may be found even in these degenerate days! But thirty years ago what might not be discovered by searching in London or Paris, and sometimes almost without the excitement of the hunt!
For instance, upon this shelf stands a beautiful copy of "Rasselas"—not a first edition, but one of the fine Ballantyne reprints of 1805—illustrated by Smirke, with engravings by Raimbach; quite good enough to make the eyes of the book-hunter sparkle.
Imagine the joy of the enthusiastic buyer, having left the shop, the book paid for and safely tucked under his arm, to find, as he turned into a quiet street to take a look at his new purchase, to find, I say, hidden between the leaves, a letter in the well-known handwriting of Dr. Johnson himself.
It was almost too much to believe, and the question immediately arose in the young publisher's mind, "to whom does this letter belong?" At one moment the fortunate possessor would shut up the book and start for home, in the next he rapidly retraced his steps, and at last did not pause until he had again reached the door of the small shop where his purchase had been made. By this time he had resolved what to do; he would first discover if the seller of the book knew of the existence of this treasure, and then they could decide together upon the right step to take. The bookseller was astonished at the sight of the letter, and confessed at once that he could make no claim upon it, as he was ignorant of its existence until that moment. However, the matter was soon settled to the satisfaction of both parties; they decided upon the price such a letter should bring, and one-half of the value was paid to the bookseller, who had unconsciously allowed such a prize to slip through his fingers. In "My Friend's Library" the letter appears in print for the fir st time, but a fac-simile is given on pp. 344-45.
It is addressed to the Rev. Mr. Compton, who was a Benedictine monk living in Paris when Dr. Johnson first went there, in 1775. The monks entertained him in the most friendly way, giving him one of their own cells for his headquarters, James Compton questioned Dr. Johnson upon the Protestant faith, and asked if he might come to see him in Bolt Court. "In the summer of 1782 he paid the Doctor a visit and informed him of his desire to be admitted into the Church of England. Johnson managed the matter satisfactorily for him, and he was received into Communion. . . . Through Johnson's kindness he was nominated chaplain at the French Chapel of St. James. . . . Thus by the friendly hand of the hard-working lexicographer, Mr. Compton was led from poverty up to a secure competency, and a place among the influential dignitaries of London society." Recalling some of the fine humanities of the men of that period, Thackeray speaks out in a burst of eloquence; "O you, fine gentlemen! You Marches and Selwyns and Chesterfields, how small you look by the side of these great men!" And again, after quoting "the verses—the sacred verses" on the death of Levett, which it goes hardly with me not to copy again here, he continues: "I hold old Johnson (and shall we not pardon James Boswell some errors for embalming him for us?) to be the great supporter of the British Monarchy and Church during the last age. . . . What a humanity the old man had! He was a kindly partaker of all honest pleasures. When he used to frequent Garrick's theatre, and had 'the liberty of the scenes,' he says, 'All the actresses knew me, and dropped me a curtsey as they passed to the stage.' That would make a pretty picture; it is a pretty picture in my mind, of youth, folly, gayety, tenderly surveyed by wisdom's merciful pure eyes."
Standing near the above-mentioned copy of "Rasselas" is a "First Edition" of "Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides," a book which brings one as near to shaking hands with the author as anything now in existence. It wears a coat of brown leather, lined with the marbled paper of that period, and the title-page reads "A Tour to the Western Islands of Scotland, 1775." The matter has that rare quality in an old book of travel of preserving its interest to this day. The wild scenery of the north of Scotland has seldom been more vividly portrayed. Sir Walter Scott has thrown
