For some reason or other, perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor's translation of Quintilian.
'Sir,' said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit to the editor, 'you did right in not purchasing a drug.

I am not prepared, sir, to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen him; but I am prepared to say that man's translation is a drug, judging from the heap of rubbish on the floor; besides, sir, you will want any loose money you may have to purchase the description of literature which is required for your compilation.' The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very forlorn-looking street.

'Sir,' said he, after looking down it with attention, 'I should not wonder if in that street you find works connected with the description of literature which is required for your compilation.

It is in streets of this description, sir, and blind alleys, where such works are to be found.

You had better search that street, sir, whilst I continue my way.' I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, in the course of the three succeeding days, many others of a similar kind.