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"'Terrible fog, sir,—terrible fog! You did not write your pastoral poems here? Very pretty they are; I wish every body had my taste for green fields and sheep; poetry would sell then.'
"'One portion of my volume, at all events, finds favour with you?' said Walter, very much encouraged by his reception.
"'The whole, sir—the whole. It is a charming volume; the love-verses, too; pity that people don’t care about love; nobody's in love now-a-days!'
"'But what do you say to the satires?' asked the author, not quite so elated.
"'Dangerous things, sir,—dangerous things,' said Mr. Lintot, drawing a deep breath. ****
"'But there is nothing personal in my satire,' said Walter.
"'So much the worse!' exclaimed Mr. Lintot. 'What is the use of denouncing a vice?—denounce the individual.' ****
"'And now, do you think,' asked Walter, 'that the volume I left with you is likely to give satisfaction?'
"'It is a charming book—very charming book! and I see that you are a clever young man. **I foresee that you will succeed.'
"'But about my volumes of poems?' interrupted its author.
"'Why, sir, it is hard to say,' replied the cautious publisher; 'poetry is not worth much at present; indeed, I never heard that it was. Homer begged his bread; you will excuse my little joke.'
"'I am to understand,' then, replied Maynard, 'that it does not suit you?'
"'Never draw a hasty conclusion,' answered Mr. Lintot; 'I mean to do my best for you.'
"'Do you mean to publish my poems?' cried Walter.
