ctly behind, listening to his guide who points out the
objects and places of interest. And thus, through the alleys and
by-ways, through the nooks and labyrinths of these underground
temple-ruins, we get to the rear, where the ramparts and mounds
crumble to a mighty heap, rising pell-mell to the ceiling. Here, one
is likely to get a glimpse into such enchanted worlds as the name of
a Dickens or a Balzac might suggest. Here, too, is Shakespeare in
lamentable state; there is Carlyle in rags, still crying, as it were,
against the filth and beastliness of this underworld. And look at my
lord Tennyson shivering in his nakedness and doomed to keep company
with the meanest of poetasters. Observe how Emerson is wriggled and
ruffled in this crushing crowd. Does he not seem to be still sighing
for a little solitude? But here, too, are spots of the rarest literary
interest. Close to the vilest of dime novels is an autograph copy of a
book which you might not find at Brentano's. Indeed, the rarities here
stand side by side with the superfluities--the abominations with the
blessings of literature--cluttered together, reduced to a common
level. And all in a condition which bespeaks the time when they were
held in the affection of some one. Now, they lie a-mouldering in these
mounds, and on these shelves, awaiting a curious eye, a kindly hand.

"To me," writes Khalid in the K. L. MS., "there is always
something pathetic in a second-hand book offered again for sale.
Why did its first owner part with it? Was it out of disgust or
surfeit or penury? Did he throw it away, or give it away, or
sell it? Alas, and is this how to treat a friend? Were it not
better burned, than sold or thrown away? After coming out of the
press, how many have handled this tattered volume? How many has
it entertained, enlightened, or perverted? Look at its pages,
which evidence the hardship of the journey it has made. Here
still is a pressed flower, more convincing in its shrouded
eloquence than the philosophy of the pages in which it lies
buried. On the fly-leaf are the names of three successive
owners, and on the margin are lead pencil notes in which the
reader criticises the author. Their spirits are now shrouded
together and entombed in this pile, where the mould never fails
and the moths never die. They too are fallen a prey to the worms
of the earth. A second-hand book-shop always reminds me of a
Necropolis. It is a kind