man, the celebrated writer, received me in what was evidently his
reception-room. I observed that he managed to get the light full on my
face, while his own was in the shade. I had meant to have his face in
the light, but he knew the localities, and had arranged things so as
to give him that advantage. It was like two frigates manoeuvring,--each
trying to get to windward of the other. I never take out my
note-book until I and my man have got engaged in artless and earnest
conversation,--always about himself and his works, of course, if he is
an author.

"I began by saying that he must receive a good many callers. Those who
had read his books were naturally curious to see the writer of them.

"He assented, emphatically, to this statement. He had, he said, a great
many callers.

"I remarked that there was a quality in his books which made his readers
feel as if they knew him personally, and caused them to cherish a
certain attachment to him.

"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 v