Neque ad vos quæ ignoravi possum enuntiare, sed quæ plane comperi ad istas literas proferam.
CHAPTER XL.
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 are placed 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 mortification and 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 almost imberbis, 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,