epelled."

"No; but you are a poet--free of the corporation, and as little bound
down to truth or probability as Virgil himself--You may defeat the Romans
in spite of Tacitus."

"And pitch Agricola's camp at the Kaim of--what do you call it," answered
Lovel, "in defiance of Edie Ochiltree?"

"No more of that, an thou lovest me--And yet, I dare say, ye may
unwittingly speak most correct truth in both instances, in despite of
the toga of the historian and the blue gown of the mendicant."

"Gallantly counselled!--Well, I will do my best--your kindness will assist
me with local information."

"Will I not, man?--why, I will write the critical and historical notes on
each canto, and draw out the plan of the story myself. I pretend to some
poetical genius, Mr. Lovel, only I was never able to write verses."

"It is a pity, sir, that you should have failed in a qualification
somewhat essential to the art."

"Essential?--not a whit--it is the mere mechanical department. A man may
be a poet without measuring spondees and dactyls like the ancients, or
clashing the ends of lines into rhyme like the moderns, as one may be an
architect though unable to labour like a stone-mason--Dost think Palladio
or Vitruvius ever carried a hod?"

"In that case, there should be two authors to each poem--one to think and
plan, another to execute."

"Why, it would not be amiss; at any rate, we'll make the experiment;--not
that I would wish to give my name to the public--assistance from a
learned friend might be acknowledged in the preface after what flourish
your nature will--I am a total stranger to authorial vanity."

Lovel was much entertained by a declaration not very consistent with
the eagerness wherewith his friend seemed to catch at an opportunity
of coming before the public, though in a manner which rather resembled
stepping up behind a carriage than getting into one. The Antiquary was
indeed uncommonly delighted; for, like many other men who spend their
lives in obscure literary research, he had a secret ambition to
appear in print, which was checked by cold fits of diffidence, fear of
criticism, and habits of indolence and procrastination. "But," thought
he, "I may, like a second Teucer, discharge my shafts from behind
the shield of my ally; and, admit that he should not prove to be a
first-rate poet, I am in no shape answerable for his deficiencies, and
the good notes may very probably help off an indifferent text. But he
is--h