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triumph. Shaking his fist across the table, and almost in the face of his antagonist, he shouted, "Never mind: I will have it at your sale"; and history records that he did, for his poor brother died within the year.

There was indeed in this scene more of instruction than amusement, and I cannot help thinking that the lesson to be learned was that it is far better to be tinged even with the spirit of mere vulgar trade than to be saturated with the selfish eagerness of the bibliomaniac.

This, however, is after all a question for the moralist, and affects but in the slightest degree the great book market, which is regulated, not by the whims and fancies or even by the cravings of individuals, but rather by the fiat of the

mass.

It distributes

This fiat goes forth at intervals. forth at intervals. itself into rules, and binds the typical book-hunter, no matter of what description, as with bands of iron, so that in his journeyings round and about the book-stalls he is constrained, though perhaps against his reason, to judge as he knows the vast majority of his fellows would judge under similar circumstances.

It is this unison of thought which controls the market and makes it possible to survey its ups and downs regardless alike of enthusiasm on the one hand or of indifference on the other.

Book-men, of every kind, whether maniacs like Don Vincente, lovers of choice editions like Grolier in France or Beckford in England, readers like Dr. Johnson, Dibdin, or Lamb—the last of whom was once seen to kiss a copy of Chapman's Homer which he had just picked up for a trifle; collectors of the type ridiculed long ago by Seneca as being possessed only of a vulgar emulation which prompted them to accumulate volumes of which, he says, they know nothing except the outsides, many of them possibly barely that all these sorts and conditions of men, no matter how learned or ignorant, how enthusiastic or indifferent, meet in rivalry on every occasion in which a book is to be bought and sold.

In the great book world as in every other, there is power in wealth, and he whose means are limited must buy in the cheapest market, remembering always what he owes, not merely to himself, but to those who will some day read, or perhaps even be compelled to sell, what he has accumulated with such energy and toil. It is to these that the following pages appeal.

CHAPTER II.

THE GOLDEN DAYS.

HE quality of a people is mirrored in its current literature, and as that is in the main grave or gay, learned or frivolous, just in the same degree is the character of those who support its existence with their money or their applause.

Nothing at first sight seems so easy to gauge by an application of this rule as the popular character at any period of time, nor would there be any difficulty in doing so if the course of the demand for books of a certain class flowed in a single current. Just, however, as the river which we see making its way to the ocean is swollen with innumerable streams and rivulets, so the popular taste in the matter of literature is composed of a vast array of individual preferences. These must be separated, analysed, and classed before any idea can be grasped of the magnitude which

would be assumed by a social history founded upon books.

From a practical point of view, there are good reasons why it should be clearly understood at the outset that no book was ever yet sent into the world without an audience, and that the success or the reverse of every literary venture indicates to a nicety the popular taste of the hour, or the phase of it to which the class of work appeals. Attempts are made every day to anticipate results in this respect: some of them succeed, the majority fail, but all afford valuable evidence for future guidance.

The publication of new books is nearly always dominated by one fixed principle, and that a pecuniary one; the purchase of old books, or books at second hand, may be actuated by a variety of motives, among which, perhaps, the question of money never enters at all. Many persons buy books to read or to consult, and do not trouble themselves with speculating on the probabilities of their rise or fall in the market in the near future or at any distance of time. These are the genuine bibliophiles, who read what they collect and can derive as much pleasure from the perusal of a battered volume, with which no bookseller would encumber his shelves, as the latter-day collector takes in contemplating the bindings of rare editions, kept out of harm's way

behind glass doors, and which he bought because they cost money and because he thinks that in ten or a dozen years to come, or perhaps less, the pecuniary value will have increased. This type of bookworm rules the market, and ninetenths of those who search the costermongers' burrows in Farringdon Road and the New Cut do so in the hope of picking up something which will not shame their judgment when the account comes to be balanced. I would not be so unjust as to suggest that books acquired from such a motive are never read: some of them doubtless are many are not; most are merely skimmed, and then put away out of the reach of dust and dirt and the fingers of the unappreciative.

The quality of this class of collectors, like that of every other, is mirrored in what is to them current literature. The books they hunt after so laboriously, and buy from the dealer at great cost, or occasionally from the stalls for less than the market value, are indicative of the motive which prompted the purchase, and in a large number of cases this may be summed up in a single phrase-expectancy of gain. Collectors of this type may follow the fashion of the day, or they may bridge over time, and cast their speculations like bread upon the waters, in the hope that they may be recompensed hereafter for their present self-denial. The former practice is easy,

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