ndured," 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 bystreets 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