so, though the world may n't. Is it-is it the 'Ariadne in Naxos' which you liked (I was only eighteen when I wrote it), or the Prize Poem ?" Warrington burst into a roar of laughter. "Why, you young goose," he yelled out-"of all the miserable weak rubbish I ever tried, 'Ariadne in Naxos' is the most mawkish and disgusting. The Prize Poem is so pompous and feeble, that I'm positively surprised, sir, it didn't get the medal. You don't suppose that you are a serious poet, do you and are going to cut out Milton and Eschylus? Are you setting up to be a Pindar, you absurd little tom-tit, and fancy you have the strength and pinion which the Theban eagles bear, sailing with supreme dominion through the azure fields of air? No, my boy, I think you can write a magazine article, and turn out a pretty copy of verses; that's what I think of you." "By Jove!" said Pen, bouncing up and stamping his foot, "I'll show you that I am a better man than you think for." Warrington only laughed the more, and blew twenty-four puffs rapidly out of his pipe by way of reply to Pen. An opportunity for showing his skill presented itself before very long. That eminent publisher, Mr. Bacon (formerly Bacon and Bungay) of Paternoster Row, besides being the proprietor of the "Legal Review," in which Mr. Warrington wrote, and of other periodicals of note and gravity, used to present to the world every year a beautiful gilt volume called the "Spring Annual," edited by the Lady Violet Lebas, and numbering amongst its contributors not only the most eminent, but the most fashionable, poets of our time. Young Lord Dodo's poems first appeared in this miscellany the Honorable Percy Popjoy, whose chival rous ballads have obtained him such a reputation — Bedwin Sands's Eastern Ghazuls, and many more of the works of our young nobles were first given to the world in the "Spring Annual," which has since shared the fate of other vernal blossoms, and perished out of the world. The book was daintily illustrated with pictures of reigning beauties, or other prints of a tender and voluptuous character; and, as these plates were prepared long beforehand, requiring much time in engraving, it was the eminent poets who had to write to the plates, and not the painters who illustrated the poems. One day, just when this volume was on the eve of publication, it chanced that Mr. Warrington called in Paternoster Row to talk with Mr. Hack, Mr. Bacon's reader and general manager of publications - for Mr. Bacon, not having the least taste in poetry or in literature of any kind, wisely employed the services of a professional gentleman. Warrington, then, going into Mr. Hack's room on business of his own, found that gentleman with a bundle of proof plates and sheets of the "Spring Annual" before him, and glanced at some of them. Percy Popjoy had written some verses to illustrate one of the pictures, which was called The Church Porch. A Spanish damsel was hastening to church with a large prayer-book; a youth in a cloak was hidden in a niche watching this young woman. The picture was pretty: but the great genius of Percy Popjoy had deserted him, for he had made the most execrable verses which ever were perpetrated by a young nobleman. Warrington burst out laughing as he read the poem : and Mr. Hack laughed too, but with rather a rueful face."It won't do," he said, "the public won't stand it. Bungay's people are going to bring out a very good book, and have set up Miss Bunion against Lady Violet. We have most titles to be sure- but the verses are too bad. Lady Violet herself owns it; she's busy with her own poem; what's to be done? We can't lose the plate. The governor gave sixty pounds for it!" "I know a fellow who will do some verses, I think," said Warrington. "Let me take the plate home in my pocket: and send to my chambers in the morning for the verses. You'll pay well, of course?" "Of course," said Mr. Hack; and Warrington, hav ing despatched his own business, went home to Mr. Pen, plate in hand. "Now, boy, here's a chance for you. a copy of verses to this." "What's this? A Church Porch Turn me off a lady enter ing it, and a youth out of a wine-shop window ogling her. What the deuce am I to do with it?" "Try," said Warrington. "Earn your livelihood for once, you who long so to do it." "Well, I will try," said Pen. "And I'll go out to dinner," said Warrington, and left Mr. Pen in a brown study. When Warrington came home that night, at a very late hour, the verses were done. "There they are," said Pen. "I've screwed 'em out at last. I think they 'll do." "I think they will," said Warrington, after reading them; they ran as follows: THE CHURCH PORCH. Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Sometimes I hover, And at the sacred gate, The Minster bell tolls out And noise and humming: They 've stopp'd the chiming bell, I hear the organ's swell She's coming, she's coming! My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast. She comes she's here she's past. - May Heaven go with her! Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint, Meekly and duly. I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer But suffer me to pace Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait And see through heaven's gate "Have you got any more, young fellow?" asked Warrington. "We must make them give you a couple of guineas a page; and if the verses are liked, why, you'll get an entrée into Bacon's magazines, and may turn a decent penny." Pen examined his portfolio and found another ballad which he thought might figure with advantage in the "Spring Annual," and consigning these two precious documents to Warrington, the pair walked from the Temple, to the famous haunt of the Muses and their masters, Paternoster Row. Bacon's shop was an ancient low-browed building, with a few of the books published by the firm displayed in the windows, under a bust of my Lord of Verulam, and the name of Mr. Bacon in brass on the private door. Exactly opposite to Bacon's house was that of Mr. Bungay, which was newly painted and elaborately decorated in the style of the seventeenth century, so that you might have fancied stately Mr. Evelyn passing over the threshold, or curious Mr. Pepys examining the books in the window. Warrington went into the shop of Mr. Bacon, but Pen stayed without. It was agreed that his ambassador should act for him entirely; and the young fellow paced up and down the street in a very nervous condition, until he should learn the result of the negotiation. Many a poor devil before him has trodden those flags, with similar cares and anxieties at his heels, his bread and his fame dependent upon the sentence of his magnanimous patrons of the Row. Pen looked at all the wonders of all the shops; and the strange variety of literature which they exhibit. In this were displayed black-letter volumes and books in the clear pale types of Aldus and Elzevir: in the next, you might see the "Penny Horrific Register;" the "Halfpenny Annals of Crime," and "History of the most celebrated Murderers of all Countries," "The Raff's Magazine," "The Larky |