Our hero was shown at once into the counting-house, and stood by in silence, while the bookseller read his letter. "I shall be very happy," said the publisher, having gone over the epistle, "to give you my advice respecting anything you may undertake; but poetry has become quite a drug in the market. Indeed, unless it is beautifully illustrated, we cannot even get the reading public to look at it. Numbers of editions are issued, that never pay for the paper, letting alone the printing, binding, and advertising; as for the periodicals, I do not think that there is one which pays for poetry, unless it is written by some one who has already obtained a great name. Respecting those you have already written, and some of which we received on sale, I will make enquiry, and ascertain what number we have on hand."

He retired for a few minutes, and then returned with the tidings that only two copies had been sold! Godfrey exclaimed, "Only two copies!" and turned away with an aching heart.

He was about to pass out of the door, when his attention was arrested by a middle-aged man, who having just received a parcel, which was in fact a rejected manuscript, was exclaiming to the party who had returned it, "What will suit, I wonder? I have tried poetry, the drama, began a novel, and here, 'Sketches of the Present Age.' I thought the title alone would have sold off a good edition. Well, I see I must still stick to the periodicals, for there is no pleasing you large publishers." The publisher smiled, wished him a 'good morning,' and was soon seated at his desk, too busied in looking over the orders which had that morning arrived from the country, to bestow a moment's further thought either on the author or his manuscript.

But the author continued talking, even when he had gained the street, for he had fixed his eyes on Godfrey Malvern, and soon saw by the look returned, that our hero felt more interest in his business than the publisher.

There are, in London, a great number of literary men, whose names are almost wholly unknown to the public. Such are the writers who contribute to cheap periodicals, and now and then, get an article inserted into the magazines, too often without their name being affixed to it. Thus their talents become buried. They have issued no distinct work on which to base their reputation, and consequently can demand no price in the market; yet many of these men are excellent writers. When they have written an article, it must instantly be converted into money; and if they do not obtain their own price for it, they are compelled to take what is offered, for they cannot afford to wait until the

editors of the higher order of periodicals can decide upon its merits. Thus the article, however good it may be, is often literally pawned, for they get a pound or two advanced upon it from some quarter where it is certain of insertion; and obtain the remainder when the periodical appears, or when the proof is corrected, and it is ascertained what number of pages the article makes. These are the most unfortunate class of all authors; a friend, or a kind publisher, sometimes is found to supply their wants, until they have written a complete work, and then their abilities are acknowledged: they enter the ring' as it is called, obtain fame, and eventually, if they are fortunate, just save themselves from this daily state of starvation. It was one of this class, whom Godfrey Malvern had met with: they had a long conversation together, as they walked several times round St. Paul's; and at length, Godfrey invited him to dinner. At the mention of ' dinner,' a thing not to be met with every day, the poor author gladly escorted our hero to the Cathedral Coffee House, where, as he said, "you dine off the joint, and, eat little or much, it is all the same price,”—a matter which the author thought worth making known.

CHAPTER XIV.

GODFREY MALVERN DINES WITH THE AUTHOR, AND GATHERS SOME INFORMATION WORTH KNOWING-MEETS WITH THE EDITOR OF THE OLD MONTHLY MAGAZINE, AND BECOMES AT ONCE CONTRIBUTOR AND CRITICALSO, HOW YOUNG MEN, WHEN THEY FIRST COME TO LONDON, OUGHT TO KEEP THEIR EYES OPEN.

THE author, whom we shall call Mr. Smith, inquired of the waiter what there was forthcoming; and on receiving the information that there would be a sirloin of roast beef up in ten minutes, rubbed his hands with delight, and ran his finger along the edge of the clean. bright knife, as if to ascertain the quality of the weapon he was about to wield. He then glanced narrowly at the clock, and fearing the ten minutes might be fifteen, helped himself to the new loaf, as if to stay his stomach. Godfrey amused himself by looking out of the window, and was astonished at the crowds of people constantly passing to and fro beside St. Paul's-that great avenue which drains off its many

thousands of passengers from Cheapside and Fleet-street. But, above all, it amused him to see what a number of heads were packed together, if an omnibus or any other vehicle drew up in the centre of the crossing it seemed like damming up a stream; and no sooner was the obstacle removed, than onward rushed the human torrent, and was lost to the sight in a few moments.

