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Mortimer looked up and read the sign—“H. H.
Hardwill, Publisher.” His heart half-failed him, and
he stood looking in the large, book-filled window,
with that romance which was to startle the literary
world folded quietly under his arm, like any common
paper. What kind of a man is Mr. Hardwill?
he thought. Is he a large man, with a heavy watchchain,
or a thin, sky-rockety piece of humanity,
dressed in black, and tipped off with red hair?
Was he a cold, cast-iron man, like Flint? or a

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simple, sorrowful one, like Snarle that was? But
this last idea melted of itself. How could the famous
publisher resemble the poor, unobtrusive Snarle?
He, Mr. Hardwill, who received notes from the great
Hiawatha, and hob-nobbed with Knickerbocker Irving;
he, who owned a phial of yellow sand,
which had been taken from a scorching desert
with an unpronounceable name, and presented to
him by the Oriental Bayard; he, who chatted with
genial Mr. Sparrow-grass—God bless him!—(Sparrow-grass,)
and joked with Orpheus Stoddard,—he
like simple Snarle? Pooh!

“Is Mr. Hardwill in?” asked Mortimer. He came
near adding, “the great publisher.”

The clerk, to whom his eyes looked, said he believed
he was, and went on calling off from a slip of paper:

“`Murdered Milkmaid,' two copies; `Bloody
Hatchet,' twelve copies; `The Seducer's Victim,'
thirty copies; `The Young Mother,' five copies;
`The Deranged Daughter,' seven copies; `Hifiluten
and other poems,' one copy.”

“Can I speak with him?” ventured Mortimer, as
the clerk, who was calling off the criminal literature,
paused for breath.

“The Merry Maniacs,' ten copies—Yes, sir; but
he's engaged. Wait awhile,” continued the clerk, as
Mortimer turned to go. “The Wizard of

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Wehawkin,' six copies; `The Phantom of Philadelphia,'
twelve copies, etc., etc.”

So our author seated himself on a case of books,
and looked at the wall of volumes which encompassed
him. Somehow or another, it suggested the
Great Wall of China and the Cordilleras. He could
give no reason why. No more can I. Perhaps he
felt that light literature, paradoxical as it may seem,
is always heavy, and so his mind ran on the prodigious
freaks of man and nature.

After the clerk had finished calling off from the
slip of paper, that promising young gentleman suddenly
discovered that Mr. Hardwill was not engaged,
and offered to conduct our friend into his
august presence. Mortimer gathered up his heart,
as it were, and his loosened manuscript at the same
moment—“Her heart and morning broke together!”—
and followed the clerk through an avenue of
literature, to a snug inner office—that literary Sebastopol,
which is forever being stormed by seedy
poets and their allies, historians, romancers, and
strong-minded Eves.

Could it be possible?

Was that middle-sized, dark-eyed, light-haired,
pleasant-looking man the Napoleon of publishers?
However, there was something shrewd in his dark
eye, or rather eyes—for he had two of them—and a

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certain expression of the mouth, which seemed full
of dealings with the world.

“Is this Mr. Hardwill?” asked Mortimer.

“Yes, sir. Will you be seated?”

“I have a romance,” commenced Mortimer, with
hesitation, “which I would offer you for publication.
I have written it carefully, and I think it possesses
several new features —”

Here his voice broke down, for he felt those dark,
scrutinizing eyes in his face; besides, the intense
attention with which he was listened to disconcerted
him. Mr. Hardwill came to his relief.

“What is the title of your book?”

“It is called `Goldwood.”'

“That is not happy.”

“No?”

“No,” said Mr. Hardwill, “it should be something
striking—something to catch the eye in an advertisement.
For instance, the—the —”

“Frantic Father,” suggested Mortimer, quietly;
and he gazed at the carpet to keep from smiling.

Mr. Hardwill eyed him, and displayed his white
teeth. There was a little satire in our author's remark
which pleased Mr. H., who could not be hired
to read the spasmodic books which he published.
It was policy in him to cater for that largest class of
readers whose tastes are morbid or inflamed, and he
did so.

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Mortimer had thrown aside his timidity. He gave
a concise sketch of the plot, touching here and there
on some supposed-to-be felicitous incident, and grew
so autorially eloquent over his romance, that the
careful Mr. Hardwill requested Mortimer to leave his
manuscript with him, saying:

“I cannot give you much hope. I have more
books ready for press than I can well attend to. If
you will call on me the latter part of next week, you
shall have my decision.”

With these words, spoken in an off-hand, business-like
way, Mr. Hardwill made a bow, which said, as
kindly as such a thing can be said, “You needn't
stay any longer.”

