Are," said he, "certain geographical boundaries in the land of
literature, and you may judge tolerably well of an author's popularity,
by the wine his bookseller gives him. An author crosses the port line
about the third edition and gets into claret, but when he has reached
the sixth and seventh, he may revel in champagne and burgundy."
"And pray," said I, "how far may these gentlemen have reached that I
see around me; are any of these claret drinkers?"
"Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these great dinners the common
steady run of authors, one, two, edition men - or if any others are
invited they are aware that it is a kind of republican meeting - You
understand me - a meeting of the republic of letters, and that they must
expect nothing but plain substantial fare."
These hints enabled me to comprehend more fully the arrangement of the
table. The two ends were occupied by two partners of the house. And the
host seemed to have adopted Addison's ideas as to the literary
precedence of his guests. A popular poet had the post of honor,
opposite to whom was a hot-pressed traveller in quarto, with plates. A
grave-looking antiquarian, who had produced several solid works, which
were much quoted and little read, was treated with great respect, and
seated next to a neat, dressy gentleman in black, who had written a
thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo on political economy that was getting
into fashion.
