go.
One of Mr. Thoms' most striking 'East End' book-hunting anecdotes
relates to a Defoe tract. When a collected edition of Defoe's works was
contemplated some forty years ago, it was determined that the various
pieces inserted in it should be reprinted from the editions of them
superintended by Defoe himself. 'There was one tract which the editor
had failed to find at the British Museum or any other public library,
and which he had sought in vain for in "The Row" or any bookseller's
within reach of ordinary West End mortals. Somebody suggested that he
should make a pilgrimage to Old Street, St. Luke's, and perhaps Brown
might have a copy. Old Brown, as he was familiarly called, had a great
knowledge of books and book-rarities, although perhaps he was more
widely known for the extensive stock of manuscript sermons which he kept
indexed according to texts, and which he was ready to lend or sell as
his customers desired. . . . The editor inquired of Brown whether he had
a copy of Defoe's tract. "No," said Brown; "I have not, and I don't know
where you are likely to find one. But if you do meet with one, you will
have to pay pretty handsomely for it." "I am prepared to pay a fair
price for it," said the would-be customer, and left the shop. Now, Old
Brown had a "sixpenny box" outside the door, and he had such a keen eye
to business that I believe, if there was a box in London which would
bear out Leigh Hunt's statement [that no one had ever found anything
worth having in the sixpenny box at a bookstall], it was that box in Old
Street. But as the customer left the shop his eye fell on the box, he
turned over the rubbish in it, and at last selected a volume. "I'll pay
you for this out of the box." "Thank you, sir," said Brown, taking the
proffered sixpence. "But, by-the-by, what is it?" "It is _a_ tract by
Defoe," was the answer, to Old Brown's chagrin. For it was the very work
of which the purchaser was in search.'

In the way of antiquity doubtless the New Cut--as what was once Lambeth
Marsh is now termed--comes next to the two East End localities above
mentioned as a bookstall locality. The place has certainly been a
book-emporium for at least half a century. Mr. G. A. Sala declares that
he has purchased for an old song many of his rarest books in this
congested and unsavoury locality where Robert Buchanan and his ill-fated
friend, David Gray, shared a bankrupt garret on their first coming up to
London from Scotland. The