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 boo