ertheless, transpired in what
is now the slummiest district of London, and if the best of these
anecdotes were collected they would fill quite a big volume. They are
very varied in character, and some of the stories have very different
morals. Here is one related concerning the Rev. Mr. Brand, to whom we
have already referred. He was a clergyman of that district, and, it is
feared, sometimes neglected his religious duties for the more engrossing
charms of the chase. One Friday afternoon he was roaming in the
neighbourhood of his church, when his eye fell on the shop of a Jew
bookseller which he had not before noticed, and was astonished to see
there a number of black-letter volumes exposed for sale. But the sun was
rapidly going down, and the Jew, loath to be stoned by his neighbours
for breaking the Sabbath, was hastily interposing the shutters between
the eyes of the clergyman and the coveted books. 'Let me look at them
inside,' said the Rev. Mr. Brand; 'I will not keep you long.'
'Impossible,' replied the Jew. 'Sabbath will begin in five minutes, and
I absolutely cannot let myself be drawn into such a breach of Divine
Law. But if you choose to come early on Sunday morning you may see them
at your leisure.' The reverend gentleman accordingly turned up at eight
a.m. on Sunday, intending to remain there till church-time, he having to
do duty that day. He had provided himself with the overcoat which he
wore on his book-hunting expeditions, and which had pockets large enough
to swallow a good-sized folio. The literary treasures of the son of
Israel were much more numerous than the Gentile expected. At this time
there was not such a rush for Caxtons as we have witnessed since the
Roxburghe sale. Mr. Brand found one of these precious relics in a very
bad condition, although not past recovery, paid a trifling price for it,
and pocketed it. Then he successively examined some rare productions of
the presses of Wynkyn de Worde, Pynson, and so forth. The clergyman's
purchases soon began to assume considerable proportions. Archimedes was
not more fully absorbed in his geometrical problems when the Roman
soldier killed him, than the East End clergyman in his careful
collations. He was aroused, however, from his reveries by the Jewess
calling out: 'Mike, dinner is ready.' 'Dinner!' exclaimed the parson.
'At what time do you dine?' 'At one o'clock,' she replied. He looked at
his watch. It was too true. He hastened home. In the meantim