UC-NRLF 111 711 GIFT OF Berkeley Public Library* / : sARWOOD . A NOVEL BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE ODD TRUMP." flew E. J. HALE & SO^ ? PUBLISHEBS, MUKRAY STREET. 1875. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875. by E. J. HALE & SOX, in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. PR EFACE. Most Courteous Reader : The Author has only endeavoured to indicate in these pages how Youth may pass into Manhood through the portals of Grief; how Manhood may grow into full maturity in the practice of self-abnegation, without the lapse of years. For the rest, the story is simply told, and appeals to noth- ing but your gentler sympathies. And if it shall happen that the characters herein rudely sketched shall assume shape and identity, and grow with you, as they have with him, into living realities, and so awaken your kindly interest, then the Author will have accomplished his purpose and won his reward. 478743 CONTENTS. HARWOOD. PAGE. CHAPTER I. Preliminary 7 II. Book Making. .-. 11 {II. The First Ordeal 15 IV. The Second Ordeal 19 Y. The Third Ordeal 23 VI. The Third Ordeal Concluded 26 VII. Eureka! 31 HERBERT'S JOURNAL. CHAPTER VIII. First Impressions 36 IX. The Haunted Laurels 45 X. Captain Delaney 53 XL Misteono 55 XII. The Doctor 60 XIII. Ret 64 XIV Herbert V8 XV. Kindred 92 XVI. A Parting 96 A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 130 HERBERT'S JOURNAL RESUMED. CHAPTER XVII. Mr. Denham 129 XVIII. Allen Harwood's . Letter 134 XIX. Wheal Pentland 133 XX. Heartbroken 148 XXL Recognition 156 XXII. TheCrisis : 170 XXIII. Barnard Harwood 178 XXIV. A Year Later. . 190 HARWOOD. CHAPTER I. PRELIMINARY. YE who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope $ who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficien- cies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow ; attend to the story of " Harwood " and the publishers. The foregoing is a slight improvement upon the opening sentence of " Easselas." It has been quoted to many an unhappy student of rhetoric as the culmination of elegance in English composition. It is an undeniable fact that this history of the Abyssinian prince, admitted to the front rank among English classics, is almost un- known to the present enlightened age ; and it may be that it has been ostracized, like Aristides the Just, because humanity cannot stand prolonged arrogant assumption, even if well founded. The courteous reader will, therefore, please note that the above sentence is a quotation. The last thing I should dream of doing would be to kill Harwood by writing too elegantly at the outset. To descend to plain prose, then, I invoke the reader's patience while I relate the story of Harwood's birth. And I counsel the cultivation of this virtue the more earnestly, not only because of its inherent excellence, but also because patience is the very attri- bute that will be most exercised in getting through the following pages. More than a dozen years ago I was an exile from home and kindred. It does not matter how this came about, and it is enough to say that the exile was endured in the way of known duty. The Sahara to which I banished myself was the City of New York, and the solitude of that desert was the more horrible from the density ;i :": %, 8 HABWOOD. of its population. Some good writer, whose name Las escaped me, has made a similar remark in different language, and the fact that two writers, who have never met to exchange opinions, should assert the same general proposition, is a strong argument in favour of its verity. During the day I was constantly occupied, having charge of interests of considerable importance, and labouring under a con- sciousness of responsibility that was heavy enough to keep my thoughts employed. But " "When night came o'er the plain, And moonlight o'er the sea," \ I found myself longing for human companionship. I wandered about the corridors of the hotel, and looked, with all the curiosity I could muster, upon the various types of humanity that crowded them. In all seriousness, I was an object of pity, because in all the throngs I there encountered night after night, there was not a solitary being that awakened or experienced one thought of human sympathy within me or for me. The hotel life became intolerable within a week. To escape from it I wandered through scores of streets running from the Hudson to East Eiver in search of lodg- ings. At last I found a house in a quiet neighbourhood, where I rented a room. The excitement of the change and the study of my new surroundings availed for two or three nights, and then the loneliness came back. In all essentials my life was a vagrant one. I always got out of the house when dawn arrived, and wandered about the streets aimlessly until breakfast time. I not only wanted companionship but I also wanted good coffee. At the period to which I refer cof- fee in its virgin state was a very expensive article, but coffee that was made of chicory, baked beans, burnt sugar and sole leather was comparatively cheap. It is highly probable that tea of some sort of chop, unsophisticated, could be found in most of the eating places 5 but coffee, never ! I read with a daily shudder about forty signs in shop windows, which mendaciously announced that the purest Mocha or Java (always roasted and ground, so as to defy analysis) could be obtained within at an absurdly low figure. My early education had been faulty in that I had never been taught to imbibe tea. In my mind's eye this fragrant beverage was ever- more associated in some weird fashion with panada, senna and manna, quassia and chamomile flowers. I longed for coffee but I PRELIMINARY. 