One of the shop-windows he paused before was that of a second-hand book-shop, where, on a narrow table outside, the literature of the ages was represented in judicious mixture, from the immortal verse of Homer to the mortal prose of the railway novel. That the mixture was judicious was apparent from Deronda's finding in it something that he wanted--namely, that wonderful bit of autobiography, the life of the Polish Jew, Salomon Maimon; which, as he could easily slip it into his pocket, he took from its place, and entered the shop to pay for, expecting to see behind the counter a grimy personage showing that nonchalance about sales which seems to belong universally to the second-hand book-business. In most other trades you find generous men who are anxious to sell you their wares for your own welfare; but even a Jew will not urge Simson's Euclid on you with an affectionate assurance that you will have pleasure in reading it, and that he wishes he had twenty more of the article, so much is it in request. One is led to fear that a second-hand bookseller may belong to that unhappy class of men who have no belief in the good of what they get their living by, yet keep conscience enough to be morose rather than unctuous in their vocation.--G. ELIOT. _Daniel Deronda._ TO MY BOOKSELLER Thou that makst gain thy end, and, wisely well, Callst a book good, or bad, as it doth sell, Use mine so too: I give thee leave; but crave For the luck's sake it thus much favour have To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought; Not offered, as it made suit to be bought; Nor have my title-leaf on posts or walls, Or in cleft sticks, advanced to make calls For termers, or some clerk-like servingman, Who scarce can spell the hard names: whose knight less can. If without these vile arts it will not sell, Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill well. BEN JONSON. THE WRITER TO HIS BOOK Whither thus hastes my little book so fast? To Paul's Churchyard. What? in those cells to stand, With one leaf like a rider's cloak put up To catch a termer? or lie musty there With rhymes a term set out, or two, before? Some will redeem me. Few. Yes, read me too. Fewer. Nay, love me. Now thou dot'st, I see. Will not our English Athens art defend? Perhaps. Will lofty courtly wits not aim Still at perfection? If I grant? I fly. Whither? To Paul's. Alas, poor book, I rue Thy rash self-love; go, spread thy papery wings: Thy lightness cannot help or hurt my fame. T. CAMPION. AD BIBLIOPOLAM