and making his escape.
Somewhere near the harbor walked a man in a two-dollar suit, courtesy of a cadaver.
CHAPTER TEN
----
Philadelphia
The shelves of booksellers are overgrown with Sambo’s Woes
done up in covers. A plague of all black Faces! We hate this
niggerism and hope it may be done away with.
— Graham’s Magazine
J ust above the waterfront, where Dock Street began one of its sweeping curves, next to a long series of buildings housing newspaper, magazine, printing, and engraving businesses, in a narrow building of red brick resided the offices of Topham & Lea.
Up and down the street in front of the building, a procession of drays, Dearborn wagons, coaches, and trotting wagons rumbled down the cobbles, amid the oaths of drivers and the continual cracking of long whips.
It being late afternoon, merchants’ sulkies and bankers’ carriages had begun to gather in front of the Exchange across the street. Messengers and clerks rushed in and out of the building to deposit and trade wild-cat money, state bank notes, and the increasingly common counterfeit bills.
Located on the third floor behind a heavy oak-paneled door, the outer office of Topham & Lea featured an impressive display of paintings by well-known English artists. A glass-fronted bookcase contained handsome leather-and-gilt editions of the Great Works of Literature, together with more daring volumes by Byron and the Romantics, and an edition of Baudelaire, in French. Nearby, a large window afforded a view of the forest of masts and sails on the riverfront, spiking above the blank, flat roofs of warehouses.
A brocade visitors’ couch sat against a wall, its cushions worn shiny by the buttocks of anxious authors. Next to the couch, a narrow Chippendale table contained the latest releases by Topham &Lea: Thackeray, Scott, Tennyson, and Dickens. Also featured were the collected verses of Professor Longfellow and Dr. Holmes, a twenty-five-cent edition of Charles Brockden Brown and, incongruously, a set of Quaker abolitionist tracts.
Opposite the couch, a door to the inner office featured a brass plaque containing the legend: Henry H. Topham, Esq .
Beside the door to Topham’s office, behind a small desk piled high with manuscripts and letters, sat a precise, dark-complexioned gentleman with a set of close-trimmed whiskers and unfashionably short hair, wearing a high-buttoned frock coat and an immaculate white neck cloth. Removing a pair of silver pince-nez spectacles, he put aside the latest edition of Graham’s and rose to his feet, extending a ceremonial smile with the handshake, while his eye took in the visitor with an expression of pleasant evaluation.
“Good afternoon, sah. How may I assist you?”
“Finn Devlin is my name, sor, and I am here to see Mr. Topham. Would you be his secretary?”
“My name is Mr. Bailey. I am the administrator here at Topham & Lea. And I am an editor as well.” As Mr. Bailey observed the handsome young Irishman—dark hair, high cheekbones, eyes the color of the sky—his face revealed neither amusement nor insult. “Do you have an appointment, sah?”
“Mr. Topham and I met at Sportsman’s Hall, so we did. He expressed keen interest in meself and my work.”
Mr. Bailey glanced at the calendar on his desk. “That would have been at the Morrison-Hola match, I expect.”
“Aye, that it was. And a grand moment for Morrison too.”
“Quite so. You were at a boxing match together, and there you discussed your manuscript?”
“Not at the match, no. It was after the match. Mr. Topham was good enough to invite me to a gathering at his home. And a grand piece of work it is, too.”
“And I expect that sometime later in the evening, sah, very late in the evening perhaps, you happened to discuss your manuscript with Mr. Topham?”
“Aye, sor, that is correct.”
“And have you actually submitted this manuscript to him?”
“I have done. It has been in his hands one week to the day.”
“I am afraid
Somewhere near the harbor walked a man in a two-dollar suit, courtesy of a cadaver.
CHAPTER TEN
----
Philadelphia
The shelves of booksellers are overgrown with Sambo’s Woes
done up in covers. A plague of all black Faces! We hate this
niggerism and hope it may be done away with.
— Graham’s Magazine
J ust above the waterfront, where Dock Street began one of its sweeping curves, next to a long series of buildings housing newspaper, magazine, printing, and engraving businesses, in a narrow building of red brick resided the offices of Topham & Lea.
Up and down the street in front of the building, a procession of drays, Dearborn wagons, coaches, and trotting wagons rumbled down the cobbles, amid the oaths of drivers and the continual cracking of long whips.
It being late afternoon, merchants’ sulkies and bankers’ carriages had begun to gather in front of the Exchange across the street. Messengers and clerks rushed in and out of the building to deposit and trade wild-cat money, state bank notes, and the increasingly common counterfeit bills.
Located on the third floor behind a heavy oak-paneled door, the outer office of Topham & Lea featured an impressive display of paintings by well-known English artists. A glass-fronted bookcase contained handsome leather-and-gilt editions of the Great Works of Literature, together with more daring volumes by Byron and the Romantics, and an edition of Baudelaire, in French. Nearby, a large window afforded a view of the forest of masts and sails on the riverfront, spiking above the blank, flat roofs of warehouses.
A brocade visitors’ couch sat against a wall, its cushions worn shiny by the buttocks of anxious authors. Next to the couch, a narrow Chippendale table contained the latest releases by Topham &Lea: Thackeray, Scott, Tennyson, and Dickens. Also featured were the collected verses of Professor Longfellow and Dr. Holmes, a twenty-five-cent edition of Charles Brockden Brown and, incongruously, a set of Quaker abolitionist tracts.
Opposite the couch, a door to the inner office featured a brass plaque containing the legend: Henry H. Topham, Esq .
Beside the door to Topham’s office, behind a small desk piled high with manuscripts and letters, sat a precise, dark-complexioned gentleman with a set of close-trimmed whiskers and unfashionably short hair, wearing a high-buttoned frock coat and an immaculate white neck cloth. Removing a pair of silver pince-nez spectacles, he put aside the latest edition of Graham’s and rose to his feet, extending a ceremonial smile with the handshake, while his eye took in the visitor with an expression of pleasant evaluation.
“Good afternoon, sah. How may I assist you?”
“Finn Devlin is my name, sor, and I am here to see Mr. Topham. Would you be his secretary?”
“My name is Mr. Bailey. I am the administrator here at Topham & Lea. And I am an editor as well.” As Mr. Bailey observed the handsome young Irishman—dark hair, high cheekbones, eyes the color of the sky—his face revealed neither amusement nor insult. “Do you have an appointment, sah?”
“Mr. Topham and I met at Sportsman’s Hall, so we did. He expressed keen interest in meself and my work.”
Mr. Bailey glanced at the calendar on his desk. “That would have been at the Morrison-Hola match, I expect.”
“Aye, that it was. And a grand moment for Morrison too.”
“Quite so. You were at a boxing match together, and there you discussed your manuscript?”
“Not at the match, no. It was after the match. Mr. Topham was good enough to invite me to a gathering at his home. And a grand piece of work it is, too.”
“And I expect that sometime later in the evening, sah, very late in the evening perhaps, you happened to discuss your manuscript with Mr. Topham?”
“Aye, sor, that is correct.”
“And have you actually submitted this manuscript to him?”
“I have done. It has been in his hands one week to the day.”
“I am afraid
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