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 "'Terrible fog, sir,—terrible fog! You did not write your pastoral poems here? Very pretty they are; I wish every body had my taste for green fields and sheep; poetry would sell then.'

"'One portion of my volume, at all events, finds favour with you?' said Walter, very much encouraged by his reception.

"'The whole, sir—the whole. It is a charming volume; the love-verses, too; pity that people don’t care about love; nobody's in love now-a-days!'

"'But what do you say to the satires?' asked the author, not quite so elated.

"'Dangerous things, sir,—dangerous things,' said Mr. Lintot, drawing a deep breath. ****

"'But there is nothing personal in my satire,' said Walter.

"'So much the worse!' exclaimed Mr. Lintot. 'What is the use of denouncing a vice?—denounce the individual.' ****

"'And now, do you think,' asked Walter, 'that the volume I left with you is likely to give satisfaction?'

"'It is a charming book—very charming book! and I see that you are a clever young man. **I foresee that you will succeed.'

"'But about my volumes of poems?' interrupted its author.

"'Why, sir, it is hard to say,' replied the cautious publisher; 'poetry is not worth much at present; indeed, I never heard that it was. Homer begged his bread; you will excuse my little joke.'

"'I am to understand,' then, replied Maynard, 'that it does not suit you?'

"'Never draw a hasty conclusion,' answered Mr. Lintot; 'I mean to do my best for you.'

"'Do you mean to publish my poems?' cried Walter.