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 Pixérécourt, 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 gambling is not absent from the auction-room, and people “bid jealous” as they sometimes “ride jealous” in the hunting-field.  Yet, the neophyte, if he strolls by chance into a sale-room, will be surprised at the spectacle.  The chamber has the look of a rather seedy “hell.”  The crowd round the auctioneer’s box contains many persons so dingy and Semitic, that at Monte Carlo they would be refused admittance; while, in Germany, they would be persecuted by Herr von Treitschke with Christian ardour.  Bidding is languid, and valuable books are knocked down for trifling sums.  Let the neophyte try his luck, however, and prices will rise wonderfully.  The fact is that the sale is a “knock out.”  The bidders are professionals, in a league to let the volumes go cheap, and to distribute them afterwards among themselves.  Thus an amateur can have a good deal of sport by bidding for a book till it reaches its proper value, and by then leaving in the lurch the professionals who combine to “run him up.”  The amusement has its obvious perils, but the presence of gentlemen in an auction-room is a relief to the auctioneer and to the owner of the books.  A bidder must be able to command his temper, both that he may be able to keep his head cool when tempted to bid recklessly, and that he may disregard the not very carefully concealed sneers of the professionals.

In book-hunting the nature of the quarry varies with the taste of the collector.  One man is for bibles, another for ballads.  Some pursue plays, others look for play bills.  “He was not,” says Mr. Hill Burton, speaking of Kirkpatrick Sharpe, “he was not a black-letter man, or a tall copyist, or an uncut man, or a rough-edge man, or an early-English dramatist, or an Elzevirian, or a broadsider, or a pasquinader, or an old brown calf man, or a Grangerite, [1] or a tawny moroccoite, or a gilt topper, or a marbled insider, or an editio princeps man.”  These nicknames briefly dispose into categories a good many species of collectors.  But there are plenty of others.  You may be a historical-bindings man, and hunt for books that were bound by the great artists of the past and belonged to illustrious collectors.  Or you may be a Jametist, and try to gather up the volumes on which Jamet, the friend of Louis Racine, scribbled his cynical “Marginalia.”  Or you may covet the earliest editions of modern poets—Shelley, Keats, or Tennyson, or even Ebenezer Jones.  Or the object of your desires may be the books of the French romanticists, who flourished so freely in 1830.  Or, being a person of large fortune and landed estate, you may collect country histories.  Again, your heart may be set on the books illustrated by Eisen, Cochin, and Gravelot, or Stothard and Blake, in the last century.  Or you may be so old-fashioned as to care for Aldine classics, and for the books of the Giunta press.  In fact, as many as are the species of rare and beautiful books, so many are the species of collectors.  There is one sort of men, modest but not unwise in their generations, who buy up the pretty books published in very limited editions by French booksellers, like MM. Lemerre and Jouaust.  Already their reprints of Rochefoucauld’s first edition, of Beaumarchais, of La Fontaine, of the lyrics attributed to Molière, and other volumes, are exhausted, and fetch high prices in the market.  By a singular caprice, the little volumes of Mr. Thackeray’s miscellaneous writings, in yellow paper wrappers (when they are first editions), have become objects of desire, and their old modest price is increased twenty fold.  It is not always easy to account for these freaks of fashion; but even in book-collecting there are certain definite laws.  “Why do you pay a large price for a dingy, old book,” outsiders ask, “when a clean modern reprint can be procured for two or three shillings?”  To this question the collector has several replies, which he, at least, finds satisfactory.  In the first place, early editions, published during a great author’s lifetime, and under his supervision, have authentic texts.  The changes in them are the changes that Prior or La Bruyère themselves made and approved.  You can study, in these old editions, the alterations in their taste, the history of their minds.  The case is the same even with contemporary authors.  One likes to have Mr. Tennyson’s “Poems, chiefly Lyrical” (London: Effingham Wilson, Royal Exchange, Cornhill, 1830).  It is fifty years old, this little book of one hundred and fifty-four pages, this first fruit of a stately tree.  In half a century the poet has altered much, and withdrawn much, but already, in 1830, he had found his distinctive note, and his “Mariana” is a masterpiece.  “Mariana” is in all the collections, but pieces of which the execution is less certain must be sought only in the old volume of 1830.  In the same way “The Strayed Reveller, and other poems, by A.”  (London: B. Fellowes, Ludgate Street, 1849) contains much that Mr. Matthew Arnold has altered, and this volume, like the suppressed “Empedocles on Etna, and other Poems, by A.” (1852), appeals more to the collector than do the new editions which all the world may possess.  There are verses, curious in their way, in Mr. Clough’s “Ambarvalia” (1849), which you will not find in his posthumous edition, but which “repay perusal.”  These minutiæ of literary history become infinitely more important in the early editions of the great classical writers, and the book-collector may regard his taste as a kind of handmaid of critical science.  The preservation of rare books, and the collection of materials for criticism, are the useful functions, then, of book-collecting.  But it is not to be denied that the sentimental side of the pursuit gives it most of its charm.  Old books are often literary relics, and as dear and sacred to the lover of literature as are relics of another sort to the religious devotee.  The amateur likes to see the book in its form as the author knew it.  He takes a pious pleasure in the first edition of “Les Précieuses Ridicules,” (M.DC.LX.) just as Molière saw it, when he was fresh in the business of authorship, and wrote “Mon Dieu, qu’un Autheur est neuf, la première fois qu’on l’imprime.”  All editions published during a great man’s life have this attraction, and seem to bring us closer to his spirit.  Other volumes are relics, as we shall see later, of some famed collector, and there is a certain piety in the care we give to books once dear to Longepierre, or Harley, or d’Hoym, or Buckle, to Madame de Maintenon, or Walpole, to Grolier, or Askew, or De Thou, or Heber.  Such copies should be handed down from worthy owners to owners not unworthy; such servants of literature should never have careless masters.  A man may prefer to read for pleasure in a good clear reprint.  M. Charpentier’s “Montaigne” serves the turn, but it is natural to treasure more