editors, by the way, are often very troublesome to the young sprig of
genius. Placed, as they are, at the door of the temple of fame, they
often seem to the unfledged author the most disobliging, iron-hearted
men in the world. He could walk right into the temple, and make
himself perfectly at home there, if they would only open the door. So
he fancies; and he wonders why the barbarians don't see the genius
sticking out, when he comes along with his nicely-written verses, and
why they don't just give him, at once, a ticket of admission to the
honors of the world. "These editors are slow to perceive merit," he
says to himself.

Your old friend Uncle Frank once set himself up for a genius. Don't
laugh--pray, don't laugh. I was young then, and as green as a juvenile
gosling. Age has branded into me a great many truths, which, somehow
or other, were very slow in finding their way to my young mind. The
notion that I am a genius does not haunt me now, and a great many
years have passed since such a vision flitted across my imagination.
But I will tell you how I was cooled off, once on a time, when I got
into a raging fever of authorship, and was burning up with a desire to
make an impression on the world. I had written some verses--written
them with great care, and with ever so many additions, subtractions,
and divisions. They were perfect, at last--that is, I could not make
them any more perfect--and off they were posted to the editor of the
village newspaper. I declare I don't remember what they were about.
But I dare say, they were "Lines" to somebody, or "Stanzas" to
something; and I remember they were signed "Theodore Thinker," in a
very large, and as I then thought, a very fair hand.

"Well, did the editor print them, Uncle Frank?"