University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER.

IT was settled that Master Byles Gridley and Mr. Gifted
Hopkins should leave early in the morning of the day
appointed, to take the nearest train to the city. Mrs. Hopkins
labored hard to get them ready, so that they might
make a genteel appearance among the great people whom
they would meet in society. She brushed up Mr. Gridley's
best black suit, and bound the cuffs of his dress-coat,
which were getting a little worried. She held his honest-looking
hat to the fire, and smoothed it while it was warm,
until one would have thought it had just been ironed by the
hatter himself. She had his boots and shoes brought into
a more brilliant condition than they had ever known: if
Gifted helped, it was to his credit as much as if he had
shown his gratitude by polishing off a copy of verses in
praise of his benefactor.

When she had got Mr. Gridley's encumbrances in readiness
for the journey, she devoted herself to fitting out her
son Gifted. First, she had down from the garret a capacious
trunk, of solid wood, but covered with leather, and
adorned with brass-headed nails, by the cunning disposition
of which, also, the paternal initials stood out on the rounded
lid, in the most conspicuous manner. It was his father's
trunk, and the first thing that went into it, as the widow
lifted the cover, and the smothering shut-up smell struck
an old chord of associations, was a single tear-drop. How
well she remembered the time when she first unpacked it

for her young husband, and the white shirt bosoms showed
their snowy plaits! O dear, dear!

But women decant their affection, sweet and sound, out
of the old bottles into the new ones, — off from the lees of
the past generation, clear and bright, into the clean vessels
just made ready to receive it. Gifted Hopkins was his
mother's idol, and no wonder. She had not only the common
attachment of a parent for him, as her offspring, but
she felt that her race was to be rendered illustrious by his
genius, and thought proudly of the time when some future
biographer would mention her own humble name, to be
held in lasting remembrance as that of the mother of
Hopkins.

So she took great pains to equip this brilliant but inexperienced
young man with everything he could by any
possibility need during his absence. The great trunk filled
itself until it bulged with its contents like a boa-constrictor
who has swallowed his blanket. Best clothes and common
clothes, thick clothes and thin clothes, flannels and linens,
socks and collars, with handkerchiefs enough to keep the
pickpockets busy for a week, with a paper of gingerbread
and some lozenges for gastralgia, and “hot drops,” and
ruled paper to write letters on, and a little Bible, and a
phial with hiera picra, and another with paregoric, and
another with “camphire” for sprains and bruises, — Gifted
went forth equipped for every climate from the tropic to
the pole, and armed against every malady from Ague to
Zoster. He carried also the paternal watch, a solid silver
bull's-eye, and a large pocket-book, tied round with a long
tape, and, by way of precaution, pinned into his breast-pocket.
He talked about having a pistol, in case he were
attacked by any of the ruffians who are so numerous in

the city, but Mr. Gridley told him, No! he would certainly
shoot himself, and he should n't think of letting him take
a pistol.

They went forth, Mentor and Telemachus, at the appointed
time, to dare the perils of the railroad and the
snares of the city. Mrs. Hopkins was firm up to near the
last moment, when a little quiver in her voice set her eyes
off, and her face broke up all at once, so that she had to
hide it behind her handkerchief. Susan Posey showed the
truthfulness of her character in her words to Gifted at
parting. “Farewell,” she said, “and think of me sometimes
while absent. My heart is another's, but my friendship,
Gifted — my friendship —”

Both were deeply affected. He took her hand and
would have raised it to his lips; but she did not forget herself,
and gently withdrew it, exclaiming, “O Gifted!” this
time with a tone of tender reproach which made him feel
like a profligate. He tore himself away, and when at a
safe distance flung her a kiss, which she rewarded with a
tearful smile.

Master Byles Gridley must have had some good dividends
from some of his property of late. There is no
other way of accounting for the handsome style in which
he did things on their arrival in the city. He went to a
tailor's and ordered a new suit to be sent home as soon as
possible, for he knew his wardrobe was a little rusty. He
looked Gifted over from head to foot, and suggested such
improvements as would recommend him to the fastidious
eyes of the selecter sort of people, and put him in his own
tailor's hands, at the same time saying that all bills were
to be sent to him, B. Gridley, Esq., parlor No. 6, at the
Planet House. Thus it came to pass that in three days

from their arrival they were both in an eminently presentable
condition. In the mean time the prudent Mr. Gridley
had been keeping the young man busy, and amusing
himself by showing him such of the sights of the city and
its suburbs as he thought would combine instruction with
entertainment.

