To him, therefore, the Sexagenarian, on his desire of first appearing in the character of a professed author, eagerly applied. He had completed a composition of no great importance indeed in extent, but which, having perused it with great complacency himself, he thought might produce reputation, at least, if not emolument. An interview was appointed to discuss the subject. But here Alps upon Alps seemed to arise, Pelion on Ossa mounted. The minor questions—What size? how many copies? what price? were got over without much difficulty. But the final determination of—Who is to run the risk, and advance the money? was a matter of solemn deliberation and of awful solicitude. The author had no money—the bookseller no inclination to incur any risk. Good-nature and familiar acquaintance, at length, got the better of every more sordid feeling, and the publisher consented to take the pecuniary part of the business upon himself, provided, that in case of loss, the author should agree to pay his moiety of it, by such instalments as his means might permit. Who shall attempt to describe the exultation and self-complacency which followed this definitive arrangement, concerning a brochure of less than fifty pages? Who but he, who inflamed by the ambition of authorship, practices, for the first time in his life, the mysterious characters of the printer, (the deles, the stets, the transfers, N. P. bring down, &c.) and for the first time contemplates the harbinger of that awful charta, ycleped a proof, in the hands of the devil? It may be questioned whether our great and venerable painter, West, first rushed from the forests of his native America, to enjoy the splendid glories of the Vatican; first beheld the Belvidere Apollo with greater enthusiasm, than our friend experienced, when anxiously expecting his approach, he ran to meet the devil at his door. Alas! he little knew the sea of troubles into which he was about rashly to plunge. His imagination did not present to him to “grieve his heart,” like the apparitions which disturbed Macbeth, in long succession; a crabbed publisher, a mean bookseller, a fraudulent bookseller, a sneaking bookseller, or what is as troublesome as any of the rest, a Coxcomb Bookseller, &c. &c. He never anticipated those solemn and afflicting moments of care and anguish, when the repose and indulgence necessary after severe intellectual fatigue, was to be harshly and abruptly interrupted by the appearance of a terrific spectre, begrimed with printer’s ink, and vociferating these words, so torturing to an author’s ear, “More Copy.” His fancy never brought before him those irritating and vexatious emotions, when having covenanted with a greedy and avaricious publisher to produce a certain number of sheets, and having, to the satisfaction of his judgment, filled up the outline he proposed, he is compelled to brood over some such pithy billet as the following:— Sir,