o the man with no
means at all, the pastime is a very fascinating one. East, west, north,
and south, there is, at all times and in all seasons, plenty of good
hunting-ground for the sportsman, although the inveterate hunter will
encounter a surfeit of Barmecides' feasts. Nearly every book-hunter has
been more or less of a bookstaller, and the custom is more than
tinctured with the odour of respectability by the fact that Roxburghe's
famous Duke, Lord Macaulay the historian, and Mr. Gladstone the
omnivorous, have been inveterate grubbers among the bookstalls. Macaulay
was not very communicative to booksellers, and when any of them would
hold up a book, although at the other end of the shop, he could tell by
the cover, or by intuition, what it was all about, and would say 'No,'
or 'I have it already.' Leigh Hunt was a bookstaller, for he says:
'Nothing delights us more than to overhaul some dingy tome and read a
chapter gratuitously. Occasionally, when we have opened some very
attractive old book, we have stood reading for hours at the stall, lost
in a brown study and worldly forgetfulness, and should probably have
read on to the end of the last chapter, had not the vendor of published
wisdom offered, in a satirically polite way, to bring us out a chair.
"Take a chair, sir; you must be tired."' The first Lord Lytton had a
fancy for these plebeian book-marts; whilst Southey had a mania for them
almost: he could not pass one without 'just running his eye over for
_one_ minute, even if the coach which was to take him to see Coleridge
at Hampstead was within the time of starting.'

The extreme variety of the bookstall is its great attraction, and the
chances of netting a rare or interesting book lie, perhaps, not so much
in the variety of books displayed as in their general shabbiness. Ten
years ago an English journalist picked up a copy of the first edition of
Mrs. Glasse's 'Art of Cookery,' in the New Kent Road, for a few pence.
It is no longer a shabby folio, but, superbly bound, it was sold with
Mr. Sala's books, July 23, 1895, for L10. A not too respectable copy of
Charles Lamb's privately-printed volume, 'The Beauty and the Beast,' was
secured for a few pence, its market-value being something like L20. A
copy of Sir Walter Scott's 'Vision of Don Roderick,' 1816, first
edition, in the original boards, was purchased, by Mr. J. H. Slater, in
Farringdon Road, in January, 1895, for 2d.--not a great catch, perhaps,
but it is