H. H. Hardwill, Publisher--Criminal Literature--Alliterative Titles--Goldwood--Poor Authors--A Heaven for them in the Perspective--Flint's Discovery, and the Horns of his Dilemma. 

 

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 watch-chain, 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 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 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 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. 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............