It amazes me that a reasoner so shrewd, so clear, and so exacting as Horace Smith did not pursue the proposition further; for without booksellers there would have been no market for books—­the author would not have been able to sell, and the reader would not have been able to buy.

The further we proceed with the investigation the more satisfied we become that the original man was three of number, one of him being the bookseller, who established friendly relations between the other two of him, saying:  ``I will serve you both by inciting both a demand and a supply.’’ So then the author did his part, and the reader his, which I take to be a much more dignified scheme than that suggested by Darwin and his school of investigators.

By the very nature of their occupation booksellers are broad-minded; their association with every class of humanity and their constant companionship with books give them a liberality that enables them to view with singular clearness and dispassionateness every phase of life and every dispensation of Providence.  They are not always practical, for the development of the spiritual and intellectual natures in man does not at the same time promote dexterity in the use of the baser organs of the body, I have known philosophers who could not harness a horse or even shoo chickens.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once consumed several hours’ time trying to determine whether he should trundle a wheelbarrow by pushing it or by pulling it.  A. Bronson Alcott once tried to construct a chicken coop, and he had boarded himself up inside the structure before he discovered that he had not provided for a door or for windows.  We have all heard the story of Isaac Newton—­how he cut two holes in his study-door, a large one for his cat to enter by, and a small one for the kitten.

This unworldliness—­this impossibility, if you please—­is characteristic of intellectual progression.  Judge Methuen’s second son is named Grolier; and the fact that he doesn’t know enough to come in out of the rain has inspired both the Judge and myself with the conviction that in due time Grolier will become a great philosopher.

The mention of this revered name reminds me that my bookseller told me the other day that just before I entered his shop a wealthy patron of the arts and muses called with a volume which he wished to have rebound.

``I can send it to Paris or to London,’’ said my bookseller. ``If you have no choice of binder, I will entrust it to Zaehnsdorf with instructions to lavish his choicest art upon it.’’

``But indeed I have a choice,’’ cried the plutocrat, proudly. ``I noticed a large number of Grolier bindings at the Art Institute last week, and I want something of the same kind myself.  Send the book to Grolier, and tell him to do his prettiest by it, for I can stand the expense, no matter what it is.’’

Somewhere in his admirable discourse old Walton has stated the theory that an angler must be born and then made.  I have always held the same to be true of the bookseller.  There are many, too many, charlatans in the trade; the simon-pure bookseller enters upon and conducts bookselling not merely as a trade and for the purpose of amassing riches, but because he loves books and because he has pleasure in diffusing their gracious influences.