Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

of snuff, then, rising from his chair, slowly and deliberately drew his wig, for he wore a wig of a brown colour, rather more over his forehead than it had previously been, buttoned his coat, and, taking his hat, and an umbrella which stood in a corner, made me a low bow, and quitted the room.

“Well, sir, where were we? Oh, I remember, we were talking about merit. Sir, I always wish to encourage merit, especially when it comes so highly recommended as in the present instance. Sir, my good friend and correspondent speaks of you in the highest terms. Sir, I honour my good friend, and have the highest respect for his opinion in all matters connected with literature⁠—rather eccentric though. Sir, my good friend has done my periodical more good and more harm than all the rest of my correspondents. Sir, I shall never forget the sensation caused by the appearance of his article about a certain personage whom he proved⁠—and I think satisfactorily⁠—to have been a legionary soldier⁠—rather startling, was it not? The S⁠⸺⁠129 of the world a common soldier, in a marching regiment!⁠—original, but startling; sir, I honour my good friend.”

“So you have renounced publishing, sir,” said I, “with the exception of the Magazine?”

“Why, yes; except now and then, under the rose; the old coachman, you know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present moment, I am thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and original principle; and it just struck me that you might be of high utility in the undertaking⁠—what do you think of the matter?”

“I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifications than I possess; however, I can make the essay. My chief intention in coming to London was to lay before the world what I had prepared; and I had hoped by your assistance⁠—”

“Ah! I see, ambition! Ambition is a very pretty thing; but, sir, we must walk before we run, according to the old saying⁠—what is that you have got under your arm?”

“One of the works to which I was alluding; the one, indeed, which I am most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to derive from it both profit and reputation.”

“Indeed! what do you call it?”

“Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by myself, with notes philological, critical and historical.”

“Then, sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been entirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to the world tomorrow.”

“I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise if you would permit me to read one to you;” and, without waiting for the answer of the big man, nor indeed so much as looking at him, to see whether he was inclined or not to hear me, I undid my manuscript, and with a voice trembling with eagerness, I read to the following effect:⁠—

Buckshank bold and Elfinstone,
And more than I can mention here,
They caused to be built so stout a ship,
And unto Iceland they would steer.

They launched the ship upon the main,
Which bellowed like a wrathful bear;
Down to the bottom the vessel sank,
A laidly Trold has dragged it there.

Down to the bottom sank young Roland,
And round about he groped awhile;
Until he found the path which led
Unto the bower of Ellenlyle.

“Stop!” said the publisher; “very pretty, indeed, and very original; beats Scott hollow, and Percy too: but, sir, the day for these things is gone by; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor for Scott, either, save as a novelist; sorry to discourage merit, sir, but what can I do? What else have you got?”

“The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by myself, with notes critical, philological and historical.”

“Pass on⁠—what else?”

“Nothing else,” said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, “unless it be a romance in the German style; on which, I confess, I set very little value.”

“Wild?”

“Yes, sir, very wild.”

“Like the Miller of the Black Valley?”

“Yes, sir, very much like the Miller of the Black Valley.”

“Well, that’s better,” said the publisher; “and yet, I don’t know, I question whether anyone at present cares for the miller himself. No, sir, the time for those things is also gone by; German, at present, is a drug; and, between ourselves, nobody has contributed to make it so more than my good friend and correspondent; but, sir, I see you are a young gentleman of infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don’t you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?”

“Evangelical tales, sir?”

“Yes, sir, evangelical novels.”

“Something in the style of Herder?”

“Herder is a drug, sir; nobody cares for Herder⁠—thanks to my good friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages about Herder, which I dare not insert in my periodical; it would sink it, sir. No, sir, something in the style of the Dairyman’s Daughter.”

“I never heard of the work till the present moment.”

“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