“I have been looking about London,” said I, “and I have bought the ‘Dairyman’s Daughter’; here it is.”
“Pray put it up,” said the publisher; “I don’t want to look at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like it?”
“I do not,” said I.
“How is that?” said the publisher, looking at me.
“Because,” said I, “the man who wrote it seems to be perfectly well acquainted with his subject; and, moreover, to write from the heart.”
“By the subject you mean—”
“Religion.”
“And a’n’t you acquainted with religion?”
“Very little.”
“I am sorry for that,” said the publisher, seriously, “for he who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not only with religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good friend in the country. It is well that I have changed my mind about the ‘Dairyman’s Daughter,’ or I really don’t know whom I could apply to on the subject at the present moment, unless to himself; and after all I question whether his style is exactly suited for an evangelical novel.”