9 found it not. Why, in the name of wonder, did not some enter- prising Yankee open a coffee house on Broadway, and set a little nigger in the window behind plate glass, and let him turn a coffee roaster, fed with the genuine berry in sight of an admiring public ? He would have rivalled Astor in wealth by this time. I got meals in this vagabond fashion at numberless eating places, from Delmonico's down or up, as the reader chooses. I cannot say that I ate breakfast or dinner. I fed just as a horse does, but did not dine. You cannot dine in a civilized manner while your jaws only masticate in grim silence. They were also intended to be used in conversation ; but in my dining places I heard no con- versation nothing but the clatter of dishes and the gnashing of teeth. This was suggestive, and my loneliness increased. I began to pity myself. And here I paus^ to warn the gentle reader to avoid similar folly. It is the first step toward madness. It is the most indigo hued of Blue Devils ! One night I met the landlady as I entered my lodgings, and she very politely invited me into the parlour, saying, " I would find it more cheerful. 7 ' In sheer desperation I followed her, and she in- troduced me formally to four men and four women. They were all eight talking when I entered, but my glum countenance dampened them for a little time. I sat by a young lady, and after due delib. eration I startled her by announcing that it had rained that day. It is possible that she had learned the fact before, but she was too polite to say so. And then, the ice being broken, all eight began to talk again. They talked at me, across me, under my arm, over my head, and every way but to me. I cannot say what kept them back, but they were somehow repelled. I was negatively magnet- ized. They had but one topic, upon which they rung countless changes. It was well let us say the taking of Sebastopol. My heart was sick of Sebastopol, of Inkermann and of Balaklava. The Charge of the Six Hundred seemed to be a very foolish piece of business, and I had a horrible suspicion that the account was about three quarters lies. But the women two of them were deeply pious made a kind of hideous religion out of the taking of Sebastopol. The Eugged Eussian Bear was the Yicar Apostolic of the enemy of mankind. Those of the Six Hundred who rode, as Tennyson says, into the mouth of some place, came out again and were incontinently canonized. I don't believe they came out at all. While the talk went on I sat apart and mused. I thought of thousands of gentle women, and tens of thousands of little chil- 10 HARWOOD. % dren, who were widowed and orphaned by the glorious strife over which those four women gloated. There was nothing in their talk to indicate any personal interest in the savage contest, but it is certain that they feasted most ravenously where the carnage was greatest. One of the men was Reverend, and I said something to him about this strange appetite that possessed the women. His answer was a quotation from Holy Writ : " For wheresoever the carcase is there will the eagles be gathered together." He meant me to understand that the women were she eagles, and he thought the eagles were good birds. I did not tell him that those men- tioned in his quotation fed on carrion. It was less lonely in my room, and I slipped out unnoticed, leaving them regaling. It was too early for bed, so I lighted a cigar. Something that had been said in the parlour brought to my mind a family I had known in another city. There were some remarkable incidents in their history, and as the smoke gathered around my head I began to fill up intervals in their story, weaving a sort of plot. I found comfort here, and getting my portfolio I began to write. It was a total change in my habits of thought : It was the inception of a Purpose : I would write a Book ! And so, night after night, for months, the work proceeded. My loneliness was gone. The people who grew up into shape and in- dividuality were living realities to me. Oh, reader ! if they shall also grow into realities with thee ! Thus was "Harwood" born. During the day the calls upon my faculties were almost incessant, but I would catch myself or my thoughts at odd intervals slipping away from the unreal events of my daily life to the dear friends who were waiting for me in my portfolio. I always quitted them with regret and returned to them with delight. In them I found companionship and sympathy. I did not force them to keep within any set grooves. I had settled their destinies, it is true ; yet I allowed them to reach their various goals in their own way. Ordinarily, they were tractable enough, but sometimes they took the bit in their teeth and bolted. The reader will please bear this in mind, and whenever these characters misbehave in any way, remember that the author was blameless. One night or rather one morning, for I remember hearing the clock strike two I wrote " Finis." It was a great shock to me. For a week I was dispirited and nervous, and then I began a sequel: "The Lacy Diamonds." Have patience, gentle reader; it is progressing. BOOK MAKING. 