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 blunder

which 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