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the comparative lateness of the hour. A bare-headed, tidily-dressed, and very intelligent-looking man, with a broom clothes-brush in his hand, appearing, scrutinized him rather sharply at first; but as Pierre advanced further into the light, and his countenance became visible, the man, assuming a respectful but still slightly perplexed air, invited the whole party into a closely adjoining parlor, whose disordered chairs and general dustiness, evinced that after a day’s activity it now awaited the morning offices of the housemaids.

“Baggage, sir?”

“I have left my baggage at another place,” said Pierre, “I shall send for it to-morrow.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the very intelligent-looking man, rather dubiously, “shall I discharge the hack, then?”

“Stay,” said Pierre, bethinking him, that it would be well not to let the man know from whence they had last come, “I will discharge it myself, thank you.”

So returning to the sidewalk, without debate, he paid the hackman an exorbitant fare, who, anxious to secure such illegal gains beyond all hope of recovery, quickly mounted his box and drove off at a gallop.

“Will you step into the office, sir, now?” said the man, slightly flourishing with his brush – “this way, sir, if you please.”

Pierre followed him, into an almost deserted, dimly lit room with a stand in it. Going behind the stand, the man turned round to him a large ledger-like book, thickly inscribed with names, like any directory, and offered him a pen ready dipped in ink.

Understanding the general hint, though secretly irritated at something in the manner of the man, Pierre drew the book to him, and wrote in a firm hand, at the bottom of the last-named column, –

“Mr. and Mrs. Pierre Glendinning, and Miss Ulver.”

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The man glanced at the writing inquiringly, and then said – “The other column, sir – where from.”

“True,” said Pierre, and wrote “Saddle Meadows.”

The very intelligent-looking man re-examined the page, and then slowly stroking his shaven chin, with a fork, made of his thumb for one tine, and his united four fingers for the other, said softly and whisperingly – “Anywheres in this country, sir?”

“Yes, in the country,” said Pierre, evasively, and bridling his ire. “But now show me to two chambers, will you; the one for myself and wife, I desire to have opening into another, a third one, never mind how small; but I must have a dressing-room.”

“Dressing-room,” repeated the man, in an ironically deliberative voice – “Dressing-room; – Hem! – You will have your luggage taken into the dressing-room, then, I suppose. – Oh, I forgot – your luggage aint come yet – ah, yes, yes, yes – luggage is coming tomorrow – Oh, yes, yes, – certainly – to-morrow – of course. By the way, sir; I dislike to seem at all uncivil, and I am sure you will not deem me so; but – “

“Well,” said Pierre, mustering all his self-command for the coming impertinence.

“When stranger gentlemen come to this house without luggage, we think ourselves bound to ask them to pay their bills in advance, sir; that is all, sir.”

“I shall stay here to-night and the whole of to-morrow, at any rate,” rejoined Pierre, thankful that this was all; “how much will it be?” and he drew out his purse.

The man’s eyes fastened with eagerness on the purse; he looked from it to the face of him who held it; then seemed half hesitating an instant; then brightening up, said, with sudden suavity – “Never mind, sir, never mind, sir; though rogues sometimes be gentlemanly; gentlemen that are gentlemen never go abroad without their di-

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BOOK XVII

YOUNG AMERICA IN

LITERATURE

CHAPTER I

AMONG the various conflicting modes of writing history, there would seem to be two grand practical distinctions, under which all the rest must subordinately range. By the one mode, all contemporaneous circumstances, facts, and events must be set down contemporaneously; by the other, they are only to be set down as the general stream of the narrative shall dictate; for matters which are kindred in time, may be very irrelative in themselves. I elect neither of these; I am careless of either; both are well enough in their way; I write precisely as I please.

In the earlier chapters of this volume, it has somewhere been passingly intimated, that Pierre was not only a reader of the poets and other fine writers, but likewise – and what is a very different thing from the other – a thorough allegorical understander of them, a profound emotional sympathizer with them; in other words, Pierre himself possessed the poetic nature; in himself absolutely, though but latently and floatingly, possessed every whit of the imaginative wealth which he so admired, when by vast painstakings, and all manner of unrecompensed agonies, systematized on the printed page. Not that as yet his young and immature soul had been accosted by the Wonderful Mutes, and through the vast halls of Silent Truth, had been ushered into the full, secret, eternally invi-

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olable Sanhedrim,where the Poetic MagI discuss, in glorious gibberish, the Alpha and Omega of the Universe. But among the beautiful imaginings of the second and third degree of poets, he freely and comprehendingly ranged.

