by, could we only divest the remark of a seeming touch of impiety, was there ever a grander expression of Love, for instance, than that of the poor woman, who when her priest was expatiating upon the offering of Isaac by his father, replied, 'True, but God would never have asked it of a mother!' The matchless trust of that worthy creature in the mercy-may we not say, in the tender courtesy, of Heaven, as if a mother's affection were too sacred a thing to be made the subject even of a divine experiment-has been adduced before now as one of the most daring and yet most natural illustrations of the Sublime.

In short, if we could project ourselves into the author's mind during the composition of his opening work, share in all his alternating hopes and fears, and realise all the exciting conditions under which it was penned, we might readily indorse Miss Landon's remark, that a 'history of the how and where works, especially of imagination, have been produced, would often be more extraordinary than the works themselves.'

CHAPTER VIII.

GOING TO PRESS AND FIRST APPEARANCE.

BUT suppose the important Manuscript completed—indeed long before completion-there comes the great question of publication.

How and where ?

Not many young authors can expect to imitate Sir Humphry Davy; for, says his brother Dr. Davy, almost as soon as he began writing, he began printing. No fair copy was made: the MS. was transferred, sometimes the same day and hour, from his pen to the press.'

In the case even of brief compositions, not entitled to the honour of an independent volume, the selection of a fitting vehicle is a matter of the profoundest anxiety. What magazine or review will be the likeliest to accept the proffered article, and to bring the writer into the readiest communication with his future constituents, that is to say, with the world at large?

Bitterly distasteful to a young poet Southey's counsel must have been, when he recommended the aspirant to send his verses in the first instance to the newspapers; then, if inserted, and still more if copied voluntarily into other journals, he might safely regard it as an indication of merit, and also as a hint from the Muses to proceed. But when the Keswick bard added

the suggestion that this should be done under some fictitious signature, and, still more, that any succeeding pieces should be issued under other names equally fanciful, the recommendation must have proved unutterably loathsome to any youth who hoped to leap into Fame at a bound. But worse than all was the icy remark-meant, however, in all honesty, but enough to freeze the blood though it were rolling like molten silver through the veins—that if those verses pleased nobody, and nobody either praised or noticed them, they would at any rate escape criticism and abuse! Just imagine the curl of the lip, and the flash of the eye, in the case of many a poetaster, if such diabolical probabilities were even hinted!

Not without many a misgiving, however, is this question of first publication finally settled, for it is perhaps a point-so the author supposes-which may determine the whole complexion of his literary career. Shall we venture to follow the fateful Manuscript?

Carefully folded, lest the precious document should present a clumsy appearance to the editor's eye; carefully sealed, lest some mischievous soul should abstract it by the way, or pillage it of its best passages; carefully addressed, lest it should travel to the Dead Letter Office, unless the direction were a marvel of legibility; carefully deposited by the writer in the receiving box, lest any other hands should prove treacherous if intrusted with the delivery-the wonderful packet is at length silently launched, and the young author retires to bed to dream dreams. of coming fortune, and see visions of boundless glory.

Next morning, when the gay hopes of the evening came in contact with the chilling realities of day, one question presents itself with startling force-Will his composition be accepted? At first, perhaps, he had no fear; but now he reflects that there

are some editors who cannot discern merit, others who will not acknowledge it, however undeniable, and not a few who can detect little else on the sun's bright disc than dark spots and sooty patches of portentous size. He will, however, hope fo the best. There will be a speedy answer-probably by return. of post? He lies in wait, accordingly, for the letter-carrier, throwing himself in the way when the bringer of tidings appears, and asking, with an air of indifference, which his tremulous voice belies, whether there is anything for him to-day. Alas, there is no response from the editor ('able' or otherwise), either to-day or to-morrow, or the next day! But for this, possibly, he finds a charitable excuse. Editors, he knows, are full of business; they are overwhelmed with applications, their tables are heaped with contributions from established writers; they cannot find time to read strange communications for weeks to come; besides, it is not their wont to acknowledge the receipt of articles in general. He must therefore wait until the next number of the periodical appears, and then probably he will see himself in all the splendours of type. Even a writer like Southey-veteran as he might be called at the time-was all impatience to read his first article in the Quarterly Review. 'Young lady,' wrote he once, 'never felt more desirous to see herself in a new ball dress, than I do to see my own performance in print, often as that gratification falls to my lot.'

When the month, however, is expiring, it is with many a flutter of the heart that the young writer turns to the advertisement columns where it is usual to announce the contents of forthcoming periodicals. His eye at last rests upon the title of the one in which Cæsar's fortunes are embarked. Let no one be surprised to learn that he dare not scan the table of contents at once. The little tricks he plays with himself, before he ventures

fairly upon the attempt, are amusing in the recollection, however serious they may be in the actual occurrence. Partially averting his glance, he will take in the measure of the lines, to see if any heading is likely to correspond in length with that affixed to his own article. Perhaps there is none to answer. But still this may be explained-the editor may have cut down his title or substituted another. After several sidelong essays, all failing as the eye comes to the charge, he makes desperate lunge at the first item in the list. Alas, it is not his! It is on some subject so lofty or so recondite, that his heart sinks within him under the conviction that he can be no fit companion for such erudite composers. Rebuffed, he next turns to the last article on the list. Neither is that his! Afterwards he travels through the table slowly, suspiciously wrenching his eye, as it were, from each successive heading with increasing effort as his prospects diminish; and then, travelling back to ascertain whether his effusion may not perhaps be hidden under some altered appellation, he is compelled at length to conclude that he is not amongst the company of the Elect!

The human mind, however, is wonderfully inventive when self-love or self-interest propels the machinery. A dozen explanations are discovered for the omission. He must therefore tarry until the following number appears, and then, doubtless, all will be right, and the grand coup which is to open the way to renown will be accomplished. But the next number comes forth, and for him it is sternly silent, implacably oblivious. Harsh thoughts now spring up in his mind. He is indignant at the able editor, but will give him another month to mend his ways! and when this interval too passes without the least notice of his production, he writes a note of cutting brevity, intended to freeze the very marrow in the man's bones by its