'What can't be cured must be endured,' and 'it is hard to kick against
the pricks.'
At the period to which I have brought my history, I bethought me of the
proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, and determined to act up
to their spirit. I determined not to fly in the face of the publisher,
and to bear--what I could not cure--his arrogance and vanity. At
present, at the conclusion of nearly a quarter of a century, I am glad
that I came to that determination, which I did my best to carry into
effect.
Two or three days after our last interview, the publisher made his
appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumes under his arm,
which he placed on the table. 'I have brought you two volumes of lives,
sir,' said he, 'which I yesterday found in my garret; you will find them
of service for your compilation. As I always wish to behave liberally
and encourage talent, especially youthful talent, I shall make no charge
for them, though I should be justified in so doing, as you are aware
that, by our agreement, you are to provide any books and materials which
may be necessary. Have you been in quest of any?'
'No,' said I, 'not yet.'
'Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time in doing so; you must
visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in the by-streets and
blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find the description of
literature you are in want of. You must be up and doing, sir; it will
not do for an author, especially a young author, to be idle in this town.
To-night you will receive my book of philosophy, and likewise books for
the Review. And, by the bye, sir, it will be as well for you to review
my book of philosophy for the Review; the other reviews not having
noticed it. Sir, before translating it, I wish you to review my book of
philosophy for the Review.'
'I shall be happy to do my best, sir.'
'Very good, sir; I should be unreasonable to expect anything beyond a
person's best. And now, sir, if you please, I will conduct you to the
future editor of the Review. As you are to co-operate, sir, I deem it
right to make you acquainted.'
The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of wooden
pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the purlieus of the
city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls of the pavilion were
covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerable
portion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size. The
publisher introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in
literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic--a young
gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The
conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we
separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read
Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise
that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read
Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could
supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by
himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on
the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or
other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of
Quintilian.
'Sir,' said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the
editor, 'you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not prepared, sir,
to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am
prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap
of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you
may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for
your compilation.'
The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very
forlorn-looking street. 'Sir,' said he, after looking down it with
attention, 'I should not wonder if in that street you find works
connected with the description of literature which is required for your
compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind
alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better search that
street, sir, whilst I continue my way.'
I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the
course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind. I
did not find the description of literature alluded to by the publisher to
be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I had expended
much more than my loose money long before I could procure materials even
for the first volume of my compilation.
[Picture: I am willing to encourage merit, sir]