religious tract.  I wished to learn the actual truth more sincerely than any critic to write it, and at last I ventured to take a copy to Mr. George Ripley, of the New York “Tribune.”  “Here is a man,” I thought, “whose fame and position as a critic are recognized by all.  If he deigns to notice the book, he will not only say what he thinks, but I shall have much reason to think as he does.”  Mr. Ripley met the diffident author kindly, asked a few questions, and took the volume.  A few weeks later, to my great surprise, he gave over a column to a review of the story.  Although not blind to its many faults, he wrote words far more friendly and inspiring than I ever hoped to see; it would seem that the public had sanctioned his verdict.  From that day to this these two instances have been types of my experience with many critics, one condemning, another commending.  There is ever a third class who prove their superiority by sneering at or ignoring what is closely related to the people.  Much thought over my experience led to a conclusion which the passing years confirm:  the only thing for a writer is to be himself and take the consequences.  Even those who regard me as a literary offender of the blackest dye have never named imitation among my sins.

As successive books appeared, I began to recognize more and more clearly another phase of an author’s experience.  A writer gradually forms a constituency, certain qualities in his book appealing to certain classes of minds.  In my own case, I do not mean classes of people looked at from the social point of view.  A writer who takes any hold on popular attention inevitably learns the character of his constituency.  He appeals, and minds and temperaments in sympathy respond.  Those he cannot touch go on their way indifferently; those he offends may often strike back.  This is the natural result of any strong assertion of individuality.  Certainly, if I had my choice, I would rather write a book interesting to the young and to the common people, whom Lincoln said “God must love, since He made so many of them.”  The former are open to influence; the latter can be quickened and prepared for something better.  As a matter of fact, I find that there are those in all classes whom my books attract, others who are repelled, as I have said.  It is perhaps one of the pleasantest experiences of an author’s life to learn from letters and in other ways that he is forming a circle of friends, none the less friendly because personally unknown.  Their loyalty is both a safeguard and an inspiration.  On one hand, the writer shrinks from abusing such regard by careless work; on the other, he is stimulated and encouraged by the feeling that there is a group in waiting who will appreciate his best endeavor.  While I clearly recognize my limitations, and have no wish to emulate the frog in the fable, I can truthfully say that I take increasing pains with each story, aiming to verify every point by experience—­my own or that