But it still remains to be said, that Pierre himself had written many a fugitive thing, which had brought him, not only vast credit and compliments from his more immediate acquaintances, but the less partial applauses of the always intelligent, and extremely discriminating public. In short, Pierre had frequently done that, which many other boys have done – published. Not in the imposing form of a book, but in the more modest and becoming way of occasional contributions to magazines and other polite periodicals. His magnificent and victorious debut had been made in that delightful lovesonnet, entitled “The Tropical Summer.” Not only the public had applauded his gemmed little sketches of thought and fancy, whether in poetry or prose; but the high and mighty Campbell clan of editors of all sorts had bestowed upon him those generous commendations, which, with one instantaneous glance, they had immediately perceived was his due. They spoke in high terms of his surprising command of language; they begged to express their wonder at his euphonious construction of sentences; they regarded with reverence the pervading symmetry of his general style. But transcending even this profound insight into the deep merits of Pierre, they looked infinitely beyond, and confessed their complete inability to restrain their unqualified admiration for the highly judicious smoothness and genteelness of the sentiments and fancies expressed. “This writer,” said one, – in an ungovernable burst of admiring fury – “is characterized throughout by Perfect Taste.” Another, after endorsingly quoting that sapient, suppressed maxim of Dr. Goldsmith’s, which asserts that whatever is new is false, went on to apply it to the excellent productions before him; concluding with this: “He has

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translated the unruffled gentleman from the drawing-room into the general levee of letters; he never permits himself to astonish; is never betrayed into any thing coarse or new; as assured that whatever astonishes is vulgar, and whatever is new must be crude. Yes, it is the glory of this admirable young author, that vulgarity and vigor – two inseparable adjuncts – are equally removed from him.”

A third, perorated a long and beautifully written review, by the bold and startling announcement – “This writer is unquestionably a highly respectable youth.”

Nor had the editors of various moral and religious periodicals failed to render the tribute of their severer appreciation, and more enviable, because more chary applause. A renowned clerical and philological conductor of a weekly publication of this kind, whose surprising proficiency in the Greek, Hebrew, and Chaldaic, to which he had devoted by far the greater part of his life, peculiarly fitted him to pronounce unerring judgment upon works of taste in the English, had unhesitatingly delivered himself thus: – “He is blameless in morals, and harmless throughout.” Another, had unhesitatingly recommended his effusions to the family-circle. A third, had no reserve in saying, that the predominant end and aim of this author was evangelical piety.

A mind less naturally strong than Pierre’s might well have been hurried into vast self-complacency, by such eulogy as this, especially as there could be no possible doubt, that the primitive verdict pronounced by the editors was irreversible, except in the highly improbable event of the near approach of the Millennium, which might establish a different dynasty of taste, and possibly eject the editors. It is true, that in view of the general practical vagueness of these panegyrics, and the circumstance that, in essence, they were all somehow of the prudently indecisive sort; and, considering that they were panegyrics, and nothing but panegyrics, without any thing

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analytical about them; an elderly friend of a literary turn, had made bold to say to our hero – “Pierre, this is very high praise, I grant, and you are a surprisingly young author to receive it; but I do not see any criticisms as yet.”

“Criticisms?” cried Pierre, in amazement; “why, sir, they are all criticisms! I am the idol of the critics!”

“Ah!” sighed the elderly friend, as if suddenly reminded that that was true after all – “Ah!” and went on with his inoffensive, non-committal cigar.

Nevertheless, thanks to the editors, such at last became the popular literary enthusiasm in behalf of Pierre, that two young men, recently abandoning the ignoble pursuit of tailoring for the more honorable trade of the publisher (probably with an economical view of working up in books, the linen and cotton shreds of the cutter’s counter, after having been subjected to the action of the paper-mill), had on the daintiest scolloped-edged paper, and in the neatest possible, and fine-needle-work hand, addressed him a letter, couched in the following terms; the general style of which letter will sufficiently evince that, though – thanks to the manufacturer – their linen and cotton shreds may have been very completely transmuted into paper, yet the cutters themselves were not yet entirely out of the metamorphosing mill.

“Hon. Pierre Glendinning, “Revered Sir,

“The fine cut, the judicious fit of your productions fill us with amazement. The fabric is excellent – the finest broadcloth of genius. We have just started in business. Your pantaloons – productions, we mean – have never yet been collected. They should be published in the Library form. The tailors – we mean the librarians, demand it. Your fame is now in its finest nap. Now – before the gloss is off – now is the time for the library form.We have recently

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received an invoice of Chamois – Russia leather. The library form should be a durable form. We respectfully offer to dress your amazing productions in the library form. If you please, we will transmit you a sample of the cloth – we mean a sample-page, with a pattern of the leather. We are ready to give you one tenth of the profits (less discount) for the privilege of arraying your wonderful productions in the library form: – you cashing the seamstresses’ – printer’s and binder’s bills on the day of publication. An answer at your earliest convenience will greatly oblige, –

“Sir, your most obsequious servants, “WONDER & WEN.”

