e was recently brought home to me
most forcibly. A woman brought me the manuscript of a novel which she
asked me to read. She felt that something was wrong with it, but she
did not know just what it was. She said it needed "a few little
touches," she thought, such as my experience would have fitted me to
give, and she would be grateful, indeed, if I would revise it. She
added that, owing to the connection which I had formed with my
publishing house, it would be an easy matter for me to get it
published, and she generously offered to divide the royalties with me
if I would consummate the arrangement!

I began to read the manuscript, and had not gone far when I discovered
that it was indeed rare. The entire family read it, or portions of it,
with screams of laughter, and with tears in their eyes, although it
was not intended to be a funny book at all. To this day, certain
phrases from that novel will upset any one of us, even at a solemn
time.

Of course it was badly written. Characters appeared, talked for a few
pages, and were never seen or heard from again.

Long conversations were intruded which had no connection with such
plot as there was. Commonplace descriptions of scenery, also useless,
were frequent. Many a time the thread of the story was lost. There
were no distinguishing traits in any one of the characters--they all
talked very much alike. But the supreme defect was the author's lack
of humour. With all seriousness, she made her people say and do
things which were absolutely ridiculous and not by any means true to
life.

I think I must have an unsuspected bit of tact somewhere for I
extricated myself from the situation, and the woman is still my
friend. I did not hurt her feelings about her book, nor did I send it
to my publishers with a letter of recommendation. I remarked that her
central idea was all right, which was true, since it was a love story,
but that it had not been properly developed and that she needed to
study. She thanked me for my counsel and said she would rewrite it. I
wish it might be printed just as it was, however, for it is indeed a
sodden and mirthless world in which we live and move.

As the editors say on the refusal blanks, "I am always glad to read
manuscripts," although, as a rule, it makes an enemy for me if I try
to help the author by criticism, when only praise was expected or
desired.

Having written some verse which has landed in respectable places, I
am also asked ab