The garden in which I am straying has so many diversions to catch my
eye, to engage my attention and to inspire reminiscence that I find it
hard to treat of its beauties methodically. I find myself wandering up
and down, hither and thither, in so irresponsible a fashion that I
marvel you have not abandoned me as the most irrational of madmen.
Yet how could it be otherwise? All around me I see those things that
draw me from the pathway I set out to pursue: like a heedless butterfly
I flit from this sweet unto that, glorying and revelling in the
sunshine and the posies. There is little that is selfish in a love
like this, and herein we have another reason why the passion for books
is beneficial. He who loves women must and should love some one woman
above the rest, and he has her to his keeping, which I esteem to be one
kind of selfishness.
But he who truly loves books loves all books alike, and not only this,
but it grieves him that all other men do not share with him this noble
passion. Verily, this is the most unselfish of loves!
To return now to the matter of booksellers, I would fain impress you
with the excellences of the craft, for I know their virtues. My
association with them has covered so long a period and has been so
intimate that even in a vast multitude of people I have no difficulty
in determining who are the booksellers and who are not.
For, having to do with books, these men in due time come to resemble
their wares not only in appearance but also in conversation. My
bookseller has dwelt so long in his corner with folios and quartos and
other antique tomes that he talks in black-letter and has the modest,
engaging look of a brown old stout binding, and to the delectation of
discriminating olfactories he exhaleth an odor of mildew and of tobacco
commingled, which is more grateful to the true bibliophile than all the
perfumes of Araby.
I have studied the craft so diligently that by merely clapping my eyes
upon a bookseller I can tell you with certainty what manner of books he
sells; but you must know that the ideal bookseller has no fads, being
equally proficient in and a lover of all spheres, departments,
branches, and lines of his art. He is, moreover, of a benignant
nature, and he denies credit to none; yet, withal, he is righteously so
discriminating that he lets the poor scholar have for a paltry sum that
which the rich parvenu must pay dearly for. He is courteous and
considerate where courtesy and consideration are most seemly.
Samuel Johnson once rolled into a London bookseller's shop to ask for
literary employment. The bookseller scrutinized his burly frame,
enormous hands, coarse face, and humble apparel.
"You would make a better porter," said he.
This was too much for the young lexicographer's patience. He picked up
a folio and incontinently let fly at the bookseller's head, and then
stepping over the prostrate victim he made his exit, saying: "Lie
there, thou lump of lead!"
This bookseller was Osborne, who had a shop at Gray's Inn Gate. To
Boswell Johnson subsequently explained: "Sir, he was impertinent to
me, and I beat him."
Jacob Tonson was Dryden's bookseller; in the earlier times a seller was
also a publisher of books. Dryden was not always on amiable terms with
Tonson, presumably because Dryden invariably was in debt to Tonson. On
one occasion Dryden asked for an advance of money, but Tonson refused
upon the grounds that the poet's overdraft already exceeded the limits
of reasonableness. Thereupon Dryden penned the following lines and sent
them to Tonson with the message that he who wrote these lines could
write more:
With leering looks, bull-faced and freckled fair
With two left legs, with Judas-colored hair,
And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air.
These lines wrought the desired effect: Tonson sent the money which
Dryden had asked for. When Dryden died Tonson made overtures to Pope,
but the latter soon went over to Tonson's most formidable rival,
Bernard Lintot. On one occasion Pope happened to be writing to both
publishers, and by a curious blunder he inclosed to each the letter
intended for the other. In the letter meant for Tonson, he said that
Lintot was a scoundrel, and in the letter meant for Lintot he declared
that Tonson was an old rascal. We can fancy how little satisfaction
Messrs. Lintot and Tonson derived from the perusal of these missent
epistles.
Andrew Millar was the publisher who had practical charge of the
production of Johnson's dictionary. It seems that Johnson drew out his
stipulated honorarium of eight thousand dollars (to be more exact,
L1575) before the dictionary went to press; this is not surprising, for
the work of preparation consumed eight years, instead of three, as
Johnson had calculated. Johnson inquired of the messenger what Millar
said when he received the last batch of copy. The messenger answered:
"He said 'Thank God I have done with him.'" This made Johnson smile.
"I am glad," said he, quietly, "that he thanks God for anything."
I was not done with my discourse when a book was brought in from Judge
Methuen; the interruption was a pleasant one. "I was too busy last
evening," writes the judge, "to bring you this volume which I picked up
in a La Salle street stall yesterday. I know your love for the
scallawag Villon, so I am sure you will fancy the lines which,
evidently, the former owner of this book has scribbled upon the
fly-leaf." Fancy them? Indeed I do; and if you dote on the
"scallawag" as I dote on him you also will declare that our anonymous
poet has not wrought ill.