11 CHAPTER II. BOOK MAKING. "TTTHEN " Harwood " was finished I was still a comparative V V stranger in New York. I had business acquaintances by the score, but I had no intimate friends. The good natured people whom I encountered in my daily occupation treated me well and kindly, but I knew none of them well enough to venture even a hint of authorship to them. Busy men, all of them, hunting dol- lars while the sun shone, and begrudging the minutes wasted in unremunerative conversation. There were certain topics of ab- sorbing interest to me which would also interest them. But they all looked at these only on one side, and I soon discovered the profitless nature of any discussions. It chanced one day that business brought me into contact with a publishing house that had not been long established in the me- tropolis. The accidental acquaintance thus begun ripened rap- idly into friendship. The members of this firm knew something about Sebastopol and the Charge of the Six Hundred, and held my views about that notable conflict. It was very refreshing to me to spend occasional half hours in this pleasant company ; and meeting always a cordial welcome, I gradually fell into the regular habit of smoking my after-lunch cigar in their establish- ment, discussing new books with reference both to their commer- cial value and their intrinsic merits. Yery frequently I would find them engaged in reading and correcting proofs of their own publications, of which they already had a considerable list. I had forgotten "Harwood," which was packed away among sundry fragmentary manuscripts at home after taking a journey which will be recounted in the succeeding chapter. I retained a som- nolent sort of interest in the bantling, feeling a father's affection for it, mingled with a compassionate appreciation of its demerits. With Touchstone I thought, " An ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own." So, while I gathered in many new facts, and became some- what learned in the art of book making, the thought of getting " Harwood " dressed in type never occurred to me. As a rule, my friends did not publish fictitious literature. Beams of this description of property were offered to them on the most flattering terms. Nearly all the authors who sent their 12 HAEWOOD. precious manuscripts generously proposed that the firm should print the work at their own expense, and allow the usual royalty to the writer. I am convinced that none of the authors dreamed of anything less than ten editions, if the work could only be got into print and within reach of a hydra-headed public, waiting with bated- breath for copie%, hot from the press. As our inti- macy progressed I learned the stereotyped form of rejection. " The present state of trade ;" " would be pleased to print at the expense of the author, involving an outlay of so many dollars ;" and other polite intimations that must have been eminently dis- gusting to the manuscript makers. There seemed to be an inex- orable law that connected authorship with irapecuniosity. On one occasion I happened to be present when my friends were packing up one of these forlorn manuscripts to return " by express " to the rightful owner. I had heard of its arrival some days previously. u Have you really read that great mass of papers ?" I inquired. " Certainly ," answered the junior. " How much is there IP " Seven hundred and eight pages," he replied. " What is it about F "I don't know. The title is " and he turned the parcel over and consulted the first page " l The Eemorse of the Yictim.' There are some very good things in ( it. Some of the words are in five syllables.' 7 " Did you understa-nd them all f ' said I. " Oh, no," he answered coolly. " I don't think the author understood them either, but that makes no difference. Did you ever read ' Talmanasia f " " No." "Nor'Shanghif" " No, certainly not," I replied, with a shudder. " My dear sir," said he, with a grisly compassion, " you are not abreast of the age! Haven't read 'Shanghi!' Don't you ever read anything f " " Yes," I faltered, " I read the Herald sometimes. Have you read l Shanghi V " "Not exactly read it, but I have sold five hundred copies. It is a great success. The publisher paid ten thousand dollars for the manuscript and copyright. Made money on his investment too." This interview made a profound impression upon me. i knew a BOOK MAKING. 