“I am pretty well used to it,” said he. There was nothing mean in his voice;--there was indeed a touch of humour in it, and in his manner there was nothing of the abjectness of supplication. We had his letter in our hands, and we read a portion of it again as he sat opposite to us. We then remarked that we did not understand how he, having a wife and family dependent on him, could offer to give up a third of his income with the mere object of changing the nature of his work. “You don’t know what it is,” said he, “to write for the ‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ I’m at it seven hours a day, and hate the very words that I write. I cursed myself afterwards for sending that letter. I know that to hope is to be an ass. But I did send it, and here I am.” We looked at his nose and felt that we must be careful before we suggested to our learned friend Dr. ---- to put his manuscript into the hands of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. If it had been a printed book the attempt might have been made without much hazard, but our friend’s work, which was elaborate, and very learned, had not yet reached the honours of the printing-house. We had had our own doubts whether it might ever assume the form of a real book; but our friend, who was a wealthy as well as a learned man, was, as yet, very determined. He desired, at any rate, that the thing should be perfected, and his publisher had therefore come to us offering £25 for the codification and index. Were anything other than good to befall his manuscript, his lamentations would be loud, not on his own score,--but on behalf of learning in general. It behoved us therefore to be cautious. We pretended to read the letter again, in order that we might gain time for a decision, for we were greatly frightened by that gleaming nose. Let the reader understand that the nose was by no means Bardolphian. If we have read Shakespeare aright Bardolph’s nose was a thing of terror from its size as well as its hue. It was a mighty vat, into which had ascended all the divinest particles distilled from the cellars of the hostelrie in Eastcheap. Such at least is the idea which stage representations have left upon all our minds. But the nose now before us was a well-formed nose, would have been a commanding nose,--for the power of command shows itself much in the nasal organ,--had it not been for its colour. While we were thinking of this, and doubting much as to our friend’s manuscript, Mr. Mackenzie interrupted us. “You think I am a drunkard,” said he. The man’s mother-wit had enabled him to read our inmost thoughts.