"'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.