Neque ad vos quæ ignoravi possum enuntiare, sed quæ plane comperi ad istas literas proferam.CHAPTER XL.
Neque ad vos quæ ignoravi possum enuntiare, sed quæ plane comperi ad istas literas proferam.
He, who like our friend, shall have consumed a life of some considerable length, in the professed service of literature, must necessarily have had much and familiar connection with a class of men, among whom will be found as great a variety of character, as can possibly distinguish any individuals of any profession—Booksellers.
Innumerable anecdotes, observations, and matters of fact, concerning Booksellers, were found scattered among the Sexagenarian’s papers. If they were to be arranged in a connected form, they would probably form an amusing and interesting narrative. But such is neither the office of the Editor, nor if it were, has he the adequate ability to perform it in a manner which might do credit to the original author. The reader must, therefore, be satisfied with some selected scraps, which areplaced in a tolerably chronological order, and which exhibit the first feelings and first adventures of a young author, in the mysterious arcana of copy, proofs, printing, and publishing.
The proudest and the most celebrated writers, whose productions adorn our annals, would, if earnestly interrogated, candidly, without doubt, acknowledge, that the warmest and most anxious wish of early genius is to see its first effusions in print.
Those compositions, which in the beginning, perhaps, celebrate the irresistible fascination of a mild blue eye, the more than ambrosial sweetness of a ruby lip, or the extacy beyond description, of a stolen kiss, are folded with a tremulous hand, and dispatched in an envelope to a magazine or newspaper, with a humble note, purporting, that “the Author of this specimen, if it shall be approved, will be happy to become a regular and frequent correspondent.”
What an awful interval between the first birth of a juvenile composition, and its last solemn reception or rejection! Who can tell but he who has experienced similar emotions, the anxious expectancy, when sentence is to be pronounced? The delight of reading, the favour of “Juvenis” is received, and will be inserted: we shall be glad of this correspondent’s communications in future.” Delight! only to be exceeded by the mortificationand abasement of perusing words of the following import:—“We would advise our correspondent, who signs himself Oxon, to read, and not to write at present.”
At this place, our Sexagenarian candidly relates the following anecdote of himself:—When as yet almostimberbis, he had translated into Latin hexameters and pentameters, the celebrated ballad from the Spanish, thus rendered by Garrick.
For me my fair a wreath had wove,Where rival flowers in union meet,Oft as she kiss’d the gift of love,Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.A bee beneath a damask roseHad crept, the liquid dew to sip,But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,And fixes on Louisa’s lip.Then tasting all the bloom of spring,Waked by the ripening breath of May,Th’ ungrateful spoiler left his sting,And with the honey flew away.
For me my fair a wreath had wove,Where rival flowers in union meet,Oft as she kiss’d the gift of love,Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.A bee beneath a damask roseHad crept, the liquid dew to sip,But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,And fixes on Louisa’s lip.Then tasting all the bloom of spring,Waked by the ripening breath of May,Th’ ungrateful spoiler left his sting,And with the honey flew away.
For me my fair a wreath had wove,Where rival flowers in union meet,Oft as she kiss’d the gift of love,Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.
For me my fair a wreath had wove,
Where rival flowers in union meet,
Oft as she kiss’d the gift of love,
Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.
A bee beneath a damask roseHad crept, the liquid dew to sip,But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,And fixes on Louisa’s lip.
A bee beneath a damask rose
Had crept, the liquid dew to sip,
But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,
And fixes on Louisa’s lip.
Then tasting all the bloom of spring,Waked by the ripening breath of May,Th’ ungrateful spoiler left his sting,And with the honey flew away.
Then tasting all the bloom of spring,
Waked by the ripening breath of May,
Th’ ungrateful spoiler left his sting,
And with the honey flew away.
He had taken sufficient pains to satisfy himself, and with some particles of vanity, showed them to two or three of his friends, who praised the composition, and recommended him to send it to the editor of a popular publication. Thiswas accordingly done, and long and irksome did the interval appear, till the solemn period of his fate arrived. It came at length, and with no ordinary exultation he beheld himself in print. His ambition from this moment began to soar; in imagination he already saw poetic crowns soliciting his acceptance, and the wondering crowds pointing and exclaiming—That is he!
Alas! the most exalted of human enjoyments are subject to diminution from envy or from malice. In the very next magazine which succeeded, was a pert and saucy letter signed Aristarchus, purporting, that in the Latin translation of Garrick’s version from the Spanish, which appeared last month, there were two false quantities, for which a boy in the fourth form, either at Eton or Westminster, would deservedly have been flogged.
The cud was chewed upon this most ungracious verberation for a considerable time, nor was complacency fully restored, till in acknowledgment of a prose essay inserted in the same journal, a handsome set of books was conveyed to the author.
