hat your time and labour have been entirely
flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to
the world to-morrow.'

'I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise if you would permit me to
read one to you'; and, without waiting for the answer of the big man, nor
indeed so much as looking at him, to see whether he was inclined or not
to hear me, I undid my manuscript, and, with a voice trembling with
eagerness, I read to the following effect:

Buckshank bold and Elfinstone,
And more than I can mention here,
They caused to be built so stout a ship,
And unto Iceland they would steer.

They launched the ship upon the main,
Which bellowed like a wrathful bear,
Down to the bottom the vessel sank,
A laidly Trold has dragged it there.

Down to the bottom sank young Roland,
And round about he groped awhile;
Until he found the path which led
Unto the bower of Ellenlyle.

'Stop!' said the publisher; 'very pretty indeed, and very original; beats
Scott hollow, and Percy too: but, sir, the day for these things is gone
by; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor for Scott either, save as a
novelist; sorry to discourage merit, sir, but what can I do! What else
have you got?'

'The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with
notes critical, philological, and historical.'

'Pass on--what else?'

'Nothing else,' said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, 'unless it
be a romance in the German style; on which, I confess, I set very little
value.'

'Wild?'

'Yes, sir, very wild.'

'Like the Miller of the Black Valley?'

'Yes, sir, very much like the Miller of the Black Valley.'

'Well, that's better,' said the publisher; 'and yet, I don't know, I
question whether anyone at present cares for the miller himself. No,
sir, the time for those things is also gone by; German, at present, is a
drug; and, between ourselves, nobody has contributed to make it so more
than my good friend and correspondent;--but, sir, I see you are a young
gentleman of infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don't
you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?'

'Evangelical tales, sir?'

'Yes, sir, evangelical novels.'

'Something in the style of Herder?'

'Herder is a drug, sir; nobody cares for Herder--thanks to my good
friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages about Herder, which I
dare not insert in my periodi