‘Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coachman, you know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original principle; and it just struck me that you might be of high utility in the undertaking—what do you think of the matter?’ ‘I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifications than I possess; however, I can make the essay. My chief intention in coming to London was to lay before the world what I had prepared; and I had hoped by your assistance—’ ‘Ah! I see, ambition! Ambition is a very pretty thing; but, sir, we must walk before we run, according to the old saying—what is that you have got under your arm?’ ‘One of the works to which I was alluding; the one, indeed, which I am most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to derive from it both profit and reputation.’ ‘Indeed! what do you call it?’ ‘Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by myself; with notes philological, critical, and historical.’ ‘Then, sir, I assure you that 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.’