13 man who was the happy owner of " Shanghi," and as my con- science forbade an investment in that direction, I borrowed the book, from which I had read sundry extracts when it appeared, That night I sat down resolutely and began the book. I read two chapters at the beginning, two in the middle, and two at the end of the story. I did not have a stroke of apoplexy, nor cerebro- spinal meningitis ; but I shall die in the belief that an additional chapter would have given me both these ailments with a touch of delirium tremens thrown in. The next day I took " Harwood " with me at lunch time and left it with my Mend. " I have known you to read about forty bulkier manuscripts,' 7 1 said, " and I have brought this for you to read. I just want your candid judgment, comparing this with the forty you have read and rejected. Of course I have no expectation of printing it. Bead it at your leisure.' 7 " What is it f said he. " It is a novel which I wrote some years ago. It kept me from going mad while I was making it. If you find, in attempting to read it, any symptoms of delirium tremens creeping over you, I hope you will stop in time. I have not read one line in it since I finished it, and I do not expect ever to read a line of it in the future." " All right," he answered cheerfully, " I will read it with, pleasure." It will only be when the gentle reader closes this book (with a sigh of relief) that he can appreciate my amazement at my next interview with my book making friend. " i Harwood 7 is a first class story," said he, decidedly, " and we will be glad to publish it if you desire us to do so." " Are you serious F said I. " Entirely serious," he answered. " We will print it whenever you say the word, but I advise you first to try some one else I mean some other publishers." " I do not understand you," I replied. " I have little or no acquaintance with other publishers, and if I had I would select your house out of the whole world of publishers. What do you mean by such advice P " Simply this : we are not much known to the trade as pub- lishers, especially of fiction, and our customers are mainly among houses that do not deal in novels. Now, it can do no harm to take < Harwood ' to these other firms which have a larger outlet 14 HAEWOOD. for just this sort of literature, and if they will print it, giving you a copyright, let them have it on any reasonable terms they may propose. Haven't you written another story V " Yes," I answered with a charming blush, "I have written a sequel to c Harwood ? that is, I am writing it now." "Well, suppose you get one of these firms who have a large list of novel-buying customers to issue < Harwood,' and suppose they place it in the hands of five or ten thousand readers, don't you see that another novel by the author of i Harwood 7 would have a large sale ?" The senior partner stood by, apparently endorsing this proposi- tion. These gentlemen have had large experience in book mak- ing, I thought, and they must be right. " Have you read < Harwood f " I asked. " Not all of it," he replied, composedly. " I have looked over it. You know, if we print it I shall have the opportunity to read the proofs. Your penmanship is peculiar, very peculiar. I have read manuscript for forty years, and thought I was equal to any- thing, but yours is very peculiar." It did not seem politic to pursue this branch of the subject. I tucked " Harwood " under my arm and prepared to depart. " Do not misunderstand us," said the junior, following me to the door. " We would be glad to publish your book at once, but, for your own sake, and for the sake of the larger circulation, you had better let Pippinville or Charlesburg have it. They have an outlet for ten thousand copies, and that is better than ten thous- and separate advertisements. Go to Pippinville! I read the manuscript aloud, and all my auditors pronounced it a first rate story. If you are doubtful, you might submit it to some other critic, in whom you have confidence; but, remember, we are ready to print whenever you say the word. I don't like the title much; it indicates nothing." a l'll call it < The Eemorse of the Victim,' " I said promptly. " I don't think that would be an improvement. What do you call your other story $ " ' The Lacy Diamonds.'" " That is better. Good morning." TEE FIRST OEDEAL. 15 CHAPTER III. THE FIRST ORDEAL. T HAVE read somewhere of a young mother who waited with un- -i- speakable anxiety for the verdict of society upon her baby. To her it was the loveliest iufant that ever wore long clothes. It did not talk or walk, but that mother was entirely satisfied that it could do both if it pleased. She had always rather liked babies, and made full allowance for any little departures from the path of rectitude of which they were guilty ; but the peculiarity in her baby's case was that it made no such departures. When it first said " Goo !" which, by-the-bye, is a very common remark for in- fants to make that mother translated the monosyllable into a long speech in English without the aid of lexicographers. If you had the temerity to suggest a possible error in her rendering of " Goo !" this young mother, if polite, would not pluralize the original and apply it to you in words, but she would do so in her inmost soul. Some such experience was mine a few months ago when I dug " Harwood " out of a mass of fragmentary manuscripts. You see it was my first born. The horrible dread of a public verdict the possible bete noir of all embryo authors haunted me and kept the precious infant hidden a dozen years. I cannot tell what brought him to light at last, but am free