But to return toBooksellers. The first resort of young men who possess any literary curiosity is usually a bookseller’s shop, and if the proprietor be a man of experience in his business, and of a courteous communicative disposition, an acquaintance with him may prove of considerablebenefit to the student. He learns from him the value, not in a professed collector’s sense of that word, but the relative excellence of different editions. He hears also of new works in contemplation; he meets individuals of similar propensities with himself, and an agreeable interchange of knowledge and information is thereby promoted. Above all, he obtains the enviable privilege of seeing publications which his finances will not suffer him to purchase, and enjoys the no small indulgence of an early sight of the periodical publications.
In the provincial town where our friend in early life resided, there were three booksellers of very different characters and attainments. One was a shrewd, cold, inflexible fellow, who traded principally in old books, and held out but little encouragement to a youth who rarely had money to expend, to become a frequenter of his shop. Of course, frequent visits were not paid by out Sexagenarian to him. The principal feature of this man’s character was suspicion of strangers, and a constant apprehension lest he should dispose of any of his “Libri Rarissimi” to some cunning wight, or professed collector. If any Customer was announced as coming from the Metropolis, he immediately added at least one-third to his price.
The second of this fraternity was a sharp, chattering, clever fellow in his way, but he wanted ballast, and was suspected of paying more attention to conviviality out of doors, than to ledgers and catalogues within. No great temptation was here held out to intimacy.
The third, who enjoyed the best business, and the best customers, was a facetious, jolly, honest sort of body, who welcomed every visitor to his shop, and with great good-nature accommodated his youthful customers with the loan of books, which they did not deem it necessary, or find it convenient, to buy. This was a period, when on the decease of some neighbouring clergyman, or of provincial collector, his library, whatever might have been its original cost, or real value, was generally disposed of to the nearest bookseller, for such a sum as his conscience might induce him to give. By many such speculations, and by one in particular, this same bookseller was able to live very reputably, and became ambitious of extending his concerns, and of becoming a Publisher.
To him, therefore, the Sexagenarian, on his desire of first appearing in the character of a professed author, eagerly applied. He had completed a composition of no great importance indeed in extent, but which, having perused it with great complacency himself, he thought might produce reputation, at least, if not emolument. An interview wasappointed to discuss the subject. But here Alps upon Alps seemed to arise, Pelion on Ossa mounted. The minor questions—What size? how many copies? what price? were got over without much difficulty. But the final determination of—Who is to run the risk, and advance the money? was a matter of solemn deliberation and of awful solicitude. The author had no money—the bookseller no inclination to incur any risk. Good-nature and familiar acquaintance, at length, got the better of every more sordid feeling, and the publisher consented to take the pecuniary part of the business upon himself, provided, that in case of loss, the author should agree to pay his moiety of it, by such instalments as his means might permit.
Who shall attempt to describe the exultation and self-complacency which followed this definitive arrangement, concerning a brochure of less than fifty pages? Who but he, who inflamed by the ambition of authorship, practices, for the first time in his life, the mysterious characters of the printer, (the deles, the stets, the transfers, N. P. bring down, &c.) and for the first time contemplates the harbinger of that awful charta, ycleped a proof, in the hands of the devil?
It may be questioned whether our great and venerable painter, West, first rushed from the forests of his native America, to enjoy the splendidglories of the Vatican; first beheld the Belvidere Apollo with greater enthusiasm, than our friend experienced, when anxiously expecting his approach, he ran to meet the devil at his door.
Alas! he little knew the sea of troubles into which he was about rashly to plunge. His imagination did not present to him to “grieve his heart,” like the apparitions which disturbed Macbeth, in long succession; a crabbed publisher, a mean bookseller, a fraudulent bookseller, a sneaking bookseller, or what is as troublesome as any of the rest, a Coxcomb Bookseller, &c. &c.
He never anticipated those solemn and afflicting moments of care and anguish, when the repose and indulgence necessary after severe intellectual fatigue, was to be harshly and abruptly interrupted by the appearance of a terrific spectre, begrimed with printer’s ink, and vociferating these words, so torturing to an author’s ear, “More Copy.”
His fancy never brought before him those irritating and vexatious emotions, when having covenanted with a greedy and avaricious publisher to produce a certain number of sheets, and having, to the satisfaction of his judgment, filled up the outline he proposed, he is compelled to brood over some such pithy billet as the following:—
Sir,Having advanced you the sum agreed upon for two octavo volumes, each containing thirty-five sheets, we find that Vol. II. wants a sheet and a half of the proposed quantity. Partner and self therefore consider you as indebted to us in the sum of twenty-five pounds, which you will forthwith please to return.I am, Sir,For Partner and self, &c. &c.
