wonder that we all love him? I have thirty odd
editions of his
works, and I would walk farther to pick up a
volume of his
lyrics than I would walk to secure any other book, excepting of
course a Horace. Beranger and I are old cronies. I have for the
great master a particularly tender feeling, and all on
account of
Fanchonette.
But there--you know nothing of Fanchonette, because I have not
told you of her. She, too, should have been a book instead of
the
dainty, coquettish Gallic
maiden that she was.
IX
BOOKSELLERS AND PRINTERS, OLD AND NEW
Judge Methuen tells me that he fears what I have said about my
bookseller will create the
impression that I am unkindly disposed
toward the bookselling craft. For the last fifty years I have
had uninterrupted dealings with booksellers, and none knows
better than the booksellers themselves that I particularly admire
them as a class. Visitors to my home have noticed that upon my
walls are hung noble portraits of Caxton, Wynkin de Worde,
Richard Pynson, John Wygthe, Rayne Wolfe, John Daye, Jacob
Tonson, Richard Johnes, John Dunton, and other famous old
printers and booksellers.
I have, too, a large
collection of portraits of modern
booksellers, including a pen-and- ink
sketch of Quaritch, a line
engraving of Rimell, and a very excellent etching of my dear
friend, the late Henry Stevens. One of the portraits is a
unique, for I had it painted myself, and I have never permitted
any copy to be made of it; it is of my bookseller, and it
represents him in the garb of a
fisherman,
holding his rod and
reel in one hand and the copy of the ``Compleat Angler'' in the
other.
Mr. Curwen speaks of booksellers as being ``
singularly thrifty,
able,
industrious, and persevering--in some few cases
singularly
venturesome,
liberal, and kind-hearted.'' My own
observation and
experience have taught me that as a class booksellers are
exceptionally
intelligent, ranking with
printers in respect to
the
variety and
extent of their learning.
They have, however, this
distinctadvantage over the
printers--they are not brought in
contact with the manifold
temptations to intemperance and profligacy which environ the
votaries of the art preservative of arts. Horace Smith has said
that ``were there no readers there certainly would be no
writers;
clearly,
therefore, the
existence of
writers depends upon the
existence of readers: and, of course, since the cause must be
antecedent to the effect, readers existed before
writers. Yet,
on the other hand, if there were no
writers there could be no
readers; so it would appear that
writers must be antecedent to
readers.''
It amazes me that a reasoner so
shrewd, so clear, and so exacting
as Horace Smith did not
pursue the
proposition further; for
without booksellers there would have been no market for
books--the author would not have been able to sell, and the
reader would not have been able to buy.
The further we proceed with the
investigation the more satisfied
we become that the
original man was three of number, one of him
being the bookseller, who established friendly relations between
the other two of him,
saying: ``I will serve you both by
inciting both a demand and a supply.'' So then the author did
his part, and the reader his, which I take to be a much more
dignified
scheme than that suggested by Darwin and his school of
investigators.
By the very nature of their
occupation booksellers are
broad-minded; their association with every class of
humanity and
their
constantcompanionship with books give them a
liberality
that enables them to view with
singularclearness and
dispassionateness every phase of life and every
dispensation of
Providence. They are not always practical, for the development
of the
spiritual and
intellectual natures in man does not at the
same time
promotedexterity in the use of the baser organs of the
body, I have known philosophers who could not
harness a horse or
even shoo chickens.
Ralph Waldo Emerson once consumed several hours' time
trying to
determine whether he should trundle a wheelbarrow by pushing it
or by pulling it. A. Bronson Alcott once tried to
construct a
chicken coop, and he had boarded himself up inside the structure
before he discovered that he had not provided for a door or for
windows. We have all heard the story of Isaac Newton-- how he
cut two holes in his study-door, a large one for his cat to enter
by, and a small one for the kitten.
This unworldliness--this
impossibility, if you please--is
characteristic of
intellectual progression. Judge Methuen's
second son is named Grolier; and the fact that he doesn't know
enough to come in out of the rain has inspired both the Judge and
myself with the
conviction that in due time Grolier will become a
great philosopher.
The mention of this revered name reminds me that my bookseller
told me the other day that just before I entered his shop a
wealthy
patron of the arts and muses called with a
volume which
he wished to have rebound.
``I can send it to Paris or to London,'' said my bookseller.
``If you have no choice of binder, I will
entrust it to
Zaehnsdorf with instructions to
lavish his choicest art upon
it.''
``But indeed I HAVE a choice,'' cried the plutocrat, proudly.
``I noticed a large number of Grolier bindings at the Art
Institute last week, and I want something of the same kind
myself. Send the book to Grolier, and tell him to do his
prettiest by it, for I can stand the expense, no matter what it
is.''
Somewhere in his
admirablediscourse old Walton has stated the
theory that an angler must be born and then made. I have always
held the same to be true of the bookseller. There are many, too
many, charlatans in the trade; the simon-pure bookseller enters
upon and conducts bookselling not merely as a trade and for the
purpose of amassing
riches, but because he loves books and
because he has pleasure in diffusing their
gracious influences.
Judge Methuen tells me that it is no longer the fashion to refer
to persons or things as being ``simon-pure''; the fashion, as he
says, passed out some years ago when a
writer in a German paper
``was led into an
amusingblunder by an English
review. The
reviewer, having occasion to draw a
distinction between George
and Robert Cruikshank, spoke of the former as the real Simon
Pure. The German, not understanding the
allusion,
gravely told
his readers that George Cruikshank was a pseudonym, the author's
real name being Simon Pure.''
This
incident is given in Henry B. Wheatley's ``Literary
Blunders,'' a very
charming book, but one that could have been
made more interesting to me had it recorded the curious
blunderwhich Frederick Saunders makes in his ``Story of Some Famous
Books.'' On page 169 we find this information: ``Among earlier
American bards we
instance Dana, whose
imaginative poem `The
Culprit Fay,' so replete with
poetic beauty, is a fairy tale of
the highlands of the Hudson. The
origin of the poem is traced to
a conversation with Cooper, the
novelist, and Fitz-Greene
Halleck, the poet, who,
speaking of the Scottish streams and
their legendary associations, insisted that the American rivers
were not
susceptible of like
poetictreatment. Dana thought
otherwise, and to make his position good produced three days
after this poem.''
It may be that Saunders wrote the name Drake, for it was James
Rodman Drake who did ``The Culprit Fay.'' Perhaps it was the
printer's fault that the poem is accredited to Dana. Perhaps Mr.
Saunders writes so legible a hand that the
printers are careless
with his
manuscript.
``There is,'' says Wheatley, ``there is a popular notion among
authors that it is not wise to write a clear hand. Menage was