He, who like our friend, shall have consumed a life of some considerable
length, in the professed service of literature, must necessarily have
had much and familiar connection with a class of men, among whom will be
found as great a variety of character, as can possibly distinguish any
individuals of any profession—BOOKSELLERS.
Innumerable anecdotes, observations, and matters of fact, concerning
Booksellers, were found scattered among the Sexagenarian’s papers. If
they were to be arranged in a connected form, they would probably form
an amusing and interesting narrative. But such is neither the office of
the Editor, nor if it were, has he the adequate ability to perform it in
a manner which might do credit to the original author. The reader must,
therefore, be satisfied with some selected scraps, which are placed in a
tolerably chronological order, and which exhibit the first feelings and
first adventures of a young author, in the mysterious arcana of copy,
proofs, printing, and publishing.
The proudest and the most celebrated writers, whose productions adorn
our annals, would, if earnestly interrogated, candidly, without doubt,
acknowledge, that the warmest and most anxious wish of early genius is to
see its first effusions in print.
Those compositions, which in the beginning, perhaps, celebrate the
irresistible fascination of a mild blue eye, the more than ambrosial
sweetness of a ruby lip, or the extacy beyond description, of a stolen
kiss, are folded with a tremulous hand, and dispatched in an envelope to
a magazine or newspaper, with a humble note, purporting, that “the Author
of this specimen, if it shall be approved, will be happy to become a
regular and frequent correspondent.”
What an awful interval between the first birth of a juvenile composition,
and its last solemn reception or rejection! Who can tell but he
who has experienced similar emotions, the anxious expectancy, when
sentence is to be pronounced? The delight of reading, the favour of
“Juvenis” is received, and will be inserted: we shall be glad of this
correspondent’s communications in future.” Delight! only to be exceeded
by the mortification and abasement of perusing words of the following
import:—“We would advise our correspondent, who signs himself Oxon, to
read, and not to write at present.”
At this place, our Sexagenarian candidly relates the following anecdote
of himself:—When as yet almost _imberbis_, he had translated into Latin
hexameters and pentameters, the celebrated ballad from the Spanish, thus
rendered by Garrick.
For me my fair a wreath had wove,
Where rival flowers in union meet,
Oft as she kiss’d the gift of love,
Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.
A bee beneath a damask rose
Had crept, the liquid dew to sip,
But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,
And fixes on Louisa’s lip.
Then tasting all the bloom of spring,
Waked by the ripening breath of May,
Th’ ungrateful spoiler left his sting,
And with the honey flew away.
He had taken sufficient pains to satisfy himself, and with some particles
of vanity, showed them to two or three of his friends, who praised the
composition, and recommended him to send it to the editor of a popular
publication. This was accordingly done, and long and irksome did the
interval appear, till the solemn period of his fate arrived. It came
at length, and with no ordinary exultation he beheld himself in print.
His ambition from this moment began to soar; in imagination he already
saw poetic crowns soliciting his acceptance, and the wondering crowds
pointing and exclaiming—That is he!
Alas! the most exalted of human enjoyments are subject to diminution from
envy or from malice. In the very next magazine which succeeded, was a
pert and saucy letter signed Aristarchus, purporting, that in the Latin
translation of Garrick’s version from the Spanish, which appeared last
month, there were two false quantities, for which a boy in the fourth
form, either at Eton or Westminster, would deservedly have been flogged.
The cud was chewed upon this most ungracious verberation for a
considerable time, nor was complacency fully restored, till in
acknowledgment of a prose essay inserted in the same journal, a handsome
set of books was conveyed to the author.
But to return to BOOKSELLERS. The first resort of young men who
possess any literary curiosity is usually a bookseller’s shop, and
if the proprietor be a man of experience in his business, and of a
courteous communicative disposition, an acquaintance with him may
prove of considerable benefit to the student. He learns from him the
value, not in a professed collector’s sense of that word, but the
relative excellence of different editions. He hears also of new works
in contemplation; he meets individuals of similar propensities with
himself, and an agreeable interchange of knowledge and information
is thereby promoted. Above all, he obtains the enviable privilege of
seeing publications which his finances will not suffer him to purchase,
and enjoys the no small indulgence of an early sight of the periodical
publications.
