ces on the
shelves. In this way all of the books which the young man had first
noticed gradually disappeared, with one exception. This was a volume
bound in calf, containing some rather curious poems, and no one seemed to
want it. At length, after some weeks, the young man could stand it no
longer. He approached the bookseller, and for sixpence the volume became
his.

The verses seemed to him rather poor, though one entitled 'Hans Carvel'
amused him rather. The title-page bore the date 1707, and he wondered who
was the 'E. Curll at the Peacock without Temple-Bar,' for whom the work
was printed. Some time afterwards he read in the newspaper that a certain
book had been sold for a large sum because of a misprint in it. This set
him wondering . . . 'at the Peacock _without_ Temple-Bar . . .'
Temple-Bar without a peacock he could imagine: surely this was a
misprint! Perhaps the book was valuable, and others had not 'spotted' the
error!

And now he bethought him of an acquaintance who kept a bookshop in the
West End of the town, a man who knew a lot about old books. He would take
it to him and ask his advice. So, one Saturday afternoon he carried his
'treasure' to the shop in question. Inside, an elderly man was examining
a calf-bound volume.

'. . . the first authentic edition, seventeen hundred and nine,' he was
saying.

The young man glanced at the volume under discussion, and as a page was
turned he caught sight of the heading 'Hans Carvel.' Good gracious; this
volume was the same as his! Just then the elderly man looked up, and the
young fellow handed his volume to the bookseller, saying: 'Here's another
one, same as that, but mine's got something wrong on the front page.'

The bookseller opened the newcomer's volume, looked at the title-page,
and handed it without a word to his customer, who took it with a look of
surprise.

'Something wrong?' said he, 'why, bless me, what's this--1707--that
rascal Curll's edition--where did you get this?'

The young man told him, adding that he gave sixpence for it.

'Sixpence, did you?' said the connoisseur; 'well, I'll give you six
guineas for it': which he did, there and then.

It was a copy of the rare 'pirated' collection of his poems, published
without Matt Prior's knowledge, some two years before the first authentic
edition appeared. Some years later, when the elderly collector died, this
volume came to the saleroom with the rest of his books. It realised forty
poun