to confess that I entertained a profound affection for him. I did not read the manuscript ! There were one hundred and fifty-six closely written pages! It was written on foreign post paper, very thin and flimsy, and the ink had faded a little. I had selected this paper because I intended to mail the manuscript to Parlours' London Journal, which in fact I did. I do not call that the first ordeal, however, because nobody with a grain of sense could expect a journal that published such trash as Parlours' contained would appreciate " Harwood." In due time I got my manuscript back with a polite note (I don't believe the fellow read a page of it), and a gentle rebuke for not sending " postage stamps for return MS.," according to advertise- ment. It is only just to qualify the above remark about trash, which should be limited to the serial stories in Parlours'. All the rest is of good quality. Between the date of " Har wood's" birth or I should say his death^ 16 HARWOOD. at the murderous hands of Parlours' and the date of his resurrec- tion, I had written sundry small squibs, waifs upon the broad sea of light literature, and these had met with a fair degree of success. They were printed in a monthly still living, and which I hope may live a thousand years. The editor (may he live a thousand years, too!) has been my true and constant friend, and one strong mani- festation of his friendship was in his treatment of my fugitives. He would change objectionable words, and mend my lapses in taste or diction never altering but to improve, never touching but to adorn. Sometimes he would wholly reject some carelessly written story, healing the bruise to my vanity by saying " it was not worthy of my reputation !" and, he was always right in the re- jection, if his salve was a flattering unction. I knew his taste was perfect, his judgment sound, and his scholarship beyond question. Had I been handled by a critic less acute or less friendly I should have been snubbed, and should have laid my pen aside. But he encouraged while he instructed me, and of all the helpers I have met in my literary working he has been most helpful. What can I render him in requital ? I dedicate " Harwood " to him with the hand of my heart. Having said this much in his praise, the melancholy duty re- mains to say a word per contra. He is an editor! To fill this office worthily it is necessary that a man should divest himself of ordinary human- attributes. Of course, I refer to editors of maga- zines, whose chief writing is in the reviews or critical notices of new books. Your regular review writer is not necessarily trucu- lent, as in most cases he does not read the books whose titles he places at the head of his articles, using them merely as mottoes, upon which he builds his essay. He need not read more than a sentence or two (in order to quote) and he scarifies or pats his author on the back without the slightest reference to the special deliverance under review, but with due regard to his previous re- cord, his political or theological proclivities, or any other matter which the reviewer wishes to praise or blame. I know this is the system, for I, also, have written quarterly articles. But this does not apply to your magazine editor ! The busy bee sucks his sustenance from the opening flower, and it is honey. The gentle lamb that little Laura had, and the cross- grained old rani he became in later mouths, subsisted on grass. The giraffe that stalks over the arid African desert browses on the tree tops. The ostrich, his countryman, is said to feed on ten- THE FIRST OEDEAL. If penny nails. The fierce Kodent, whose story is so frequently re- peated in "The House that Jack built," ate corn or malt, and was eaten in turn by Grimalkin. The larger feline beast that prowls in tropic jungles, with shaggy mane and hideous roar, eats ante- lopes and other small deer and man eats meat and bread until he becomes an editorial critic. Then he changes his diet and sub- sists upon the gore of authors ! He tomahawks them, he scalps them (unless they have failed to use the Balm of Columbia and have ceased to be hirsute), and he sucks their blood. He sits upon their carcases like a vampire and fans them with his wings while he drains their arteries ! As my kind friend belonged to this fraternity it would hardly be supposed that I would trust " Harwood " in his clutches. But I did. It was like sending a dear little infant to play in the lava beds with Captain Jack in the neighbourhood. But I did it, thus arguing: If he grinds his bones into powder and gloats over my misery in bereavement, it will be in manuscript, and, therefore, more toler- able. It is far better to be crushed in this form than in print. And, besides, he has to crunch the bones, like Bulwer's Griffin, in solitude, and cannot appeal to an admiring public until the book is published. Then, he has praised my minor efforts once and again, and perhaps he may say, " it is no worse than the current trash of the day !" Or he may have recently gorged himself with the gore of some unlucky wretch who preceded me, and, with sated appetite, would glance complacently over part of the hun- dred and fifty-six pages. Or he may