But what does not one have to submit to who has become the martyr—­the Saint Sebastian—­of a literary correspondence!  I will not dwell on the possible impression produced on a sensitive nature by reading one’s own premature obituary, as I have told you has been my recent experience.  I will not stop to think whether the urgent request for an autograph by return post, in view of the possible contingencies which might render it the last one was ever to write, is pleasing or not.  At threescore and twenty one must expect such hints of what is like to happen before long.  I suppose, if some near friend were to watch one who was looking over such a pressing letter, he might possibly see a slight shadow flit over the reader’s features, and some such dialogue might follow as that between Othello and Iago, after “this honest creature” has been giving breath to his suspicions about Desdemona: 

  “I see this hath a little dash’d your spirits. 
   Not a jot, not a jot.
     ............. 
   “My lord, I see you’re moved.”

And a little later the reader might, like Othello, complain,

  “I have a pain upon my forehead here.”

Nothing more likely.  But, for myself, I have grown callous to all such allusions.  The repetition of the Scriptural phrase for the natural term of life is so frequent that it wears out one’s sensibilities.

But how many charming and refreshing letters I have received!  How often I have felt their encouragement in moments of doubt and depression, such as the happiest temperaments must sometimes experience!

If the time comes when to answer all my kind unknown friends, even by dictation, is impossible, or more than I feel equal to, I wish to refer any of those who may feel disappointed at not receiving an answer to the following general acknowledgments: 

I. I am always grateful for any attention which shows me that I am kindly remembered.—­II.  Your pleasant message has been read to me, and has been thankfully listened to.—­III.  Your book (your essay) (your poem) has reached me safely, and has received all the respectful attention to which it seemed entitled.  It would take more than all the time I have at my disposal to read all the printed matter and all the manuscripts which are sent to me, and you would not ask me to attempt the impossible.  You will not, therefore, expect me to express a critical opinion of your work.—­IV.  I am deeply sensible to your expressions of personal attachment to me as the author of certain writings which have brought me very near to you, in virtue of some affinity in our ways of thought and moods of feeling.  Although I cannot keep up correspondences with many of my readers who seem to be thoroughly congenial with myself, let them be assured that their letters have been read or heard with peculiar gratification, and are preserved as precious treasures.

I trust that after this notice no correspondent will be surprised to find his or her letter thus answered by anticipation; and that if one of the above formulae is the only answer he receives, the unknown friend will remember that he or she is one of a great many whose incessant demands have entirely outrun my power of answering them as fully as the applicants might wish and perhaps expect.