which I have written a dozen times, on the margins, with lines leading
up to them in red ink. The story is written on paper of all sorts and
sizes, and bits of paper are pasted on, here and there, containing
revised versions of incidents and dialogue. The whole packet is now
far from clean, and has a business-like and travelled air about it,
which should command respect. I always accompany it with a polite
letter, expressing my willingness to cut it down, or expand it, or
change the conclusion. Nobody can say that I am proud. But it always
comes back from the Publishers and Editors, without any explanation
as to why it will not do. This is what I resent as particularly hard.
The Publishers decline to tell me what their Readers have really said
about it. I have forwarded _Geoffrey's Cousin_ to at least five or six
notorious authors, with a letter, which runs thus:--

"DEAR SIR,--You will be surprised at receiving a letter from
a total stranger, but your well-known goodness of heart must
plead my excuse. I am aware that your time is much occupied,
but I am certain that you will spare enough of that valuable
commodity to glance through the accompanying MS. Novel, and
give me your frank opinion of it. Does it stand in need of
any alterations, and, if so, what? Would you mind having it
published _under your own name_, receiving one-third of the
profits? A speedy answer will greatly oblige."

Would you believe it, _Mr. Punch_, not one of these over-rated and
overpaid men has ever given me any advice at all? Most of them
simply send back my parcel with no reply. One, however, wrote to say
that he received at least six such packets every week, and that his
engagements made it impossible for him to act as a guide, counsellor,
and friend to the amateurs of all England. He added that, if I