hough an occasional bargain may pass through their hands. It
is not maintained that, in the general case, the libraries of collectors
would be sold for more than they cost, or even for nearly so much; but
they are always worth something, which is more than can be said of the
residue of other hobbies and pursuits. Nay, farther; the scholarly
collector of books is not like the ordinary helpless amateur; for
although, doubtless, nothing will rival the dealer's instinct for
knowing the money-value of an article, though he may know nothing else
about it, yet there is often a subtle depth in the collector's educated
knowledge which the other cannot match, and bargains may be obtained off
the counters of the most acute.

A small sprinkling of these--even the chance of them--excites him, like
the angler's bites and rises, and gives its zest to his pursuit. It is
the reward of his patience, his exertion, and his skill, after the
manner in which Monkbarns has so well spoken; and it is certain that, in
many instances, a collector's library has sold for more than it cost
him.

No doubt, a man may ruin himself by purchasing costly books, as by
indulgence in any other costly luxury, but the chances of calamity are
comparatively small in this pursuit. A thousand pounds will go a great
way in book-collecting, if the collector be true to the traditions of
his pursuit, such as they are to be hereafter expounded. There has been
one instance, doubtless, in the records of bibliomania, of two thousand
pounds having been given for one book. But how many instances far more
flagrant could be found in picture-buying? Look around upon the world
and see how many men are the victims of libraries, and compare them with
those whom the stud, the kennel, and the preserve have brought to the
Gazette. Find out, too, anywhere, if you can, the instance in which the
money scattered in these forms comes back again, and brings with it a
large profit, as the expenditure of the Duke of Roxburghe did when his
library was sold.

But it is necessary to arrest this train of argument, lest its tenor
might be misunderstood. The mercenary spirit must not be admitted to a
share in the enjoyments of the book-hunter. If, after he has taken his
last survey of his treasures, and spent his last hour in that quiet
library, where he has ever found his chief solace against the wear and
worry of the world, the book-hunter has been removed to his final place
of rest, and it i