The professional character who next comes under review, is termed by the
Sexagenarian, in his notes, the Queer Bookseller. By the way, our friend
appears to have been irresolute in the usage of the term professional. It
has been erased, and afterwards re-written, with a quere annexed. Whether
it should be exclusively confined to the higher professions of the
church, law, and medicine, may admit of doubt, but that some limitation
is necessary, appears from the following anecdote.
A country cousin visited a relation in the metropolis of some
respectability, with the desire of soliciting his aid and advice as to
his views in life. He was received by his relative with kindness, who
having elsewhere heard that the young man was of a mechanic taste, and
that he meditated being a maker of watches, complimented him on his
supposed talent, and was leading the conversation to the subject of
mechanism and the arts. The youth, in high dudgeon, disdained the idea
and drudgery of a tradesman’s life, and interrupted his relative by
exclaiming, What, Sir, do you think me a tradesman?
Why I must confess that such a suggestion had been communicated to me.
No, Sir, you need not be ashamed of your relationship; I am not a
tradesman; I am a Professor of Dancing; which being interpreted, was
found to mean neither more nor less than a Country dancing master.
Fortunate was it for the old gentleman and his wife, that this
eclaircissement took place in the evening, for on the morning following,
they were awakened at an early hour by a most unaccountable noise in the
chamber above that in which they slept, which would greatly have annoyed
them, had they not conjectured, what in reality proved to be the fact,
that their country cousin was practising the last new waltz, with one of
the bed-room chairs.
But to return to our Queer Bookseller. The epithet is not intended
to express the smallest disrespect, but the person in question was
characterized by a dryness of manner peculiarly his own. He was seldom
betrayed into a smile, nor did he ever appear particularly exhilarated,
even when the greatest wits of the day assembled at his house. He had to
boast of the familiar acquaintance of Wilkes and Boswell, and Johnson
and Cumberland, and Parr and Steevens, and a numerous tribe of popular
writers. No one could exercise the rites of hospitality with greater
liberality, and when enabled from success, to retire from the world with
great opulence, he retained his kind feelings towards those, who had
formerly been connected with him as authors, and gave them a frequent and
cordial welcome at his table.
But to evince the powerful effect of habit, he retained so strong a
partiality for the situation in which he had passed the greatest part of
his life, and where he had accumulated his wealth, that though it was in
the very noisiest part of the noisiest street in the city, he invariably,
and for ever afterwards, made it the standard by which he estimated how
far any thing was handsome, convenient, or agreeable. “My house in the
city” comprised every thing which was animating and delightful without,
and comfortable and exhilarating within.
With the dry manner above described, there was united an extraordinary
simplicity, which, where this individual’s better qualities were not very
well known, frequently gave offence. Our friend had never any intercourse
with him on matters of business but once. In conjunction with a friend,
whose works are now under more solemn and awful criticism elsewhere,
he was prevailed upon to print a book on speculation, presuming, which
indeed turned out to be the fact, that the booksellers would subscribe
for the impression. The dry bookseller was, among others, applied to, but
he returned the letter of application to the writer, simply writing under
it, A. B. will not subscribe.
Upon another occasion an author who lived at a distance from the
metropolis, at that period a great patriot, and flaming politician, had
written a book of biography, the sale of which was to pour unheard-of
riches into his bosom; guineas, for it was then the time of guineas,
glittered in brilliant heaps before his warmed imagination. He employed
a common friend to entreat the interposition of the Sexagenarian with
some publisher, as being better acquainted with the nature of such
negociations.
The office was readily accepted, and this same Queer gentleman was
the person fixed upon to become the purchaser of the copy-right of
this inestimable treasure. A meeting was appointed, the circumstances
explained, the copy produced, was cast off, and agreed to be comprised in
an octavo volume. Then succeeded the anxious moment of expectation of the
reply to be given to, “How much will you advance for the copy-right?”
The author had doubtless heard of the large sums given per volume to
Gibbon, Robertson, Blair, Beattie, and other writers of that calibre;
and though perhaps neither his pride nor his ambition carried his
expectations quite so far as to suppose that he should be placed on
a parallel with these illustrious names, yet his disappointment (and
disappointment is always in proportion to the hopes indulged) cannot
easily be described, when, in a dry, grave, and inflexible, tone, he
heard the words “Twenty pounds and six copies.”
Thus was the flattering hope of authorship nipped in the bud; the labour
of many successive months, in a moment rendered unavailing, and the fond
dreams of fame and emolument made to vanish as by the wand of a sorcerer.
There are sundry other booksellers upon our list; for example, the
Splendid Bookseller, the Cunning Bookseller, the Black Letter Bookseller,
the Comical Bookseller, the Dirty Bookseller, the Fine Bookseller, the
Unfortunate Bookseller, &c. &c.
The Splendid Bookseller, by patient and persevering frugality, with
high connections, which seemed entailed upon his house, was enabled to
retire to tranquillity and independence, long before the decline of life,
or infirmities of age, rendered it necessary to do so. He was highly
respectable, but could drive a hard bargain with a poor author, as well
as any of his fraternity.
The Cunning Bookseller lived within a hundred miles of the preceding
personage, but in pursuit of the main chance, would condescend to do,
what his neighbour would have disdained. He would attend in person at
the little auctions in the metropolis and its environs, where effects
were distrained for rent or taxes, but among which, by chance, some less
common books had found their way. In making a bargain with an author, he
was dry and cold, and hard and sharp, as flint. He had also another way
of getting on. If he saw those who frequented his shop, and whose means
he knew to be less abundant, express any earnestness of curiosity about
either his own publications, or books newly imported or published, he
would, with great apparent civility, encourage them to become purchasers,
by observing, that he should not be in a hurry to call for payment. But
alas! the poor wights hardly had time to peruse their new acquisitions,
before this sharp-faced dealer and chapman would call for a settlement,
and either urge the having a bill at short date given him, or would
provoke the pride of the poor scholar to part with other books, dear
perhaps as the apple of his eye, to cancel the debt and get rid of his
importunity.
