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“Among all the things which men have or strive for through their whole lives,” said Alphonse the Wise, King of Arragon, “there is nothing better than old wood to burn, old wine to drink, old friends for company, and old books to read. All the rest are only bagatelles.” The wise King was something of a bookworm, and mentioned last by way of climax the treasures that lay nearest to his heart. Doubtless, he was thinking all the while how the wood turns to ashes, the fames of the wine disappear with the hour, that sooner or later “marriage and death, and division” carry off our friends, and that the pleasure derived from old books alone is pure and permanent. What can exceed the delight of a connoisseur familiar with authors, imprints, paper and bindings, and educated to an appreciation of the difference between leaves cut and uncut, upon discovering a perfect copy of an extremely rare book? For him the calm satisfaction of the literateur and the gratified avarice of the miser are blended into a glowing passion. In the present age of the world we measure the value of pretty much everything by the amount of money it will bring. In Europe a copy of the first edition of the Decameron has been sold for £2260 sterling, and one of the Gutenberg Bible on vellum, for £3400. In this country we have not yet reached to that height of enthusiasm or depth of purse, but in the late sale of the library of Mr. George Brinley, a copy of the first book printed in New York, by William Bradford,