When they were both properly equipped and ready for
the best company, Mr. Gridley said to the young poet, who
had found it very hard to contain his impatience, that they
would now call together on the publisher to whom he
wished to introduce him, and they set out accordingly.

“My name is Gridley,” he said with modest gravity, as
he entered the publisher's private room. “I have a note
of introduction here from one of your authors, as I think
he called himself, — a very popular writer for whom you
publish.”

The publisher rose and came forward in the most cordial
and respectful manner. “Mr. Gridley? — Professor
Byles Gridley, — author of `Thoughts on the Universe'?”

The brave-hearted old man colored as if he had been
a young girl. His dead book rose before him like an apparition.
He groped in modest confusion for an answer.
“A child I buried long ago, my dear sir,” he said. “Its
title-page was its tombstone. I have brought this young
friend with me, — this is Mr. Gifted Hopkins of Oxbow
Village, — who wishes to converse with you about —”

“I have come, sir —” the young poet began, interrupting
him.

“Let me look at your manuscript, if you please, Mr.
Popkins,” said the publisher, interrupting in his turn.

“Hopkins, if you please, sir,” Gifted suggested mildly,

proceeding to extract the manuscript, which had got
wedged into his pocket, and seemed to be holding on with
all its might. He was wondering all the time over the
extraordinary clairvoyance of the publisher, who had
looked through so many thick folds, broadcloth, lining,
brown paper, and seen his poems lying hidden in his
breast-pocket. The idea that a young person coming on
such an errand should have to explain his intentions would
have seemed very odd to the publisher. He knew the
look which belongs to this class of enthusiasts just as a
horse-dealer knows the look of a green purchaser with the
equine fever raging in his veins. If a young author had
come to him with a scrap of manuscript hidden in his
boots, like Major André's papers, the publisher would
have taken one glance at him and said, “Out with it!”

While he was battling for the refractory scroll with his
pocket, which turned half wrong side out, and acted as
things always do when people are nervous and in a hurry,
the publisher directed his conversation again to Master
Byles Gridley.

“A remarkable book, that of yours, Mr. Gridley, —
would have a great run if it were well handled. Came
out twenty years too soon, — that was the trouble. One
of our leading scholars was speaking of it to me the other
day. `We must have a new edition,' he said; `people are
just ripe for that book.' Did you ever think of that?
Change the form of it a little, and give it a new title, and
it will be a popular book. Five thousand or more, very
likely.”

Mr. Gridley felt as if he had been rapidly struck on the
forehead with a dozen distinct blows from a hammer not
quite big enough to stun him. He sat still without saying

a word. He had forgotten for the moment all about poor
Gifted Hopkins, who had got out his manuscript at last,
and was calming the disturbed corners of it. Coming to
himself a little, he took a large and beautiful silk handkerchief,
one of his new purchases, from his pocket, and applied
it to his face, for the weather seemed to have grown
very warm all at once. Then he remembered the errand
on which he had come, and thought of this youth, who had
got to receive his first hard lesson in life, and whom he
had brought to this kind man that it should be gently administered.

“You surprise me,” he said, — “you surprise me.
Dead and buried. Dead and buried. I had sometimes
thought that — at some future period, after I was gone, it
might — but I hardly know what to say about your suggestions.
But here is my young friend, Mr. Hopkins,
who would like to talk with you, and I will leave him in
your hands. I am at the Planet House, if you should
care to call upon me. Good morning. Mr. Hopkins will
explain everything to you more at his ease, without me, I
am confident.”

Master Gridley could not quite make up his mind to
stay through the interview between the young poet and
the publisher. The flush of hope was bright in Gifted's
eye and cheek, and the good man knew that young hearts
are apt to be over-sanguine, and that one who enters a
shower-bath often feels very differently from the same person
when he has pulled the string.

“I have brought you my Poems in the original autographs,
sir,” said Mr. Gifted Hopkins.

He laid the manuscript on the table, caressing the
leaves still with one hand, as loath to let it go.

“What disposition had you thought of making of them?”
the publisher asked, in a pleasant tone. He was as kind
a man as lived, though he worked the chief engine in a
chamber of torture.

“I wish to read you a few specimens of the poems,” he
said, “with reference to their proposed publication in a
volume.”

