from the beaten path of the
world, and led me into a strange sort of solitude,--a solitude in the
midst of men,-where nobody wishes for what I do, nor thinks nor feels
as I do. The tales have done all this. When they are ashes, perhaps I
shall be as I was before they had existence. Moreover, the sacrifice is
less than you may suppose, since nobody will publish them."

"That does make a difference, indeed," said I.

"They have been offered, by letter," continued Oberon, reddening with
vexation, "to some seventeen booksellers. It would make you stare to
read their answers; and read them you should, only that I burnt them as
fast as they arrived. One man publishes nothing but school-books;
another has five novels already under examination."

"What a voluminous mass the unpublished literature of America must be!"
cried I.

"Oh, the Alexandrian manuscripts were nothing to it!" said my friend.
"Well, another gentleman is just giving up business, on purpose, I
verily believe, to escape publishing my book. Several, however, would
not absolutely decline the agency, on my advancing half the cost of an
edition, and giving bonds for the remainder, besides a high percentage
to themselves, whether the book sells or not. Another advises a
subscription."

"The villain!" exclaimed I.

"A fact!" said Oberon. "In short, of all the seventeen booksellers,
only one has vouchsafed even to read my tales; and he--a literary
dabbler himself, I should judge--has the impertinence to criticise
them, proposing what he calls vast improvements, and concluding, after
a general sentence of condemnation, with the definitive assurance that
he will not be concerned on any terms."

"It might not be amiss to pull that fellow's nose," remarked I.

"If the whole 'trade' had one common nose, there would be some
satisfaction in pulling it," answered the author. "But, there does seem
to be one honest man among these seventeen unrighteous ones; and he
tells me fairly, that no American publisher will meddle with an
American work,--seldom if by a known writer, and never if by a new
one,--unless at the writer's risk."

"The paltry rogues!" cried I. "Will they live by literature, and yet
risk nothing for its sake? But, after all, you might publish on your
own account."

"And so I might," replied Oberon. "But the devil of the business is
this. These people have put me so out of conceit with the tales, that I
loathe the very thought of them, and actually ex