d see" the head of the firm. The lady who was
his escort swept past him. "Oh, I am sure he will see him," she
declared; "this" (with impressive awe) "is Mr. James." Had we said,
No, right off the bat, so to say, like that, we believe (unchampioned)
Mr. James would have gently withdrawn.

VIII

MEMORIES OF A MANUSCRIPT

I was born in Indiana. That was several years ago, and I have since
seen a good deal of the world. I was reading in a newspaper the other
day of a new film which shows on the screen the innumerable adventures
of a book in the making, from the time the manuscript is accepted to
the point where the completed volume is delivered into the hands of the
reader. And it struck me that the intimate life of a manuscript before
it is accepted might be even more curious to the general public. The
career of many an obscure manuscript, I reflected, doubtless is much
more romantic than its character. I wonder why, I said, manuscripts
have all been so uncommonly reticent concerning themselves. But
manuscripts, one recollects, have sensitive natures; and their
experiences, at least the experiences of those not born to a great
name, could hardly be called flattering to their feelings. Indeed,
manuscripts suffer much humiliation, doubtless little suspected of the
world. And it requires a manuscript strong in the spirit of detachment
to lay bare its heart.

My parent--manuscripts commonly have but one parent--bore me great
love; indeed I think he loved me beyond everything else in the world.
He was a young man apprenticed to the law, but he cared more for me, I
think, than for his calling, which I suspect he decidedly neglected for
my sake. I know that in his family he was held a rather disappointing
young man; but his family did not know the fervour of his heart, or the
tenacity of purpose of which he was capable. He toiled over my
up-bringing for two years, and often and often into the very small
hours. I think I was never altogether absent from his thoughts, even
when he was abroad about his business or his pleasure. I was his first
manuscript--his first, that is, that ever grew up. And though I know
he was not ashamed but very proud of me, he attempted to keep my
existence something of a secret. I could not but feel that as I
developed I was a great happiness to him, and yet at times he would
give way to black discouragement about me. I know that I have passages
which caused him intense pain