urned back and tried
again,--shook his head--held it for an instant over the basket, as if
doubtful,--and let it softly drop. He took up the second manuscript,
opened it in several places, seemed rather pleased with what he read,
and laid it aside for further examination.

He took up the third. "Blossoms of the Soul," etc. He glared at it in
a dreadfully ogreish way. Both the lockers-on held their breath. Gifted
Hopkins felt as if half a glass more of that warm sherry would not hurt
him. There was a sinking at the pit of his stomach, as if he was in
a swing, as high as he could go, close up to the swallows' nests and
spiders' webs. The Butcher opened the manuscript at random, read ten
seconds, and gave a short low grunt. He opened again, read ten seconds,
and gave another grunt, this time a little longer and louder. He opened
once more, read five seconds, and, with something that sounded like the
snort of a dangerous animal, cast it impatiently into the basket, and
took up the manuscript that came next in order.

Gifted Hopkins stood as if paralyzed for a moment.

"Safe, perfectly safe," the publisher said to him in a whisper. "I'll
get it for you presently. Come in and take another glass of wine," he
said, leading him back to his own office.

"No, I thank you," he said faintly, "I can bear it. But this is
dreadful, sir. Is this the way that genius is welcomed to the world of
letters?"

The publisher explained to him, in the kindest manner, that there was an
enormous over-production of verse, and that it took a great part of one
man's time simply to overhaul the cart-loads of it that were trying to
get themselves into print with the imprimatur of his famous house. "You
are young, Mr. Hopkins. I advise you not to try to force your article
of poetry on the market. The B----, our friend, there, that is, knows
a thing that will sell as soon as he sees it. You are in independent
circumstances, perhaps? If so, you can print--at your own
expense--whatever you choose. May I take the liberty to ask
your--profession?"

Gifted explained that he was "clerk" in a "store," where they sold dry
goods and West India goods, and goods promiscuous.

"Oh, well, then," the publisher said, "you will understand me. Do you
know a good article of brown sagas when you see it?"

Gifted Hopkins rather thought he did. He knew at sight whether it was a
fair, salable article or not.

"Just so. Now our friend, there, knows verses that are sa