Meantime Mr. Smith having somewhat appeased the hungry edge of appetite' with a new crust, again resumed his conversation with Godfrey.

"I must confess," continued the author, "that I have never yet had what is called a fair trial before the public; that is, I have never published any work complete in itself. This was the very reason, I doubt not, why my manuscript was returned to-day. The fact is, I had only written one chapter as a specimen of what the whole work was to be, and I dare say they want to see more; but I am too poor to complete a work without something to live upon whilst I write it ;" and he then took a hearty pull at the bottled-ale which he had ordered. "But when a work is written," said Godfrey, "is it not difficult to meet with a purchaser, if the author is unknown?"

"Sometimes it is," replied the author; "but never if the publishers think it a work which will take,' as they term it. Indeed there is more fair play than many would imagine in such matters. A manuscript, when read at all, is generally put into the hands of some competent judge, who is paid for giving an honest opinion of its merits. Thus you will see why all manuscripts cannot be read, because the publisher must pay for the perusal, whether he purchases the work or not, unless he is himself a judge."

"Then a good work may be rejected," said Godfrey, "simply because a publisher is not willing to expend a pound or two, in the first instance, to ascertain its real merits ?"

"It may at times be the case," answered Mr. Smith, "although the publisher generally possesses discrimination enough, from the conversation he has with the author, to know whether the work (if well done) will suit him or not. You might also argue, that the person paid for reading the manuscript is not always a competent judge. But you must bear in mind, that if the reader rejected a work which another house afterwards accepted, and that such a work succeeded, the judgment of that reader would in future be held in little estimation by his employers. Here, after all, probably rests the secret why so few good works have ever been rejected, and on this also, why so many bad

ones are published. Nothing is turned away which the booksellers think can be made to pay. Opposition and rival houses will ever leave the field open to all competitors; and there is more honesty about the business than you would at first imagine, although names, when once obtained, must, if possible, be kept up, for the publishers have at times, to pay heavily for a name. But here comes the beef,-and beautiful it looks!"

It was evident that the author had dined there before; for the waiter placed three enormous potatoes before him, while only one was found under the cover which was handed over to Godfrey. The waiter had carefully cut off the brown outside of the beef; and Mr. Smith knew how to use a good sharp carving-knife, for he went the whole length of the sirloin for his slice; and knowing it would be too long for his plate, severed it in the middle; then piled slice on slice,' a little gravy, and he was silent for fifteen minutes. Godfrey helped himself very moderately, for during the time that Mr. Smith held his peace, his thoughts were away with Emma; and then he began to think that authorship, after all, presented many difficulties, and he regretted that he had not completed some work before venturing on so perilous a career; but it was now too late to regret.

After a while, two or three respectable publishers came into the room to dinner. Mr. Smith seemed to have scraped an acquaintance with them all; and told one where he had seen a review of the last new work he had issued; admired the illustrations with which the publication of another was enriched; and told a third how he had just received one of his works to notice. For Mr. Smith was himself a reviewer, although chiefly employed on periodicals, whose opinions were very little valued, even by the trade. Another thing, Mr. Smith had often obtained works from the publishers for review, notices of which had never appeared in the papers, according to promise. Poor fellow ! hunger had overcome honesty, and he had been compelled to sell the books to raise a dinner. But these were mysteries to which Godfrey was a stranger, although one or two of the publishers had their sidejoke with the poor author, such as telling him the promised review appeared in such small type they could not see to read it, and so on. Whereat Mr. Smith smiled, and took one or two enormous pinches of snuff.

After a while the editor of the old Monthly Magazine entered the room (a work which has so often changed hands, that neither its late respectable proprietors, nor its present talented editor, need fear our men