Review, Mr Walter Scott began to be an author; and even without the benefit of its example, it is probable that he would have seen the propriety of adopting some similar course of procedure. However this might have been, ever since that time the Edinburgh Reviewers and Mr Walter Scott have between them furnished the most acceptable food for the reading public, both in and out of Scotland-but no doubt most exclusively and effectually in their own immediate neighbourhood; and both have always proceeded upon the principle of making the reading public pay handsomely for their gratification, through their fore-speakers, interpreters, and purveyors, the booksellers. It would be unfair, however, to omit mentioning what I firmly believe, that the efforts—even the joint efforts of these great authors, would not have availed to anything like the extent to which they have in reality reached, had they not been so fortunate as to meet with a degree of ardour and of tact, quite correspondent to their own, among the new race of booksellers, who had. started into life along with themselves-above all, in Mr Constable, the original publisher of the Edinburgh Review-the publisher of most of Mr Scott's works, and, without doubt, by far

the greatest publisher Scotland ever has produced.

There is no doubt that this person is deserving of infinite credit for the share he has had in changing the whole aspect of Edinburgh, as a seat of literary merchandize-and, in truth, making it, instead of no literary mart at all, a greater one than almost any other city in Europe. What a singular contrast does the present state of Edinburgh, in regard to these matters, afford, when compared with what I have. been endeavouring to describe as existing in the days of the Creeches! Instead of Scotch authors sending their works to be published by London booksellers, there is nothing more common nowa-days, than to hear of English authors sending down their books to Edinburgh, to be published in a city, than which Memphis or Palmyra could scarcely have appeared a more absurd place of publication to any English author thirty years ago. One that has not examined into the matter would scarcely be able to believe how large a proportion of the classical works of English literature, published in our age, have made their first appearance on the counters of the Edinburgh booksellers. But we all know the practical result of this, videlicet, that at this mo

ment an Edinburgh title-page is better than almost any London one-and carries a greater authority along with it. For my part, if ever I should take it into my head to publish a book, I should most undoubtedly endeavour to get it published in Edinburgh. No book can be published there, and totally neglected. In so small a town, in spite of the quantity of books published in it, the publication of a new book is quite sure to attract the attention of some person, and if it has the least interest, to be talked of in company. If the book be a very interesting one in any way, its popularity extends with the most wonderful rapidity-and, ere a few days have elapsed, the snow-ball has grown so large, that it can be hurled to a distance with steady and certain assurance of hitting its mark. And, indeed, it is only in consequence of the frequency with which all this has occurred, that the imprimatur of an Edinburgh bookseller has come to be looked upon with so much habitual respect even in the south. This is surely a very remarkable change; and, for all that I can hear, both authors and booksellers are indebted for it to nothing more than the genuine sagacity of the one individual I have mentioned. I believe it should also be observed, that the establish

ment of the press of Ballantyne, at the very same instant, almost, as the commencement of the Review, and the publication of the Lay of the Last Minstrel, helped to push on Scottish publications, or, indeed, Scottish literature. Before that press was set up in Edinburgh, I am told, nobody could venture a book to be printed in Edinburgh; afterwards, the Edinburgh press gained the same sort of celebrity as the Edinburgh titlepages.

One of the first things I do, whenever I come to any town, is to make a round of visits to all the principal booksellers' shops. I think they are by far the most amusing lounges in the world-picture-galleries and promenades they beat all to nothing. I am fond of all kinds of booksellers' shops; I scarcely know which I would prefer to have, were I to be confined to one only; but they are all to be had in the utmost perfection, or very nearly so, in Edinburgh. The booksellers themselves, in the first place, are a race of men, in regard to whom I have always felt a particular interest and curiosity. They are never for a moment confounded in my mind with any other class of shop-keepers or traffickers. Their merchandize is the noblest in the world; the wares to which they invite your

attention are not fineries for the back, or luxu ries for the belly-the inward man is what they aspire to clothe and feed, and the food and raiment they offer are tempting things. They have whole shelves loaded with wisdom; and if you want wit, they have drawer-fulls of it at every corner. Go in grave or merry, sweet or sour, sentimental or sarcastic, there is no fear these cunning merchants can produce an article perfectly to your mind. It is impossible that this noble traffick should not communicate something of its essential nobility to those continually engaged in it. Can a man put his name on the title-page of Marmion, or Waverley, or Old Mortality, or Childe Harold, without gaining something from this distinction-I do not mean in his purse merely, but in his person? The supposition is absurd. Your bookseller, however ignorant he may be in many respects, always smells of the shop-and that which is a sarcasm, when said of any other man, is the highest of compliments when applied to him. In the way of his trade, moreover, he must continually come into contact with customers and employers, of a class quite superior to those who frequent any other shop in the street-yes, or warehouse or counting-house either. His talk is