ballade of book-hunters--then, 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 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