Sir,
Having advanced you the sum agreed upon for two octavo volumes, each containing thirty-five sheets, we find that Vol. II. wants a sheet and a half of the proposed quantity. Partner and self therefore consider you as indebted to us in the sum of twenty-five pounds, which you will forthwith please to return.
I am, Sir,
For Partner and self, &c. &c.
Base caitiff! but a truce to such miserable dreams. Let us resume the issue of our friend’s first literary adventure. For the first month after publication, the stature was more erect, the ears remarkably vigilant and on the stretch, the visits to the bookseller’s shop perpetual.
After an interval of a fortnight, with a tremulous voice the question was proposed, How do we get on? The reply was not the most exhilarating; I know not how weget on, but I know we do notgo off. It was, however, subjoined in a consolatory tone, “Perhaps when we shall be noticed in the reviews, things may do better.”
Here a new string was vibrated upon. Those Gorgonian monsters, whose visionary aspect presented the dogs of Scylla, with more hands than Briareus, more eyes than Argus, to the disturbed imagination of the inexperienced author. He fanciedto himself a solemn and formidable conclave of grave, severe, and profound scholars, with bushy wigs and frowning brows, formally assembled to pronounce their irreversible sentence upon every production of literary adventurers. The abrupt and sarcastic irony with which the efforts of some unfledged authors were dismissed, haunted him in his sleep, and appalled his very soul.
He knew better afterwards, being himself admitted behind the curtain, but in this dreadful interval, his anxiety was of no ordinary kind. He had perpetually before his eyes Homer’s description of Scylla and Charybdis.
No bird of air, no dove of swiftest wing,That bears ambrosia to the ethereal king,Shuns these dire rocks—in vain she cuts the skies,The dire rocks meet, and crush her as she flies....Here Scylla bellows from her dire abodes,Tremendous pest, abhorred by men and gods,Hideous her voice, and with less terrors roarThe whelps of lions in the midnight hour.
No bird of air, no dove of swiftest wing,That bears ambrosia to the ethereal king,Shuns these dire rocks—in vain she cuts the skies,The dire rocks meet, and crush her as she flies....Here Scylla bellows from her dire abodes,Tremendous pest, abhorred by men and gods,Hideous her voice, and with less terrors roarThe whelps of lions in the midnight hour.
No bird of air, no dove of swiftest wing,That bears ambrosia to the ethereal king,Shuns these dire rocks—in vain she cuts the skies,The dire rocks meet, and crush her as she flies....Here Scylla bellows from her dire abodes,Tremendous pest, abhorred by men and gods,Hideous her voice, and with less terrors roarThe whelps of lions in the midnight hour.
No bird of air, no dove of swiftest wing,
That bears ambrosia to the ethereal king,
Shuns these dire rocks—in vain she cuts the skies,
The dire rocks meet, and crush her as she flies.
...
Here Scylla bellows from her dire abodes,
Tremendous pest, abhorred by men and gods,
Hideous her voice, and with less terrors roar
The whelps of lions in the midnight hour.
His bookseller usually received the magazines and reviews on the evening before their general publication, and had the good nature to indulge the Aspirant after literary distinction, with a previous of these arbiters of destiny.
No sooner had the bugle of the guard announced the arrival of the mail, than, with hurried step and nervous solicitude, a visit was paid to the bookseller. Alas! the poor author’s fame had not yet reached the cognizance of those, whose determination was to fix its value. Another month succeeded, and yet another, and a similar disappointment and mortification was experienced. At length, in the latter part of the monthly catalogue of one of these Lunar oracles, the following remark appeared.—
“This is a work not entirely without merit, but it is evidently the production of a youthful author, who will write better when he shall have read more.”
Nothing was to be done but to put it up, and say no more about it. The only perplexity was to settle matters with the bookseller, who, after producing accurate accounts of advertisements, paper, printing, and cancels, was enabled to pay the author the sum of thirteen shillings and eightpence!
Before we change the scene from provincial to metropolitan booksellers, something is to be said of an individual, mentioned in our notes under the appellation of the Dirty Bookseller.
Our friend, in his youthful rambles, on some occasion or other, found himself in a country town, where his curiosity was attracted by the sight of some books at the window of a shop of humble appearance, in the corner of a street. A temptationof this kind was, through the whole of his life, irresistible. He accordingly entered, and found a round faced, mean looking, old man, with a small table before him, examining some catalogues, and surrounded by book-shelves, on which were some very curious and very scarce volumes. The old man with a small capital had watched his opportunity, and by purchasing the libraries of deceased clergymen and private gentlemen in his neighbourhood, and by living with the most parsimonious frugality, had gradually accumulated very considerable property.
The incident, perhaps, would hardly have been worth recording, except from the circumstance that this humble nest, built in a very obscure part of the kingdom, subsequently produced a splendid bookseller, who was succeeded by one equally splendid, but who might also be termed a Coxcomb Bookseller.