through—and remorselessly writing a mystical word upon it, tied up the bundle and threw it into the balaam-box, with a large heap of other rejected offerings to be returned to their owners.
This was, at first, a most painful thing for him to do; for he had himself once been a contributor to a magazine, and he well knew the irritating anxiety which a young author feels for the fate of his manuscript; and he used to write soothing letters to the poor adventurers whose bantlings he was compelled to reject; but he had long since become hardened to his duty, and rather felt himself the aggrieved and injured party, when a manuscript was offered to him, which, after being at the cost of reading, he was compelled to reject. "It is not my fault," would Smilax say to himself; "if they can't write better; why should I be unhappy about it?"
Ah! little did the public think or care, that, to obtain the one tolerably good essay, which they would find fault with for not being more brilliant, he had been obliged to read through four or five hundred much worse ones. "What does the world care about the troubles or sufferings of any of its servants, who wear their lives out in trying to give pleasure or instruction to others? Not a straw! Yet we will be martyrs for the chance smile of approbation which the world now and then bestows upon us—slaves of its whims," said Smilax to himself, as he wended his way home that night, wearied with his day's work, and half-dreading to meet Maria Jane. The truth was that she had neglected to give him the customary parting kiss, which she had never forgotten to do before. "Forgotten!" exclaimed Smilax bitterly in his thoughts; "she did not forget it—she did it on purpose; she had her handkerchief to her eyes, and she would not allow me to kiss her. I have broken my wife's heart; but how I did it I have not the ghost of an idea. I hope she has got over it by this time, though."
But the faint hope was soon withered; for, as he opened the door, he heard a stifled sobbing, which he knew at once proceeded from Maria Jane; and worse and more ominous than all, the severe visage of his mother-in-law frowned freezingly upon him, as he entered the room where the wife of his young affections lay sobbing hysterically upon the sofa. Maria Jane had sent for her mother, and Smilax
