He next moved to London, hoping to follow a literary career by contributing at the commencement to the monthly magazines. Writing gave Miller great pleasure, but put little money in his purse, and to obtain bread for his household he had to work at his trade in the metropolis. Friends at first were few, and he had none able to help him to literary employment. He had journeyed to London alone, and arrived there with seven-and-sixpence in his pocket, intending to send for his wife and family when brighter days dawned. Some time passed before there was a break in the dark clouds which hung over him. Here are particulars of the dawn of better times. "One day," says Mr. Joseph Johnson, in _Manchester Notes and Queries_, "when bending over his baskets, he was surprised by a visit from Mr. W. H. Harrison, editor of _Friendship's Offering_, who had fortunately read one of Miller's poems, and had become impressed with the ability and original talent of the author. The result of the interview was a request that the basket-maker would write a poem for the _Offering_. Miller, at the time, was so poor that he had neither paper, pens, nor ink, nor the means to buy these needful materials for his poem. He tided over the difficulty by using the whity-brown paper in which his sugar had been wrapped, and mixed some soot with water for his ink; the back of a bellows serving him for a desk, upon which he wrote his charming poem, entitled, 'The Old Fountain.' His letter to the editor of the _Offering_ was sealed with moistened bread. The poem was accepted, and two guineas immediately returned. It is simply impossible to imagine the rapture which would fill the breast of the poor poet on receipt of so large a sum." Says Miller, "I never had been so rich in my life before, and I fancied some one would hear of my fortune and try and rob me of it; so, at night, I barred the door, and went to bed, but did not sleep all night, from delight and fear." We reproduce the lines as a fair example of Miller's poetry:-- THE OLD FOUNTAIN. "Deep in the bosom of a silent wood, Where an eternal twilight dimly reigns, A sculptured fountain hath for ages stood, O'erhung with trees; and still such awe remains Around the spot, that few dare venture there-- The babbling water spreads such superstitious fear. It looks so old and grey, with moss besprent, And carven imag'ry, grotesque or quaint; Eagles and lions are with dragons blent And cross-winged cherub; while o'er all a Saint Bends grimly down with frozen blown-back hair, And on the dancing spray its dead eyes ever stare. From out a dolphin's mouth the water leaps And frets, and tumbles to its bed of gloom; So dark the umbrage under which it sweeps, Stretching in distance like a dreary tomb; With murmurs fraught, and many a gibbering sound, Gurgle, and moan, and hiss, and plash, and fitful bound.