Counting houses, like all other spots beyond the pale of female
jurisdiction, are comfortless looking places. The counting-room of Mr.
Tom Develin was no exception to the above rule; though we will do him
the justice to give in our affidavit, that the ink-stand, for seven
consecutive years, had stood precisely in the same spot, bounded on the
north by a box of letter stamps, on the south by a package of brown
business envelopes, on the east by a pen wiper, made originally in the
form of a butterfly, but which frequent ink dabs had transmuted into a
speckled caterpillar, on the west by half sheets of blank paper, rescued
economically from business letters, to save too prodigal consumption of
foolscap.
It is unnecessary to add that Mr. Tom Develin was a bachelor;
perpendicular as a ram-rod, moving over _terra firma_ as if fearful his
joints would unhinge, or his spinal column slip into his boots; carrying
his _arms_ with military precision; supporting his ears with a collar,
never known by 'the oldest inhabitant' to be limpsey; and stepping
circumspectly in boots of mirror-like brightness, never defiled with
the mud of the world.
Perched on his apple-sized head, over plastered wind-proof locks, was
the shiniest of hats, its wearer turning neither to the right nor the
left; and, although possessed of a looking-glass, laboring under the
hallucination that _he_, of all masculine moderns, was most dangerous
to the female heart.
Mr. Develin's book store was on the west side of Literary Row. His
windows were adorned with placards of new theological publications of
the blue-school order, and engravings of departed saints, who with their
last breath had, with mock humility, requested brother somebody to write
their obituaries. There was, also, to be seen there an occasional oil
painting "for sale," selected by Mr. Develin himself, with a peculiar
eye to the greenness of the trees, the blueness of the sky, and the
moral "tone" of the picture.
Mr. Develin congratulated himself on his extensive acquaintance
with clergymen, professors of colleges, students, scholars, and the
literati generally. By dint of patient listening to their desultory
conversations, he had picked up threads of information on literary
subjects, which he carefully wound around his memory, to be woven into
his own tête-à-têtes, where such information would "tell;" always, of
course, omitting quotation marks, to which some writers, as well as
conversationists, have a constitutional aversion. It is not surprising,
therefore, that his tête-à-têtes should be on the _mosaic_ order; the
listener's interest being heightened by the fact, that he had not, when
in a state of pinafore, cultivated Lindley Murray too assiduously.
Mr. Develin had fostered his bump of caution with a truly praiseworthy
care. He meddled very gingerly with new publications; in fact,
transacted business on the old fogy, stage-coach, rub-a-dub principle;
standing back with distended eyes, and suppressed breath, in holy horror
of the whistle, whiz-rush and steam of modern publishing houses. "A
penny saved, is a penny gained," said this eminent financier and
stationer, as he used _half a wafer_ to seal his business letters.
* * * * *
"Any letters this morning?" said Mr. Develin to his clerk, as he
deposited his umbrella in the northwest corner of his counting-room, and
re-smoothed his unctuous, unruffled locks; "any letters?" and taking a
package from the clerk's hand, he circumspectly lowered himself between
his coat-tails into an arm-chair, and leisurely proceeded to their
inspection.
"MR. DEVELIN:--
"Sir,--I take the liberty, knowing you to be one of the referees
about our son's estate, which was left in a dreadful confusion,
owing probably to his wife's thriftlessness, to request of you a
small favor. When our son died, he left a great many clothes,
vests, coats, pants, &c., which his wife, no doubt, urged his
buying, and which, of course, can be of no use to her now, as she
never had any boys, which we always regretted. I take my pen in
hand to request you to send the clothes to me, as they will save my
tailor's bill; please send, also, a circular broadcloth cloak,
faced with velvet, his cane, hats, and our son's Bible, which Ruth,
of course, never looks into--we wish to use it at family prayers.
Please send them all at your earliest convenience. Hoping you are
in good health, I am yours to command,
"ZEKIEL HALL."
Mr. Develin re-folded the letter, crossed his legs and mused. "The law
allows the widow the husband's wearing apparel, but what can Ruth do
with it? (as the doctor says, she has no boys,) and with her _peculiar
notions_, it is not probable she would sell the clothes. The law is on
her side, undoubtedly, but luckily she knows no more about law than a
baby; she is poor, the doctor is a man of property; Ruth's husband was
my friend to be sure, but a man must look out for No. 1 in this world,
and consider a little what would be for his own interest. The doctor may
leave me a little slice of property if I keep on the right side of him,
who knows? The clothes must be sent."