A grave figure， with a pair of mysterious spectacles onhis nose and a pen behind his ear， was seated at a desk， inthe corner of a metropolitan office. The apartment wasfitted up with a counter， and furnished with an oakencabinet and a chair or two， in simple and business-likestyle. Around the walls were stuck advertisements ofarticles lost， or articles wanted， or articles to be disposedof； in one or another of which classes were comprehendednearly all the conveniences， or otherwise， that theimagination of man has contrived. The interior of theroom was thrown into shadow， partly by the tall edificesthat rose on the opposite side of the street， and partlyby the immense show-bills of blue and crimson paper，that were expanded over each of the three windows.
Undisturbed by the tramp of feet， the rattle of wheels， thehum of voices， the shout of the city-crier， the scream ofthe news-boys， and other tokens of the multitudinous lifethat surged along in front of the office， the figure at thedesk pored diligently over a folio volume， of lager-like sizeand aspect. He looked like the spirit of a record—the soulof his own great volume made visible in mortal shape.
But scarcely an instant elapsed without the appearanceat the door of some individual from the busy populationwhose vicinity was manifested so much buzz， and clatter，and outcry. Now， it was a thriving mechanic， in quest of atenement that should come within his moderate means ofrent； now， a ruddy Irish girl from the banks of Killarney，wandering from kitchen to kitchen of our land， while herheart still hung in the peat-smoke of her native cottage；now， a single gentleman， looking out for economical board；and now—for this establishment offered an epitome ofworldly pursuits—it was a faded beauty inquiring for herlost bloom； or Peter Schlemihl for his lost shadow； or anauthor， of ten years standing， for his vanished reputation；or a moody man for yesterday’s sunshine.
At the next lifting of the latch there entered a personwith his hat awry upon his head， his clothes perverselyillsuited to his form， his eyes staring in directions oppositeto their intelligence， and a certain odd unsuitablenesspervading his whole figure. Wherever he might chanceto be， whether in palace or cottage， church or market， onland or sea， or even at his own fireside， he must have wornthe characteristic expression of a man out of his rightplace.
“This，” inquired he， putting his question in the form ofan assertion， “this is the Central Intelligence Office？”
“Even so，” answered the figure at the desk， turninganother leaf of his volume； he then looked the applicant inthe face， and said briefly— “Your business？”
“I want，” said the latter， with tremulous earnestness， “aplace！”
“A place！ —and of what nature？” asked the Intelligencer.
“There are many vacant， or soon to be so， some of whichwill probably suit， since they range from that of a footmanup to a seat at the council-board， or in the cabinet， on athrone， or a presidential chair.”
The stranger stood pondering before the desk， withan unquiet， dissatisfied air—a dull， vague pain of heart，expressed by a slight contortion of the brow—an earnestnessof glance， that asked and expected， yet continually wavered，as if distrusting. In short， he evidently wanted， not in aphysical or intellectual sense， but with an urgent moralnecessity that is the hardest of all things to satisfy， since itknows not its own object.
“Ah， you mistake me！” said he at length， with a gestureof nervous impatience. “Either of the places you mention，indeed， might answer my purpose—or， more probably，none of them. I want my place！ —my own place！ —mytrue place in the world！ —my proper sphere！ —my thingto do， which nature intended me to perform when shefashioned me thus awry， and which I have vainly sought，all my lifetime！ Whether it be a footman’s duty， or a king’s，is of little consequence， so it be naturally mine. Can youhelp me here？”
“I will enter your application，” answered the Intelligencer，at the same time writing a few lines in his volume. “But toundertake such a business， I tell you frankly， is quite apartfrom the ground covered by my official duties. Ask forsomething specific， and it may doubtless be negotiated foryou， on your compliance with the conditions. But were Ito go further， I should have the whole population of thecity upon my shoulders； since far the greater proportion ofthem are， more or less， in your predicament.”
The applicant sank into a fit of despondency， and passedout of the door without again lifting his eyes； and， if hedied of the disappointment， he was probably buried inthe wrong tomb； inasmuch as the fatality of such peoplenever deserts them， and， whether alive or dead， they areinvariably out of place.
Almost immediately， another foot was heard on thethreshold. A youth entered hastily， and threw a glance aroundthe office to ascertain whether the Man of Intelligence wasalone. He then approached close to the desk， blushed like amaiden， and seemed at a loss how to broach his business.
“You come upon an affair of the heart，” said the officialpersonage， looking into him through his mysteriousspectacles. “State it in as few words as may be.”
“You are right，” replied the youth. “I have a heart todispose of.”
“You seek an exchange？” said the Intelligencer. “Foolishyouth， why not be contented with your own？”
“Because，” exclaimed the young man， losing hisembarrassment in a passionate glow， — “because my heartburns me with an intolerable fire； it tortures me all daylong with yearnings for I know not what， and feverishthrobbings， and the pangs of a vague sorrow； and itawakens me in the night-time with a quake， when thereis nothing to be feared！ I cannot endure it any longer. Itwere wiser to throw away such a heart， even if it brings menothing in return！”
