phy 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 introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in
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 wo