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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 reproachful and salutary power of whispering how much a man

knew, and at the cost of how much trouble, that he has absolutely

forgotten, 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 forget with an ease and

readiness only to be acquired by practice.

But we were apologising for book-hunting, 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.  When the catalogue is a French

one, it is obvious that Parisians have the pick of the market before

our slow letters reach M. Claudin, or M. Labitte.  Still the

catalogues themselves are a kind of lesson in bibliography.  You see

from them how prices are ruling, and you can gloat, in fancy, over

De Luyne's edition of Moliere, 1673, two volumes in red morocco,

double ("Trautz Bauzonnet"), or some other vanity hopelessly out of

reach.  In their catalogues, MM. Morgand and Fatout print a

facsimile of the frontispiece of this very rare edition.  The bust

of Moliere occupies the centre, and portraits of the great actor, as

Sganarelle and Mascarille (of the "Precieuses Ridicules"), stand on

either side.  In the second volume are Moliere, and his wife

Armande, crowned by the muse Thalia.  A catalogue which contains

such exact reproductions of rare and authentic portraits, is itself

a work of art, and serviceable to the student.  When the shop of a

bookseller, with a promising catalogue which arrives over night, is

not too far distant, bibliophiles have been known to rush to the

spot in the grey morning, before the doors open.  There are

amateurs, however, who prefer to stay comfortably at home, and pity

these poor fanatics, shivering in the rain outside a door in Oxford

Street or Booksellers' Row.  There is a length to which enthusiasm

cannot go, and many collectors draw the line at rising early in the

morning.  But, when we think of the sport of book-hunting, it is to

sales in auction-rooms that the mind naturally turns.  Here the

rival buyers feel the passion of emulation, and it was in an

auction-room that Guibert de Pixerecourt, being outbid, said, in

tones of mortal hatred, "I will have the book when your collection

is sold after your death."  And he kept his word.  The fever of

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