to hand a volume called _Walking-Stick Papers_.
Therein I found such stuff as this:

"And so the fish reporter enters upon the last lap of his rounds. Through,
perhaps, the narrow, crooked lane of Pine Street he passes, to come out at
length upon a scene set for a sea tale. Here would a lad, heir to vast
estates in Virginia, be kidnapped and smuggled aboard to be sold a slave
in Africa. This is Front Street. A white ship lies at the foot of it.
Cranes rise at her side. Tugs, belching smoke, bob beyond. All about are
ancient warehouses, redolent of the Thames, with steep roofs and sometimes
stairs outside, and with tall shutters, a crescent-shaped hole in each.
There is a dealer in weather-vanes. Other things dealt in hereabout are
these: Chronometers, 'nautical instruments,' wax guns, cordage and twine,
marine paints, cotton wool and waste, turpentine, oils, greases, and
rosin. Queer old taverns, public houses, are here, too. Why do not their
windows rattle with a 'Yo, ho, ho'?

"There is an old, old house whose business has been fish oil within the
memory of men. And here is another. Next, through Water Street, one comes
in search of the last word on salt fish. Now the air is filled with
gorgeous smell of roasting coffee. Tea, coffee, sugar, rice, spices, bags
and bagging here have their home. And there are haughty bonded warehouses
filled with fine liquors. From his white cabin at the top of a venerable
structure comes the dean of the salt-fish business. 'Export trade fair,'
he says; 'good demand from South America.'"

The whole book was like that. I remember saying and printing:

"If this isn't individualised writing, extremely skilful writing and
highly entertaining writing, we would like to know what is."

But what was that in the general chorus of delighted praise that went up
all over the country?--and there were persons of discrimination among the
laudators of Robert Cortes Holliday. People like James Huneker and Simeon
Strunsky, who praised not lightly, were quick to express their admiration
of this new essayist.

Four years have gone adding to Holliday's first book volumes in the same
class and singularly unmistakeable in their authorship. They are the sort
of essays that could not be anonymous once the authorship of one of them
was known. We have, now, _Broome Street Straws_ and the pocket mirror,
_Peeps at People_. We have _Men and Books and Cities_ and we have a score
of pleasant _Turns About Town_.