literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic--a young
gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The
conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we
separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read
Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise
that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read
Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could
supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by
himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on
the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or
other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of
Quintilian.

'Sir,' said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the
editor, 'you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not prepared, sir,
to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am
prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap
of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you
may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for
your compilation.'

The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very
forlorn-looking street. 'Sir,' said he, after looking down it with
attention, 'I should not wonder if in that street you find works
connected with the description of literature which is required for your
compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind
alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better search that
street, sir, whilst I continue my way.'

I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the
course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind. I
did not find the description of literature alluded to by the publisher to
be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce and dear. I had expended
much more than my loose money long before I could procure materials even
for the first volume of my compilation.

[Picture: I am willing to encourage merit, sir]

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

FRANCIS ARDRY--CERTAIN SHARPERS--BRAVE AND ELOQUENT--OPPOSITES--FLINGING
THE BONES--STRANGE PLACES--A BATCH OF DOGS--REDOUBLED APPLICATION

One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis Ardry,
whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house. As it is necess