The final verdict was unfavourable:--"There is some sweetness of
versification and of expression in Miss Melville's poems, but they are
unequal, and want force and interest. They never would become popular,
so that I feel obliged to decline the publication. Poetry is at all
times heavy stock, unless by authors of established reputation."

Elsie sat sad and dispirited at this her first failure, but her sister
comforted her by saying that Edinburgh was not the best market for
anything new--London was the place where a new author had some chance.
Elsie easily caught at the hope, and retouched some of her most
imperfect pieces before sending them to a great London house. To
publisher after publisher the manuscript was sent, and after due time
occupied in reading it, the parcel returned with the disappointing
note----

"Mr. B----'s compliments, and he begs to decline with thanks Miss
Melville's poems, as, in the opinion of his literary adviser, they
could not answer the purpose of publication."

Or----

"Messrs. H----, B----, & Co.'s compliments, and though they are
overstocked with poetry, they have read carefully Miss Melville's
poems, but find them of the most unmarketable kind, so beg to decline
publication."

Or----

"Messrs. S----, E----, & Co.'s compliments, and they regret that the
subjective character of all Miss Melville's poems will make them
uninteresting to the general reader. They therefore regret that they
cannot bring them out."

When the notes were as brief as the foregoing samples, the pain was not
so severe as in the last which Elsie received, in which a careful but
most cutting criticism accompanied the refusal. There is no doubt that
Elsie's poems were crude, but she had both fancy and feeling. With more
knowledge of life and more time, she was capable of producing something
really worth reading and publishing. If there had been no talent in her
verses, she would not have had a reading from so many good publishing
houses; but she did not know enough of the trade to know this, and her
humiliation at her repeated disappointments was exceedingly bitter.

There is no species of composition that should be less hurried than
poetry. Even if it is struck off in a moment of inspiration, it should
not be published then, but laid aside for alteration and polishing
after a considerable time has elapsed; and much of our best poetry has
been very slowly composed, even at first. Our poor little Elsie had