Which I meant to have made
A most beautiful thing,

When I talked of the dewdrops
From freshly blown roses,

The nasty things made it
From freshly blown noses.

We can fancy Richard Porson's rage (for Porson was of violent
temper) when, having written the statement that ``the crowd rent

the air with their shouts,'' his printer made the line read ``the
crowd rent the air with their snouts.'' However, this error was

a natural one, since it occurs in the ``Catechism of the Swinish
Multitude. ``Royalty only are privileged when it comes to the

matter of blundering. When Louis XIV. was a boy he one day spoke
of ``un carosse''; he should have said ``une carosse,'' but he

was king, and having changed the gender of carosse the change was
accepted, and unto this day carosse is masculine.

That errors should occur in newspapers is not remarkable, for
much of the work in a newspaper office is done hastily. Yet some

of these errors are very amusing. I remember to have read in a
Berlin newspaper a number of years ago that ``Prince Bismarck is

trying to keep up honest and straightforward relations with all
the girls'' (madchen).

This statement seemed incomprehensible until it transpired that
the word ``madchen'' was in this instance a misprint for

``machten,'' a word meaning all the European powers.
X

WHEN FANCHONETTE BEWITCHED ME
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 literaryemployment. 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 prostratevictim 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.
FRANCOIS VILLON

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly?

HE would in sweaty anguish toil the days and nights away,
And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay!

But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride,
And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside,

What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
To yonder gloomyboulevard at midnight I would hie;

``Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel
The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!''

He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuff-box and his cane--
``Now back, my boon companions, to our bordel with our gain!''

And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly,
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high;