dismiss me with a graceful wave of his editorial hand, and with compassionate kindness say, " Burn it, my friend, burn it !" These are the various things I expected. I knew he would tell the truth ; I knew he would pounce upon blemishes and root them out ; and one morning I drank a cup of strong coffee and sent him my manuscript ! After the thing was done beyond recall I began to repent. I did not much care for the demolition of my book, but I suddenly remembered that my characters would also perish ! " Oh, my gentle Eet !" I thought, " how could I be so cruel as to consign thee to such tender mercies ! If I had sent thee to visit Scarfaced Charley it is true thy lovely tresses might dangle at the belt of the savage, but now ! thou art exposed to a more hideous fate ! In painting thee I have dealt so tenderly with thee from the very first that I have grown to love thee, my darling, and now, poof ! 2 18 HARWOOD. with one stroke of his pen this vampire will consign thee to blank annihilation." I was heartily miserable. Parlours' murder did not hurt me one whit, but this time, if killed, " Harwood " would be beyond the curative powers of burnt brandy. And so passed two wretched days. On the third my manu- script came back, neatly wrapped up and sealed. You know when you bury a fellow you put him in a mahogany box and var- nish it. My friend is neat and orderly in his habits, and I fancied I could see him smacking his lips as he wrapped up that corpse, and gleefully wrote my address in those plain round characters of his. I knew, when I should raise the lid I mean, unwrap the parcel I should find his " comments " among the bones, written in the same plain hand. Brush away the tears from your eyes, dear sympathizing reader, and go on with me to the end. I untied the parcel, found the comments neatly folded reposing upon the first page of my manu- script, and, summoning all my manhood, I opened and read what follows : " MY DEAR : You need not be afraid to send that story to any publisher ; and as for the critics, you may snap your fingers at them. It is good out and out. I had intended taking it by instalments of 30 or 40 pp., but I got so interested in the thing that I went clear through in two sittings. It is natural, affecting, powerful. "But " The reader need not heed the " buts," though I did. A whole army of " buts " could not vanquish that elegant sentence which I have honestly quoted, every word. You cannot add to it. Oh, reader, be encouraged ! If a blood-thirsty editor could say so much, what must thou not say, who art so kind and gentle ? Oh, critic ! let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests ; u Harwood " bears a charmed life ! Here endeth ordeal the first. THE SECOND. ORDEAL. 19 CHAPTER IV. THE SECOND ORDEAL. nnHOSE "buts" of my friendly critic gave me occupation for -L several nights. I cannot point out all the amendments he suggested now. The reader will please give him credit for any passages that appear particularly brilliant. The needed emenda- tion was a labour of love, and I was specially elated at the thought that I had '" bagged n one of the gunners, whose business was to slaughter romances. As for the rest Thomas, Richard and Henry I have been snapping my fingers at them, in my mind's eye, ever since I emerged from the primal ordeal. The athlete who comes unscarred from his first arena enters the second with the calm con- fidence that presages victory. It was necessary to make a selection. There are numerous pub- lishers in this happy country, who give to its myriad readers all sorts of printed pabulum. I could not divide "Harwood" to oblige them, and I did not desire to stir up a contention among them by letting them all know the manuscript was open to propo- sitions from type setters. Clearly, I was bound to move cautiously and see what " terms " would be proposed. One at a time. The name that first occurred to me was FIDLER & BROTHERS. There were four reasons for giving this firm the precedence : first, they publish an unlimited quantity of novels. It is probable that they have some mode of classification unknown to the general pub- lic, but I arranged them in three classes in my own mind as those I had read, those I had tried to read, and those from whose titles I had recoiled with unspeakable horror. Among the first class was a recent novel called " Biddy's Mistress.". I read this while it was be- ing printed serially in Parlours' Journal, and survived, because I took it in small doses as one takes castor oil in small, gelatinous capsules. The only impression left by the story is a feeling of thankfulness that it is over, and will not have to be taken again. I may as well say here, that "Biddy's Mistress " is by the author of about a dozen similar stories that have appeared serially in Parlours' Journal, and I am satisfied that they were all written by the editor of that periodical. Nothing but the fond blindness of paternity could ex- 20 HARWOOD. cuse any editor for printing such astounding trash. And this prolific gentleman is the writer of the polite note that accompanied my returned manuscript, and that contained the complaint about postage stamps ! Yet, Fidler & Brothers have