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.”