“My dear fellow, that all sounds very well in theory, but in practice, I’m afraid (to use a metaphor derived from one of the humane and intellectual amusements of our venerated forefathers), that cock won’t fight. It may be all very well for some literary Don Quixote, with a pure Saxon taste and a long purse, to tilt at the public’s pet windmills, because he conceives them to be giant abuses. If he meets with a fall, he need only put his hand in his pocket and purchase a plaster, getting a triple shield of experience in for the money. But it is far otherwise with a magazine. If that is to continue in existence it must pay; in order to pay it must be rendered popular; to make a thing popular you must go with the stream of public opinion, and not against it. The only chance is to head the tide and turn it in the direction you desire. But to attempt that a man ought to possess first-rate talent, and I’m free to confess that I, for one, do not; and therefore, you see, as people must be amused, I’m very willing to amuse them in their own way, as long as I find it pleasant and profitable to do so. _Voila!_ do you comprehend?” “I comprehend this much,” returned Frere gruffly, “that the ground of your argument is expediency and not principle; and I tell you plainly that does not suit me, and I’m afraid Miss Arundel is too much of my mind in that particular for her writings to suit your wonderful magazine; so the sooner I take my departure the better for your morning’s work.” “Stay a moment, don’t get on stilts, man,” returned Bracy, resuming his examination of Rose’s papers. “Is there nothing but verses? What have we here? ‘My First Dinner-Party’--this seems more likely.” He paused, and ran his eye over several of the pages, muttering from time to time as he went along, “Yes, good lively style--quick powers of observation--a very graphic touch--bravo! ha! ha! here, listen to this--