reproduced these inane narratives, which, being capsuled, I place in the first class as those I have read. " Biddy's Mistress " was the last, and my re- sentment is still aglow against it. Now, I argued, if Fidler & Brothers can print and find circula- tion for "Biddy's Mistress," what may they not do with "Har- wood?" The other three reasons may be taken together : Messrs. Fidler & Brothers also print three periodicals of their own, and I think they give serials in all of them ; one of these has a circulation that is "unprecedented." If, therefore, they should appreciate my work, and present it first serially in the unprecedentedly cir- culating medium ; and secondly, using the same type, print it in book form, I should be sure of reaching the greatest possible num- ber of readers. It was not precisely patriotism that inspired me to make the offer to them ; it was philanthropy. I wished to con- fer the greatest good upon the greatest number. That I failed was not my fault ; but it was the lasting misfortune of all Fidler & Brothers' clients. To recount the story of my failure with this enterprising firm, let us begin at the beginning: I took my precious manuscript and visited their colossal establishment one day about noon. I climbed numberless steps in a spiral iron staircase, in search of the authority who controlled the unprecedented periodical. I found him occupied with a mass of manuscripts, and looking as cool and collected as a blue bottle fly caught in a glue pot ; or, if you please, in a mass of amber. " Sir," said I, with a polite bow, " I have brought you a manu- script." " For the Unprecedented, sir P " Yes, sir 5 if it should be found suitable;" and I handed the precious packet. He received it very graciously and placed it in a pigeon hole. " I will have to trouble you to call again, sir, in about a week," he said. " I have several manuscripts here that have precedence." "Before I go, sir," said I, " allow me to show you a note I have just received from another editor, who is also a very severe critic," and I produced iny friend's epistle. "You need only read the first sentence to see his estimate of the work." THE SECOND ORDEAL. 21 He took that note, which ought to be printed in golden letters and placed in a gorgeous frame, glanced incuriously at it, and handed it back without comment. I thought I had "done" him, whereas I had only " done" Harwood. Let me explain. The forty unfortunate gentlemen who were smothered in boiling oil by Ali Baba's servant had, no doubt, an affection for each other. Indeed, there -is a proverb extant, applied to persons of their occupation, whi one objection, at a time, and begin with yours, doctor. Geology is a fine science, and I cherish a great respect for it, but it is no ? quite so auld as revelation. Then, its professors dinna agree verra weel aniaug themselves. I know of a dispute, in which a few millions of years are involved, between twa of your maist famous professors in Scotland." " But they agree in rejecting the six days story, anyhow." " Ay, ay," answered Mr. Gowrie, "they agree in many points; but I am no ? certain about the sax days inyseP, and, in fact, I dinna care a bawbee whether it was sax days or sax million ages. D'ye happen to have a copy of the Scriptures at hand, Miss Har- wood P Miss Harwood rose, stepped through the window into the room, and reappeared in a moment with a Bible in her hand, which she offered to Mr. Gowrie. " If I may be so bauld," he said, " I'll trouble you to read the passages I want ; my eyes are no sae young as they were forty years ago." u With pleasure, sir," replied she. " I can see perfectly by this light." " Weel," began the theologue, dogmatically, " there were twa things which God gave to man in Eden that he brought out wP him. He left somewhat in a hurry and brought very little else. The first was the marriage relation, the second was the Sabbath." " That is a striking remark," said Dr. Markhain, " and I am pleased to admit it 5 but the six days " " Bide a wee, we'll hae the sax days soon enough. Please to read a varse or twa of the second chapter of Genesis, Miss Ret." She read three verses, and Mr. Gowrie stopped her. " There is the whole story ab initio. I tak> it for granted that you young gentlemen will admit that these varses contain the whole original account of the institution of the Sabbath." " Yes," answered Charley and the doctor in a breath. " Weel," said Mr. Gowrie, very slowly and composedly, " there is na word.aboot the sax days there." Miss Jlarwood read the verses again. There was a pause. Everybody appeared reluctant to " tackle " the Scotsman. He looked very grisly, as he sat there in the dim light, audibly chuckling. a l cannot see the force of the omission, Mr. Gowrie," said Miss Eet, at last. u Will you please explain f SET. 71 " Certainly, so far as I can. I think the Sabbath was hal- lowed because God rested, not because He worked. He could have made the world in sax minutes, if He pleased, or He may have wrought through countless ages. It mats no differ in either case, as it is the Best we celebrate on the Sabbath." " Mr. Gowrie/ 7 said the doctor, elaborately, " I am sure you err in calling the day