Perhaps one of the most perplexing and often painful experiences of an author comes from the appeals of those who hope through him to obtain immediate recognition as writers.  One is asked to read manuscripts and commend them to publishers, or at least to give an opinion in regard to them, often to revise or even to rewrite certain portions.  I remember that during one month I was asked to do work on the manuscripts of strangers that would require about a year of my time.  The maker of such request does not realize that he or she is but one among many, and that the poor author would have to abandon all hope of supporting his family if he tried to comply.  The majority who thus appeal to one know next to nothing of the literary life or the conditions of success.  They write to the author in perfect good faith, often relating circumstances which touch his sympathies; yet if you tell them the truth about their manuscript, or say you have not time to read it, adding that you have no influence with editors or publishers beyond securing a careful examination of what is written, you feel that you are often set down as a churl, and your inability to comply with their wishes is regarded as the selfishness and arrogance of success.  The worried author has also his own compunctions, for while he has tried so often and vainly to secure the recognition requested, till he is in despair of such effort, he still is haunted by the fear that he may overlook some genius whom it would be a delight to guide through what seems a thorny jungle to the inexperienced.

In recalling the past, one remembers when he stood in such sore need of friends that he dislikes even the appearance of passing by on the other side.  There are no riches in the world like stanch friends who prove themselves to be such in your need, your adversity, or your weakness.  I have some treasured letters received after it had been telegraphed throughout the land that I was a bankrupt and had found myself many thousands of dollars worse off than nothing.  The kindly words and looks, the cordial grasp of the hand, and the temporary loan occasionally, of those who stood by me when scarcely sane from overwork, trouble, and, worse than all, from insomnia, can never be forgotten while a trace of memory is left.  Soon after my insolvency there came a date when all my interests in my books then published must be sold to the highest bidder.  It seemed in a sense like putting my children up at auction; and yet I was powerless, since my interests under contracts were a part of my assets.  These rights had been well advertised in the New York and county papers, as the statute required, and the popularity of the books was well known.  Any one in the land could have purchased these books from me forever.  A friend made the highest bid and secured the property.  My rights in my first nine novels became his, legally and absolutely.  There was even no verbal agreement between us—­nothing but his kind, honest eyes to reassure me.  He not