“By all means,” said the kind publisher, who determined
to be very patient with the protégé of the hitherto
little-known, but remarkable writer, Professor Gridley.
At the same time he extended his foot in an accidental sort
of way, and pressed it on the right-hand knob of three
which were arranged in a line beneath the table. A little
bell in a distant apartment — the little bell marked C —
gave one slight note, loud enough to start a small boy up,
who looked at the clock, and knew that he was to go and
call the publisher in just twenty-five minutes. “A, five
minutes; B, ten minutes; C, twenty-five minutes”; —
that was the youngster's working formula. Mr. Hopkins
was treated to the full allowance of time, as being introduced
by Professor Gridley.

The young man laid open the manuscript so that the
title-page, written out very handsomely in his own hand,
should win the eye of the publisher.

BLOSSOMS OF THE SOUL.

A WREATH OF VERSE; Original.

By Gifted Hopkins.

Gray.

“Shall I read you some of the rhymed pieces first, or
some of the blank-verse poems, sir?” Gifted asked.

“Read what you think is best, — a specimen of your
first-class style of composition.”

“I will read you the very last poem I have written,” he
said, and he began: —

“Is all this from real life?” asked the publisher.

“It — no, sir — not exactly from real life — that is,
the leading female person is not wholly fictitious — and
the incident is one which might have happened. Shall I
read you the poems referred to in the one you have just
heard, sir?”

“Allow me, one moment. Two hours' reading, I think,
you said. I fear I shall hardly be able to spare quite time
to hear them all. Let me ask what you intend doing with
these productions, Mr.— — — rr — Popkins.”

“Hopkins, if you please, sir, not Popkins,” said Gifted,
plaintively. He expressed his willingness to dispose of
the copyright, to publish on shares, or perhaps to receive a
certain percentage on the profits.

“Suppose we take a glass of wine together, Mr. — —
Hopkins, before we talk business,” the publisher said, opening
a little cupboard and taking therefrom a decanter and
two glasses. He saw the young man was looking nervous.
He waited a few minutes, until the wine had comforted
his epigastrium, and diffused its gentle glow through his
unspoiled and consequently susceptible organization.

“Come with me,” he said.

Gifted followed him into a dingy apartment in the attic,
where one sat at a great table heaped and piled with
manuscripts. By him was a huge basket, half full of
manuscripts also. As they entered he dropped another
manuscript into the basket and looked up.

“Tell me,” said Gifted, “what are these papers, and

who is he that looks upon them and drops them into the
basket?”

“These are the manuscript poems that we receive, and
the one sitting at the table is commonly spoken of among
us as The Butcher. The poems he drops into the basket
are those rejected as of no account.”

“But does he not read the poems before he rejects them?”

“He tastes them. Do you eat a cheese before you buy
it?”

“And what becomes of all those that he drops into the
basket?”

If they are not claimed by their author in proper season,
they go to the devil.”

“What!” said Gifted, with his eyes stretched very round.

“To the paper factory, where they have a horrid machine
they call the devil, that tears everything to bits, —
as the critics treat our authors, sometimes, — sometimes,
Mr. Hopkins.”

Gifted devoted a moment to silent reflection.

After this instructive sight they returned together to the
publisher's private room. The wine had now warmed the
youthful poet's præcordia, so that he began to feel a renewed
confidence in his genius and his fortunes.

“I should like to know what that critic of yours would
say to my manuscript,” he said boldly.

“You can try it if you want to,” the publisher replied,
with an ominous dryness of manner which the sanguine
youth did not perceive, or, perceiving, did not heed.

“How can we manage to get an impartial judgment?”

“O, I 'll arrange that. He always goes to his luncheon
about this time. Raw meat and vitriol punch, — that 's
what the authors say. Wait till we hear him go, and

then I will lay your manuscript so that he will come
to it among the first after he gets back. You shall see
with your own eyes what treatment it gets. I hope it may
please him, but you shall see.”

They went back to the publisher's private room and
talked awhile. Then the little office-boy came up with
some vague message about a gentleman — business —
wants to see you, sir, etc., according to the established
programme; all in a vacant, mechanical sort of way, as
if he were a talking-machine just running down.

The publisher told the boy that he was engaged, and
the gentleman must wait. Very soon they heard The
Butcher's heavy footstep as he went out to get his raw
meat and vitriol punch.

“Now, then,” said the publisher, and led forth the confiding
literary lamb once more, to enter the fatal door of
the critical shambles.

“Hand me your manuscript, if you please, Mr. Hopkins.
I will lay it so that it shall be the third of these
that are coming to hand. Our friend here is a pretty good
judge of verse, and knows a merchantable article about as
quick as any man in his line of business. If he forms
a favorable opinion of your poems, we will talk over your
propositions.”

