’Then, sir, procure it by all means.  Sir, I could afford as much as ten pounds for a well-written tale in the style of the Dairyman’s Daughter; that is the kind of literature, sir, that sells at the present day!  It is not the Miller of the Black Valley—­no, sir, nor Herder either, that will suit the present taste; the evangelical body is becoming very strong, sir; the canting scoundrels—­’

‘But, sir, surely you would not pander to a scoundrelly taste?’

’Then, sir, I must give up business altogether.  Sir, I have a great respect for the goddess Reason—­an infinite respect, sir; indeed, in my time, I have made a great many sacrifices for her; but, sir, I cannot altogether ruin myself for the goddess Reason.  Sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as is well known; but I must also be a friend to my own family.  It is with the view of providing for a son of mine that I am about to start the Review of which I was speaking.  He has taken into his head to marry, sir, and I must do something for him, for he can do but little for himself.  Well, sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as I said before, and likewise a friend to Reason; but I tell you frankly that the Review which I intend to get up under the rose, and present him with when it is established, will be conducted on Oxford principles.’

‘Orthodox principles, I suppose you mean, sir?’

‘I do, sir; I am no linguist, but I believe the words are synonymous.’

Much more conversation passed between us, and it was agreed that I should become a contributor to the Oxford Review.  I stipulated, however, that, as I knew little of politics, and cared less, no other articles should be required from me than such as were connected with belles-lettres and philology; to this the big man readily assented.  ’Nothing will be required from you,’ said he, ’but what you mention; and now and then, perhaps, a paper on metaphysics.  You understand German, and perhaps it would be desirable that you should review Kant; and in a review of Kant, sir, you could introduce to advantage your peculiar notions about ex nihilo.’  He then reverted to the subject of the Dairyman’s Daughter, which I promised to take into consideration.  As I was going away, he invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday.

‘That’s a strange man!’ said I to myself, after I had left the house; ’he is evidently very clever; but I cannot say that I like him much, with his Oxford Reviews and Dairyman’s Daughters.  But what can I do?  I am almost without a friend in the world.  I wish I could find some one who would publish my ballads, or my songs of Ab Gwilym.  In spite of what the big man says, I am convinced that, once published, they would bring me much fame and profit.  But how is this?—­what a beautiful sun!—­the porter was right in saying that the day would clear up—­I will now go to my dingy lodging, lock up my manuscripts, and then take a stroll about the big city.’