　the　worse　for　it。　　It　will　be　the　same　in　the　case　of　the　books　he　is　eager　about　now；　though；　to　be　sure；　he　will　read　with　less　care；　and　fet　with　an　ease　and　readiness　only　to　be　acquired　by　practice。

But　we　were　apologising　for　bookhunting；　not　because　it　teaches　moral　lessons；　as　〃dauncyng〃　also　does；　according　to　Sir　Thomas　Elyot；　in　the　〃Boke　called　the　Gouvernour；〃　but　because　it　affords　a　kind　of　sportive　excitement。　　Bookstalls　are　not　the　only　field　of　the　chase。　　Book　catalogues；　which　reach　the　collector　through　the　post；　give　him　all　the　pleasures　of　the　sport　at　home。　　He　reads　the　booksellers'　catalogues　eagerly；　he　marks　his　chosen　sport　with　pencil；　he　writes　by　return　of　post；　or　he　telegraphs　to　the　vendor。　Unfortunately　he　almost　always　finds　that　he　has　been　forestalled；　probably　by　some　bookseller's　agent。