pursued in most of the cross streets that stretch a dirty net
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 sweep of the
Quais, where some 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 second-hand 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
on--the 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 book-hunting. 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 book-hunting in Paris is the early morning. "The
take," as anglers say, is "on" from half-past seven to half-past
nine a.m. At these hours the vendors exhibit their fresh wares, and
the agents of the more wealthy booksellers come and pick up