In the provincial town where our friend in early life resided, there were
three booksellers of very different characters and attainments. One was
a shrewd, cold, inflexible fellow, who traded principally in old books,
and held out but little encouragement to a youth who rarely had money to
expend, to become a frequenter of his shop. Of course, frequent visits
were not paid by out Sexagenarian to him. The principal feature of this
man’s character was suspicion of strangers, and a constant apprehension
lest he should dispose of any of his “Libri Rarissimi” to some cunning
wight, or professed collector. If any Customer was announced as coming
from the Metropolis, he immediately added at least one-third to his
price.
The second of this fraternity was a sharp, chattering, clever fellow
in his way, but he wanted ballast, and was suspected of paying more
attention to conviviality out of doors, than to ledgers and catalogues
within. No great temptation was here held out to intimacy.
The third, who enjoyed the best business, and the best customers, was
a facetious, jolly, honest sort of body, who welcomed every visitor to
his shop, and with great good-nature accommodated his youthful customers
with the loan of books, which they did not deem it necessary, or find
it convenient, to buy. This was a period, when on the decease of some
neighbouring clergyman, or of provincial collector, his library, whatever
might have been its original cost, or real value, was generally disposed
of to the nearest bookseller, for such a sum as his conscience might
induce him to give. By many such speculations, and by one in particular,
this same bookseller was able to live very reputably, and became
ambitious of extending his concerns, and of becoming a Publisher.
To him, therefore, the Sexagenarian, on his desire of first appearing in
the character of a professed author, eagerly applied. He had completed a
composition of no great importance indeed in extent, but which, having
perused it with great complacency himself, he thought might produce
reputation, at least, if not emolument. An interview was appointed to
discuss the subject. But here Alps upon Alps seemed to arise, Pelion
on Ossa mounted. The minor questions—What size? how many copies? what
price? were got over without much difficulty. But the final determination
of—Who is to run the risk, and advance the money? was a matter of solemn
deliberation and of awful solicitude. The author had no money—the
bookseller no inclination to incur any risk. Good-nature and familiar
acquaintance, at length, got the better of every more sordid feeling, and
the publisher consented to take the pecuniary part of the business upon
himself, provided, that in case of loss, the author should agree to pay
his moiety of it, by such instalments as his means might permit.
Who shall attempt to describe the exultation and self-complacency which
followed this definitive arrangement, concerning a brochure of less than
fifty pages? Who but he, who inflamed by the ambition of authorship,
practices, for the first time in his life, the mysterious characters of
the printer, (the deles, the stets, the transfers, N. P. bring down, &c.)
and for the first time contemplates the harbinger of that awful charta,
ycleped a proof, in the hands of the devil?
It may be questioned whether our great and venerable painter, West, first
rushed from the forests of his native America, to enjoy the splendid
glories of the Vatican; first beheld the Belvidere Apollo with greater
enthusiasm, than our friend experienced, when anxiously expecting his
approach, he ran to meet the devil at his door.
Alas! he little knew the sea of troubles into which he was about rashly
to plunge. His imagination did not present to him to “grieve his heart,”
like the apparitions which disturbed Macbeth, in long succession; a
crabbed publisher, a mean bookseller, a fraudulent bookseller, a sneaking
bookseller, or what is as troublesome as any of the rest, a Coxcomb
Bookseller, &c. &c.
He never anticipated those solemn and afflicting moments of care
and anguish, when the repose and indulgence necessary after severe
intellectual fatigue, was to be harshly and abruptly interrupted by
the appearance of a terrific spectre, begrimed with printer’s ink, and
vociferating these words, so torturing to an author’s ear, “More Copy.”
His fancy never brought before him those irritating and vexatious
emotions, when having covenanted with a greedy and avaricious publisher
to produce a certain number of sheets, and having, to the satisfaction of
his judgment, filled up the outline he proposed, he is compelled to brood
over some such pithy billet as the following:—
Sir,
Having advanced you the sum agreed upon for two octavo volumes,
each containing thirty-five sheets, we find that Vol. II.
wants a sheet and a half of the proposed quantity. Partner and
self therefore consider you as indebted to us in the sum of
twenty-five pounds, which you will forthwith please to return.
