poker till it might have been the table of a shaggy and unrecognised
genius, I settled down to work.

I was not a brilliant success. I had that "little knowledge" which is
held to be such a dangerous thing. I had not plunged into the literary
profession without learning a few facts about it. I had read nearly
every journalistic novel and "Hints on Writing for the Papers" book
that had ever been published. In theory I knew all that there was to be
known about writing. Now, all my authorities were very strong on one
point. "Write," they said, very loud and clear, "not what _you_
like, but what editors like." I smiled to myself when I started. I felt
that I had stolen a march on my rivals. "All round me," I said to
myself, "are young authors bombarding editors with essays on Lucretius,
translations of Martial, and disquisitions on Ionic comedy. I know too
much for that. I work on a different plan." "Study the papers, and see
what they want," said my authorities. I studied the papers. Some wanted
one thing, apparently, others another. There was one group of three
papers whose needs seemed to coincide, and I could see an article
rejected by one paper being taken by another. This offered me a number
of chances instead of one. I could back my MSS. to win or for a place.
I began a serious siege of these three papers.

By the end of the second week I had had "Curious Freaks of Eccentric
Testators," "Singular Scenes in Court," "Actors Who Have Died on the
Stage," "Curious Scenes in Church," and seven others rejected by all
three. Somehow this sort of writing is not so easy as it looks. A man
who was on the staff of a weekly once told me that he had had two
thousand of these articles printed since he started--poor devil. He had
the knack. I could never get it. I sent up fifty-three in all in the
first year of my literary life, and only two stuck. I got fifteen