“P. S. – We respectfully submit the enclosed block – sheet, as some earnest of our intentions to do every thing in your behalf possible to any firm in the trade.

“N. B. – If the list does not comprise all your illustrious wardrobe – works, we mean –, we shall exceedingly regret it. We have hunted through all the drawers – magazines.

“Sample of a coat – title for the works of Glendinning:

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF GLENDINNING, UTHOR OF

That world-famed production, “The Tropical Summer: a Sonnet.” “The Weather: a Thought.” “Life: an Impromptu.” “The late Rev-

erend Mark Graceman: an Obituary.” “Honor: a Stanza.” “Beauty: an Acrostic.” “Edgar: an Anagram.” “The Pippin: a Paragraph.” &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c.”

From a designer, Pierre had received the following:

“Sir: I approach you with unfeigned trepidation. For though you are young in age, you are old in fame and ability. I can not express to you my ardent admiration of your works; nor can I but deeply regret that the productions of such graphic descriptive power, should be unaccompanied by the humbler illustrative labors of the designer. My services in this line are entirely at your command. I need not say how proud I should be, if this hint, on my part, however presum-

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ing, should induce you to reply in terms upon which I could found the hope of honoring myself and my profession by a few designs for the works of the illustrious Glendinning. But the cursory mention of your name here fills me with such swelling emotions, that I can say nothing more. I would only add, however, that not being at all connected with the Trade, my business situation unpleasantly forces me to make cash down on delivery of each design, the basis of all my professional arrangements. Your noble soul, however, would disdain to suppose, that this sordid necessity, in my merely business concerns, could ever impair –

“That profound private veneration and admiration With which I unmercenarily am,

Great and good Glendinning, Yours most humbly,

PETER PENCE.”

CHAPTER II

THESE were stirring letters. The Library Form! an Illustrated Edition! His whole heart swelled.

But unfortunately it occurred to Pierre, that as all his writings were not only fugitive, but if put together could not possibly fill more than a very small duodecimo; therefore the Library Edition seemed a little premature, perhaps; possibly, in a slight degree, preposterous. Then, as they were chiefly made up of little sonnets, brief meditative poems, and moral essays, the matter for the designer ran some small risk of being but meager. In his inexperience, he did not know that such was the great height of invention to which the designer’s art had been carried, that certain gentlemen of that profession had gone to an eminent publishing-house with overtures for an illustrated edition of “Coke upon Lyttleton.” Even the City

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Directory was beautifully illustrated with exquisite engravings of bricks, tongs, and flat-irons.

Concerning the draught for the title-page, it must be confessed, that on seeing the imposing enumeration of his titles – long and magnificent as those preceding the proclamations of some German Prince (“Hereditary Lord of the back-yard of Crantz Jacobi; Undoubted Proprietor by Seizure of the bedstead of the late Widow Van Lorn; Heir Apparent to the Bankrupt Bakery of Fletz and Flitz; Residuary Legatee of the Confi scated Pin-Money of the Late Dowager Dunker; &c. &c. &c.”) Pierre could not entirely repress a momentary feeling of elation. Yet did he also bow low under the weight of his own ponderosity, as the author of such a vast load of literature. It occasioned him some slight misgivings, however, when he considered, that already in his eighteenth year, his title-page should so immensely surpass in voluminous statisticals the simple page, which in his father’s edition prefixed the vast speculations of Plato. Still, he comforted himself with the thought, that as he could not presume to interfere with the bill-stickers of the Gazelle Magazine, who every month covered the walls of the city with gigantic announcements of his name among the other contributors; so neither could he now – in the highly improbable event of closing with the offer of Messrs. Wonder and Wen – presume to interfere with the bill-sticking department of their business concern; for it was plain that they esteemed one’s title-page but another unwindowed wall, infinitely more available than most walls, since here was at least one spot in the city where no rival bill-stickers dared to encroach. Nevertheless, resolved as he was to let all such bill-sticking matters take care of themselves, he was sensible of some coy inclination toward that modest method of certain kid-gloved and dainty authors, who scorning the vulgarity of a sounding parade, contented themselves with simply subscribing their name to the title-page; as confident, that that was suffi-

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