Gifted was conscious of a very slight tremor as he saw
his precious manuscript deposited on the table, under two
others, and over a pile of similar productions. Still he
could not help feeling that the critic would be struck by
his title. The quotation from Gray must touch his feelings.
The very first piece in the collection could not fail
to arrest him. He looked a little excited, but he was in
good spirits.

“We will be looking about here when our friend comes
back,” the publisher said. “He is a very methodical person,
and will sit down and go right to work just as if we
were not here. We can watch him, and if he should express
any particular interest in your poems, I will, if you
say so, carry you up to him and reveal the fact that you
are the author of the works that please him.”

They waited patiently until The Butcher returned, apparently
refreshed by his ferocious refection, and sat down
at his table. He looked comforted, and not in ill humor.
The publisher and the poet talked in low tones, as if on
business of their own, and watched him as he returned to
his labor.

The Butcher took the first manuscript that came to hand,
read a stanza here and there, turned over the leaves, turned
back and tried again, — shook his head — held it for an
instant over the basket, as if doubtful, — and let it softly
drop. He took up the second manuscript, opened it in
several places, seemed rather pleased with what he read,
and laid it aside for further examination.

He took up the third. “Blossoms of the Soul,” etc.
He glared at it in a dreadfully ogreish way. Both the
lookers-on held their breath. Gifted Hopkins felt as if
half a glass more of that warm sherry would not hurt him.
There was a sinking at the pit of his stomach, as if he was
in a swing, as high as he could go, close up to the swallows'
nests and spiders' webs. The Butcher opened the manuscript
at random, read ten seconds, and gave a short low
grunt. He opened again, read ten seconds, and gave
another grunt, this time a little longer and louder. He
opened once more, read five seconds, and, with something
that sounded like the snort of a dangerous animal, cast it

impatiently into the basket, and took up the manuscript
that came next in order.

Gifted Hopkins stood as if paralyzed for a moment.

“Safe, perfectly safe,” the publisher said to him in a
whisper. “I 'll get it for you presently. Come in and
take another glass of wine,” he said, leading him back to
his own office.

“No, I thank you,” he said faintly, “I can bear it.
But this is dreadful, sir. Is this the way that genius is
welcomed to the world of letters?”

The publisher explained to him, in the kindest manner,
that there was an enormous over-production of verse, and
that it took a great part of one man's time simply to overhaul
the cart-loads of it that were trying to get themselves
into print with the imprimatur of his famous house. “You
are young, Mr. Hopkins. I advise you not to try to force
your article of poetry on the market. The B—, our
friend, there, that is, knows a thing that will sell as soon as
he sees it. You are in independent circumstances, perhaps?
If so, you can print — at your own expense —
whatever you choose. May I take the liberty to ask your
— profession?”

Gifted explained that he was “clerk” in a “store,”
where they sold dry goods and West India goods, and goods
promiscuous.

“O, well, then,” the publisher said, “you will understand
me. Do you know a good article of brown sugar when
you see it?”

Gifted Hopkins rather thought he did. He knew at
sight whether it was a fair, salable article or not.

“Just so. Now our friend, there, knows verses that are
salable and unsalable as well as you do brown sugar. —

Keep quiet now, and I will go and get your manuscript
for you.

“There, Mr. Hopkins, take your poems, — they will
give you a reputation in your village, I don't doubt, which
is pleasant, but it will cost you a good deal of money to
print them in a volume. You are very young: you can
afford to wait. Your genius is not ripe yet, I am confident,
Mr. Hopkins. These verses are very well for a
beginning, but a man of promise like you, Mr. Hopkins,
must n't throw away his chance by premature publication!
I should like to make you a present of a few of
the books we publish. By and by, perhaps, we can work
you into our series of poets; but the best pears ripen
slowly, and so with genius. — Where shall I send the
volumes?”

Gifted answered, to parlor number No. 6, Planet Hotel,
where he soon presented himself to Master Gridley, who
could guess pretty well what was coming. But he let him
tell his story.

“Shall I try the other publishers?” said the disconsolate
youth.

“I would n't, my young friend, I would n't. You have
seen the best one of them all. He is right about it, quite
right: you are young, and had better wait. Look here,
Gifted, here is something to please you. We are going
to visit the gay world together. See what has been left
here this forenoon.”

He showed him two elegant notes of invitation requesting
the pleasure of Professor Byles Gridley's and of Mr.
Gifted Hopkins's company on Thursday evening, as the
guests of Mrs. Clymer Ketchum, of 24 Carat Place.