And now, sir, if you please, I will conduct you to the future editor of the Review.

As you are to co-operate, sir, I deem it right to make you acquainted.' The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of wooden pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the purlieus of the city, composing tunes upon a piano.

The walls of the pavilion were covered with fiddles of various sizes and appearances, and a considerable portion of the floor occupied by a pile of books all of one size.

The publisher introduced him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in literature than in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic--a young gentleman scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology.

The conversation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had ever read Quintilian; and, on my replying in the negative, expressed his surprise that any gentleman should aspire to become a critic who had never read Quintilian, with the comfortable information, however, that he could supply me with a Quintilian at half-price, that is, a translation made by himself some years previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on the floor, still a few copies remaining unsold.