By such modes of conduct, and by extraordinary success in various
publications, and in one more particularly, he accumulated very large
property, and retired. After his retirement, however, the “_auri sacra
fames_” still continued to agitate him, nor had he entirely got the
better of this infirmity, when death called upon him finally to settle
all his accounts at once.
The Black Letter Bookseller was also somewhat of a singular character in
his way, and in his day. He was a perfect master of his business, and of
that part of it more immediately which related to the earlier productions
of the English press. He was, moreover, acute, active, and obliging.
It was in his time that old English books, of a particular description
both in prose and verse, were, from some cause or other, principally
perhaps as they were of use in the illustration of Shakespeare, beginning
to assume a new dignity and importance, and to increase in value at
the rate of five hundred per cent. Tracts which for a long preceding
interval, produced no more than eighteen-pence, now began to sell for
more than as many shillings. This rage often extended to the whimsical
titles, which it was the fashion of our forefathers to prefix to their
publications; and it may perhaps be said truly of most of them, that
in this, and this only, their principal value consisted. It must be
allowed, that ingenuity must frequently have been put to the full
stretch, to have devised such appellations as the following.
Hoplocrisma Spongus; or, a Sponge to wipe away the Weapon Salve. 1631.
An answer to this was published with the title of the Squeezing of Parson
Foster’s Sponge. 1631.
Have with you to Saffron Walden.
Parthenia; or, the Maidenhead of the first Music that ever was printed
for the Virginity. By John Bull.
The Seven Planets; or, wandering Motives of Will Alabaster’s Wit,
retrograded and removed by John Raislor.
A Looking-glass for the Pope, wherein he may see his own Face, the
express Image of Antichrist, by Lionel Sharp.
Work, more Work, and yet a little more Work, for a Mass Priest, by Alex.
Cook, D.D.
Herba Parietis; or, the Wall-flower, as it grows out of the Stone Chamber
belonging to the Metropolitan Prison, being a History which is partly
true, partly romantick, morally divine; whereby a Marriage between
Reality and Fancy is solemnized by Divinity, by Lewis Bayly, D.D.
The Parliament of Bees; or, a Bee-hive furnished with Twelve Honeycombs,
by John Day.
A sorrowful Song for sinful Souls, by John Carpenter.
Humour, Heaven on Earth, with the Civil Wars of Death and Fortune, by
John Davies.
A Counter Snarl for Ishmael Rabshakeh, a Cecropedian Lycaonite, by Edward
Hoby.
The Horn-blast; a Reply to R. Horne, Bishop of Winchester, by Th.
Stapleton, D.D.
Roaring Megg planted against the Walls of Melancholy, by Tho. Tyro. 1598.
A Mastiff Whelp, with other Ruff-Island-like Curs from among the
Antipodes, alias London, in 85 Satires.
The Saint’s Soul excelling Humiliation, or Soul fatting Fasting. 1634.
Humour out of Breath; a Comedy.
The Foot out of the Snare.
Rub and a great Cast, in 100 Epigrams, by Freeman.
A Dechachordon of ten Quodlibetical Questions, by R. Persons. 1602.
Niobe dissolved into a Violin, or his Age drowned in his own Tears.
These are a few quaint things taken at hazard out of the Black Letter
Bookseller’s catalogue; and it may be further observed on the subject,
that all the books by Nash, Green, Withers, &c. then becoming very dear
and rare, were distinguished by similarly eccentric appellations. Our
Bookseller, with great sagacity and diligence, availed himself of the
prevailing phantasy, and thus laid the foundation of emoluments which he
did not live to enjoy.
A whimsical anecdote of this personage will serve to illustrate the
temper of the times, as demonstrated among us at the commencement of the
French Revolution.
On the murder of the unfortunate King of France, the Sexagenarian wrote
a pamphlet, which he entitled “Brief Memoirs of the Chief of the French
Regicides,” for which at that time he had access to curious and authentic
documents. He offered it to the Black Letter Bookseller and his partner,
who accepted it, paid the sum agreed upon, and advertised it for sale on
a certain day.
A short time, however, before this day arrived, the more active of the
partners called upon the author, and informed him, that they should feel
themselves much obliged if he would change the title-page of the intended
pamphlet. Our friend expressed great surprise, and desired an explanation
of the motives which induced such a request. The reply was to this
effect:—That it was hardly possible then to foresee how matters would
ultimately turn out; that they had among their best customers individuals
of STRONG political opinions, who might hereafter take great offence at
their publishing a pamphlet with such a title. The author, who was loyal
to the very core, endeavoured to argue and remonstrate, but all in vain.
A new title was prefixed, the old one at some expence cancelled, and the
brochure made its appearance with the more harmless and less offensive
inscription of “Brief Memoirs of the Leaders of the French Revolution.” A
large impression was very soon sold.
The scrupulous feelings on matters which regarded politics, rather
increased than diminished on the part of this house. The author
afterwards composed a waggish sort of parody, or rather commentary, on
Paine’s Rights of Man, in which many of that writer’s doctrines and
positions were turned to ridicule. He offered it to the Black Letter
Bookseller, who ingenuously acknowledged that such was the spirit of the
times, as to compel him to decline being the publisher of any works of a
political tendency.
Adde vultum habitumque hominis.
Nam neque chorda sonum reddit quem vult manus et mens,
Nec semper feriet quodcunque minabitur arcus.