we
bring most of our troubles on our own heads--at least I can say so of
myself,' he added, laughing. Then, after a pause, 'I beg pardon,' he
said, 'but am I not addressing one of my own country?'

'Of what country are you?' said I.

'Ireland.'

'I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite veneration for
your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. Will you take a glass
of wine?'

'Ah, de tout mon coeur, as the parasite said to Gil Blas,' cried the
young man, laughing. 'Here's to our better acquaintance!'

And better acquainted we soon became; and I found that, in making the
acquaintance of the young man, I had indeed made a valuable acquisition;
he was accomplished, highly connected, and bore the name of Francis
Ardry. Frank and ardent he was, and in a very little time had told me
much that related to himself, and in return I communicated a general
outline of my own history; he listened with profound attention, but
laughed heartily when I told him some particulars of my visit in the
morning to the publisher, whom he had frequently heard of.

We left the house together.

'We shall soon see each other again,' said he, as we separated at the
door of my lodging.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Dine with the publisher--Religions--No animal food--Unprofitable
discussions--Principles of criticism--The book market--Newgate
lives--Goethe a drug--German acquirements--Moral dignity.

On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with the
publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house stood, my
thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man, that I passed by him
without seeing him. He had observed me, however, and joined me just as I
was about to knock at the door. 'Let us take a turn in the square,' said
he, 'we shall not dine for half an hour.'

'Well,' said he, as we were walking in the square, 'what have you been
doing since I last saw you?'

'I have been looking about London,' said I, 'and I have bought the
_Dairyman's Daughter_; here it is.'

'Pray put it up,' said the publisher; 'I don't want to look at such
trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?'

'I do not,' said I.

'How is that?' said the publisher, looking at me.

'Because,' said I, 'the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well
acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart.'

'By the subject you mean--'

'Religion.'

'And ain't you acquainted with religion?