Non existimavi me salvo jure nostræ veteris amicitiæ, multorumque inter nos officiorum, facere posse, ut honori tuo deessem.Placet Stoicis suo quamque rem nomine appellare.Faithful foundAmong the faithless.CHAPTER XLII.
Non existimavi me salvo jure nostræ veteris amicitiæ, multorumque inter nos officiorum, facere posse, ut honori tuo deessem.
Placet Stoicis suo quamque rem nomine appellare.
Faithful foundAmong the faithless.
Faithful foundAmong the faithless.
Faithful foundAmong the faithless.
Faithful found
Among the faithless.
Let us now introduce our reader to an honest Bookseller. Let it not be supposed that there exists any document among our manuscripts to intimate that it was the author’s intention to designate an honest bookseller as a non-descript bird, though perhaps to be classed among the Raræ Aves.
There are among our papers several memoranda in the highest degree honourable to many individuals of this numerous fraternity. But certainly it is not a very usual thing in any of the professions to have the epithet of “honest” so entirely hereditary, as to be allowed, not by common, but by universal consent, to descend, without any barof bastardy, from father to son.
Our friend was much acquainted and connected with both these worthies. He highly esteemed the father, and much loved the son. Both had the common qualities of frankness, with somewhat of bluntness, and both were ready, on every occasion, to befriend and assist the followers of literature. In the immediate line of their profession, they were alike satisfied with the most reasonable advantages, and were even remarkable for the moderate prices which, in their well-stored catalogues, were fixed to the rarest and the choicest articles.
As publishers they were liberal in their engagements, and punctual in the performance of them. Our friend had not many adventures of this kind in conjunction with them; they were confined, there is reason to believe, to two, which were, in their commencement, progress, and conclusion, satisfactory to all the parties.
One was rather of a ticklish kind; it was full of hard words, and harsh words, replete with delineations of certain leading political characters, which were on one side varnished and beautified in all the gaudy vestments of flattery, and on the other depressed with no ordinary weight of acrimony.
Better not attempt it, says one; it is not practicable, exclaimed another; is it not poaching on another’s manor, cried a third; expect anAristarchus in every page, observed a fourth. At length an experiment was made, and a specimen inserted in one of the most popular periodical productions of the day. This specimen reached the eye of the mighty Porson, that Coryphæus of learning. Who may this wight be, observed the Professor, I should like to be acquainted with him. An acquaintance accordingly took place, which continued till dissolved by death.
The labour was great, the difficulties formidable, the compensation very scanty, but the work was not in the nature of things likely to have a popular sale. The publishers readily gave what the author demanded, and so, like other things of the kind, it floated for a while upon the stream and then sunk to the bottom.
The other literary adventure was of a more extensive and important kind, in which the two honest gentlemen, above pourtrayed, bore only a part in common with many others. It is observed in our notes, that of all the literary undertakings in which our friend was concerned, this communicated the least complacent feelings on reflection. A considerable portion of certainly a curious and interesting publication was assigned to him, but he was limited to space, and confined to time. He was on no account to exceed a given number of pages, and he was compelled to produce these ready cut and dried,at a period specified. A writer of any taste, or learning, or genius, disdains fetters of every kind, and it may reasonably be questioned whether it is not, after all, the wisest policy to leave the author, at least, greater freedom in these particulars. Nobody was more sensible of this than our great moralist Johnson, who might, perhaps confiding in the weight and value of his name, and yielding to his constitutional indolence of temper, presume to require somewhat too much of indulgence. Yet when, on finishing the Lives of the Poets, he exclaimed, “Now a fig for Mr. Nichols,” although he loved Mr. Nichols, as indeed well he might, it may be fairly questioned, whether there was not a little inkling of tartness rising about the præcordia. The interest of publishers ought, without doubt, to have due consideration, and they, of course, are the most adequate judges how far this is obstructed or promoted by activity or delay on the part of authors.
But it is a question not altogether unworthy of discussion, whether they sufficiently consult their true and real interests, if by vexatious importunity they intrude upon the sacred recesses of the scholar, gathering the produce of his vineyard in a crude and immature state, before a few more progressive suns shall have mellowed it to ripeness.
An honest bookseller surely deserves an appropriate chapter. Let us then proceed to another, honest also, nobody will deny, but marked by many whimsical peculiarities of character.