Mortimer returned his bland smile frankly, and
retired, though he would fain have called Mr. Hardwill's
attention to that delightful and exciting scene
in which Mr. Adine St. Clair meets Arabella Clementina
after an estrangement of two weeks! but he
didn't. He again threaded his way through the
labyrinth of literature, and the last sound which fell
on his ear, as he turned from the bookstore into
the street, was,

“`The Ruined Cigar Girl,' twenty copies!”

“What on earth could anybody want of a `Ruined
Cigar Girl, or a `Young Mother?”' and Mortimer
laughed outright.

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The wand of Prospero is neither more cunning
nor more powerful than the pen of a well bred
author. It creates something out of nothing, (more
frequently nothing out of something), changes time,
place, and human nature; it lifts up the blue roofing
of ocean, and gives you a glimpse of fish-life; and
deeper still, shows you the coral forests of the
Naiads, and their aquatic palaces. It draws back the
curtain of cloud-land, and feeds your fancy with forms
that never have been, and never will be; summons
spirits from the air, and gives melodious voices to all
vernal things.

Pleasant magician that waves this wand! what
curious people are walking in the chambers of your
brain! What dreams are yours, and what cruel
cuts this real world sometimes gives you! You
have no right to be here, poor devil! You are
somewhat misplanted; you belong to some sphere
between earth and heaven, and not very near
either. That such a place is provided for you I
am certain. There it is that all your books will run
through countless editions; there it is you can afford
to hire some one to write your autograph for besieging
admirers, and feed, as you should,

“On the roses, and lay in the lilies of life.”

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But I was speaking of pen-magic. It is not my
present mood to do anything fantastical in that
way. I only wish to give you a sight of Mr.
Flint, as he appeared one afternoon some months
after Mortimer had left his office. He was standing
in that inner-room of his counting-house to
which I have introduced the reader. I change my
mind—he was not standing. He had just thrown
himself into a chair, in which he did not seem
at all easy.

I take peculiar delight in placing Mr. Flint in
uncomfortable positions.

He was surprised, alarmed, and angry. He missed
the forged check and the morocco case which he
had watched so many years. That they had been
purloined, he could not doubt, and his keen thought
fell on Mortimer. The loss of the check troubled
him; he liked to look at it occasionally, for Snarle's
sake; but the necklace — that gave him strange
alarm.

“Snake!” he hissed, “you have crawled into my
affairs, and I'll tread on you—tread on you and kill
you! You stole the check to save Snarle's name;
and the necklace—why did you steal that? Was it
valuable? Yes, that is it. I'll grind you in the
dust. I'll put you in a prison, and let your brainless
father look at you through the bars!”

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This humane idea caused Mr. Flint to rub his
dry hands, and chuckle violently.

“But”—here Mr. Flint's countenance fell. “If I
do this, won't Walters ruin me with that unfortunate
letter? O, I was a fool to write it; yet he would
have murdered me if I had not.

And Mr. Flint thought and thought.

To obtain the letter was impossible. Walters
might have left the city; even if he had not, there
was a method in his madness which Flint knew he
could not circumvent. He could not lose such a
chance of crushing Mortimer as presented itself; and
yet to attempt it while Walters had possession of
the letter was unwise.

Mr. Flint was in a brown study.

He walked up and down his sanctum solemnly,
neglecting to watch Tim and the book-keeper who
had succeeded Mortimer. An half hour passed, and
still he continued his walk and reverie, without any
visible intention of stopping. His face lights up; he
rubs his knuckles with ecstacy. He has got it!
got it at last. He will have Mortimer arrested;
he will have Mortimer's name suppressed, or give
the newspapers a fictitious one. This will shield
him from Walters, whose heart he will wring some
of these days. Ah! that will be revenge.

It may strike the ingenious reader as strange that

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Mortimer, having charge of Flint & Snarle's books,
never came across his father's name. This would
have been the case, and somewhat interfered with
our novel, if Mortimer, when he applied for a clerkship
with the firm, had not given Mr. Flint all the
particulars of his life. For reasons best known
to himself, Mr. Flint took every opportunity to
strengthen Mortimer in the belief of his father's
death, and every precaution to keep Walters from
meeting him. Once, indeed, they stood face to face
in the office; but, taking into consideration the number
of years they had been separated, and the circumstances
under which they met, it would have
been most strange if a recognition had taken place.
As to Mr. Snarle, being profoundly ignorant of
Mortimer's early history, he could throw no light
on Mortimer's mind; and everything worked to
Flint's satisfaction. Every circumstance seemed to
mould itself to his will.

There is an evil spirit, and a very powerful one,
that holds the wires which move some of us puppets.
The good are made to take the humblest seats
in the world's Synagogue, and the wily and the evil-hearted
are clothed in purple, fed on honey, and
throned in the highest places. There will be a surprising
revolution some of these times.

As Mr. Sparrowgrass would say, a revolution is
“a good thing to have in the country.”

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