By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and
obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task which I
had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives; I had also made some
progress in translating the publisher's philosophy into German. But
about this time I began to see very clearly that it was impossible that
our connection should prove of long duration; yet, in the event of my
leaving the big man, what other resource had I--another publisher? But
what had I to offer? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym, but then I
thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. However, I
determined to see what could be done, so I took my ballads under my arm,
and went to various publishers; some took snuff, others did not, but none
took my ballads or Ab Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One
asked me if I had anything else--he was a snuff-taker--I said yes; and
going home, returned with my translation of the German novel, to which I
have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he returned it to
me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of snuff, told me it would not
do. There were marks of snuff on the outside of the manuscript, which
was a roll of paper bound with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff
on the interior of the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had
never opened it.
I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the western end of
the town; on consulting Taggart, he told me that it was possible that
Glorious John would publish my ballads and Ab Gwilym, that is, said he,
taking a pinch of snuff, provided you can see him; so I went to the house
where Glorious John resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not
see Glorious John--I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious
John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, I saw
Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published my books, but they
were different books from the first; I never offered my ballads or Ab
Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious John was no snuff-taker. He asked me
to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now
gone to his rest, but I--what was I going to say?--the world will never
forget Glorious John.
So I returned to my last resource for the time then being--to the
publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the
publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of
paper. 'Sir,' said he, 'you know nothing of German; I have shown your
translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it
is utterly unintelligible to them.' 'Did they see the Philosophy?' I
replied. 'They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand
English.' 'No more do I,' I replied, 'if that Philosophy be English.'
The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I
had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of
snuff, to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the
publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however,
eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other
words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I
got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.
He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!