“He smiled, as if pleased.  He was himself disposed to think so, he said.  In fact, a great many persons, strangers writing to him, had told him so.

“My dear sir, I said, there is nothing wonderful in the fact you mention.  You reach a responsive chord in many human breasts.

   ‘One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin.’

“Everybody feels as if he, and especially she (his eyes sparkled), were your blood relation.  Do they not name their children after you very frequently?

“He blushed perceptibly.  ‘Sometimes,’ he answered.  ’I hope they will all turn out well.’

“I am afraid I am taking up too much of your time, I said.

“No, not at all,’ he replied.  ’Come up into my library; it is warmer and pleasanter there.’

“I felt confident that I had him by the right handle then; for an author’s library, which is commonly his working-room, is, like a lady’s boudoir, a sacred apartment.

“So we went upstairs, and again he got me with the daylight on my face, when I wanted it on has.

“You have a fine library, I remarked.  There were books all round the room, and one of those whirligig square book-cases.  I saw in front a Bible and a Concordance, Shakespeare and Mrs. Cowden Clarke’s book, and other classical works and books of grave aspect.  I contrived to give it a turn, and on the side next the wall I got a glimpse of Barnum’s Rhyming Dictionary, and several Dictionaries of Quotations and cheap compends of knowledge.  Always twirl one of those revolving book-cases when you visit a scholar’s library.  That is the way to find out what books he does n’t want you to see, which of course are the ones you particularly wish to see.

“Some may call all this impertinent and inquisitive.  What do you suppose is an interviewer’s business?  Did you ever see an oyster opened?  Yes?  Well, an interviewer’s business is the same thing.  His man is his oyster, which he, not with sword, but with pencil and note-book, must open.  Mark how the oysterman’s thin blade insinuates itself,—­how gently at first, how strenuously when once fairly between the shells!

“And here, I said, you write your books,—­those books which have carried your name to all parts of the world, and will convey it down to posterity!  Is this the desk at which you write?  And is this the pen you write with?

“‘It is the desk and the very pen,’ he replied.

“He was pleased with my questions and my way of putting them.  I took up the pen as reverentially as if it had been made of the feather which the angel I used to read about in Young’s “Night Thoughts” ought to have dropped, and did n’t.

“Would you kindly write your autograph in my note-book, with that pen?  I asked him.  Yes, he would, with great pleasure.

“So I got out my note-book.

“It was a spick and span new one, bought on purpose for this interview.  I admire your bookcases, said I. Can you tell me just how high they are?