essary it was to arrest the object of your
curiosity in its first transit, and to tell his favourite story of
Snuffy Davie and Caxton's Game at Chess.--"Davy Wilson," he said,
"commonly called Snuffy Davy, from his inveterate addiction to black
rappee, was the very prince of scouts for searching blind alleys,
cellars, and stalls for rare volumes. He had the scent of a slow-hound,
sir, and the snap of a bull-dog. He would detect you an old black-letter
ballad among the leaves of a law-paper, and find an editio princeps
under the mask of a school Corderius. Snuffy Davy bought the Game of
Chess, 1474, the first book ever printed in England, from a stall in
Holland, for about two groschen, or twopence of our money. He sold it
to Osborne for twenty pounds, and as many books as came to twenty pounds
more. Osborne resold this inimitable windfall to Dr. Askew for sixty
guineas. At Dr. Askew's sale," continued the old gentleman, kindling as
he spoke, "this inestimable treasure blazed forth in its full value,
and was purchased by Royalty itself for one hundred and seventy
pounds!--Could a copy now occur, Lord only knows," he ejaculated, with a
deep sigh and lifted-up hands--"Lord only knows what would be its ransom;
and yet it was originally secured, by skill and research, for the
easy equivalent of two-pence sterling. * Happy, thrice happy, Snuffy
Davie!--and blessed were the times when thy industry could be so
rewarded!

* This bibliomaniacal anecdote is literally true; and David Wilson, the
author need not tell his brethren of the Roxburghe and Bannatyne Clubs,
was a real personage.

"Even I, sir," he went on, "though far inferior in industry and
discernment and presence of mind, to that great man, can show you a
few--a very few things, which I have collected, not by force of money,
as any wealthy man might,--although, as my friend Lucian says, he might
chance to throw away his coin only to illustrate his ignorance,--but
gained in a manner that shows I know something of the matter. See this
bundle of ballads, not one of them later than 1700, and some of them
an hundred years older. I wheedled an old woman out of these, who loved
them better than her psalm-book. Tobacco, sir, snuff, and the Complete
Syren, were the equivalent! For that, mutilated copy of the Complaynt of
Scotland, I sat out the drinking of two dozen bottles of strong ale with
the late learned proprietor, who, in gratitude, bequeathed it to me by
his last will