THE SOLEMN BOOK-AGENT.
He was tall, solemn, and dignified. One would have thought him a Roman senator on his way to make a speech on finance. But he wasn't, singularly enough, he wasn't. He was a book-agent. He wore a linen duster; and his brow was furrowed with many care-lines, as if he had been obliged to tumble out of bed every other night of his life to dose a sick child. He called into a tailor-shop on Randolph Street, removed his hat, took his "Lives of Eminent Philosophers" from its cambric bag, and approached the tailor with,—
"I'd like to have you look at this rare work."
"I haf no time," replied the tailor.
"It is a work which every thinking man should delight to peruse," continued the agent.
"Zo?" said the tailor.
"Yes. It is a work on which a great deal of deep thought has been expended; and it is pronounced by such men as Wendell Phillips to be a work without a rival in modern literature."
"Makes anybody laugh when he zees it?" asked the tailor.