I am, Sir,
For Partner and self, &c. &c.
Base caitiff! but a truce to such miserable dreams. Let us resume the
issue of our friend’s first literary adventure. For the first month after
publication, the stature was more erect, the ears remarkably vigilant and
on the stretch, the visits to the bookseller’s shop perpetual.
After an interval of a fortnight, with a tremulous voice the question was
proposed, How do we get on? The reply was not the most exhilarating; I
know not how we _get on_, but I know we do not _go off_. It was, however,
subjoined in a consolatory tone, “Perhaps when we shall be noticed in the
reviews, things may do better.”
Here a new string was vibrated upon. Those Gorgonian monsters, whose
visionary aspect presented the dogs of Scylla, with more hands than
Briareus, more eyes than Argus, to the disturbed imagination of the
inexperienced author. He fancied to himself a solemn and formidable
conclave of grave, severe, and profound scholars, with bushy wigs and
frowning brows, formally assembled to pronounce their irreversible
sentence upon every production of literary adventurers. The abrupt and
sarcastic irony with which the efforts of some unfledged authors were
dismissed, haunted him in his sleep, and appalled his very soul.
He knew better afterwards, being himself admitted behind the curtain, but
in this dreadful interval, his anxiety was of no ordinary kind. He had
perpetually before his eyes Homer’s description of Scylla and Charybdis.
No bird of air, no dove of swiftest wing,
That bears ambrosia to the ethereal king,
Shuns these dire rocks—in vain she cuts the skies,
The dire rocks meet, and crush her as she flies.
...
Here Scylla bellows from her dire abodes,
Tremendous pest, abhorred by men and gods,
Hideous her voice, and with less terrors roar
The whelps of lions in the midnight hour.
His bookseller usually received the magazines and reviews on the evening
before their general publication, and had the good nature to indulge the
Aspirant after literary distinction, with a previous of these arbiters of
destiny.
No sooner had the bugle of the guard announced the arrival of the mail,
than, with hurried step and nervous solicitude, a visit was paid to
the bookseller. Alas! the poor author’s fame had not yet reached the
cognizance of those, whose determination was to fix its value. Another
month succeeded, and yet another, and a similar disappointment and
mortification was experienced. At length, in the latter part of the
monthly catalogue of one of these Lunar oracles, the following remark
appeared.—
“This is a work not entirely without merit, but it is evidently the
production of a youthful author, who will write better when he shall have
read more.”
Nothing was to be done but to put it up, and say no more about it. The
only perplexity was to settle matters with the bookseller, who, after
producing accurate accounts of advertisements, paper, printing, and
cancels, was enabled to pay the author the sum of thirteen shillings and
eightpence!
Before we change the scene from provincial to metropolitan booksellers,
something is to be said of an individual, mentioned in our notes under
the appellation of the Dirty Bookseller.
Our friend, in his youthful rambles, on some occasion or other, found
himself in a country town, where his curiosity was attracted by the
sight of some books at the window of a shop of humble appearance, in the
corner of a street. A temptation of this kind was, through the whole
of his life, irresistible. He accordingly entered, and found a round
faced, mean looking, old man, with a small table before him, examining
some catalogues, and surrounded by book-shelves, on which were some very
curious and very scarce volumes. The old man with a small capital had
watched his opportunity, and by purchasing the libraries of deceased
clergymen and private gentlemen in his neighbourhood, and by living
with the most parsimonious frugality, had gradually accumulated very
considerable property.
The incident, perhaps, would hardly have been worth recording, except
from the circumstance that this humble nest, built in a very obscure part
of the kingdom, subsequently produced a splendid bookseller, who was
succeeded by one equally splendid, but who might also be termed a Coxcomb
Bookseller.
Possum etiam pergere sed non est operæ in istis diem terere, et
sit mihi tempus aggredi ad cætera.
Jam ergo lector optime scito te non fabulam legere et a socco
ad cothurnum ascendere.