he 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,