“No; but you are a poet--free of the corporation, and as little bound down to truth or probability as Virgil himself--You may defeat the Romans in spite of Tacitus.” “And pitch Agricola’s camp at the Kaim of--what do you call it,” answered Lovel, “in defiance of Edie Ochiltree?” “No more of that, an thou lovest me--And yet, I dare say, ye may unwittingly speak most correct truth in both instances, in despite of the toga of the historian and the blue gown of the mendicant.” “Gallantly counselled!--Well, I will do my best--your kindness will assist me with local information.” “Will I not, man?--why, I will write the critical and historical notes on each canto, and draw out the plan of the story myself. I pretend to some poetical genius, Mr. Lovel, only I was never able to write verses.” “It is a pity, sir, that you should have failed in a qualification somewhat essential to the art.” “Essential?--not a whit--it is the mere mechanical department. A man may be a poet without measuring spondees and dactyls like the ancients, or clashing the ends of lines into rhyme like the moderns, as one may be an architect though unable to labour like a stone-mason--Dost think Palladio or Vitruvius ever carried a hod?” “In that case, there should be two authors to each poem--one to think and plan, another to execute.” “Why, it would not be amiss; at any rate, we’ll make the experiment;--not that I would wish to give my name to the public--assistance from a learned friend might be acknowledged in the preface after what flourish your nature will--I am a total stranger to authorial vanity.”