Business taking me to Newcastle of late, I found myself in Bell's
little shop on the quay. {9} You know the man by report at least;
he is more a collector than a bookseller, though poor; and I verily
believe that he would sell all his children--Douglas Bell, Percy
Bell, Hobbie Bell, and Kinmont Bell--"for a song." Ballads are his
foible, and he can hardly be made to part with one of the
broadsides in his broken portfolios. Well, semel insanivimus omnes
(by the way, did it ever strike you that the Roman "cribbed" that
line, as the vulgar say, from an epigram in the Anthology?), and
you and I will scarce throw the first stone at the poor man's
folly. However, I am delaying your natural eagerness. So now for
the story of my great discovery. As our friend Bell would scarce
let his dusty broadsheet lumber out of his hands, I was turning to
leave him in no very good humour, when I noticed a small and rather
long octavo, in dirty and crumpled vellum, lying on the top of a
heap of rubbish, Boston's "Crook in the Lot," "The Pilgrim's
Progress," and other chap-book trumpery. I do not know what good
angel that watches over us collectors made me take up the thing,
which I found to be nothing less than a copy of old Guillaume
Coquillart. It was not Galliot du Pre's edition, in lettres
rondes, but, still more precious had it only been complete, an
example in black letter.
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