“‘5. Tommy’—Been printed.
“‘6. Boston and home again’—Been printed—personal adventures of a rustic in the city.
“‘7. Friendship’—In your hands—will be when you get this.
“‘8. Dog-days’—Been printed.
“‘9. Fading as a leaf’—Or something of that sort—knocks the bottom all out of the autumnal, sentimental kind of moral reflections—been printed.
“‘10. Winter’—Snow and coal-fires—been printed.
“‘11. My Flower-bed’—A success, to offset the failure to ‘My Garden.’
“‘12. Happiest Days.’
“Now, the question is, will you let me send it to you? You see it is almost all in print, so it will take but a minute to run it over—a longish kind of a minute, of course. I have not the least idea whether it is worth publishing or not. I don't want it published unless it will reflect credit on the literature of the country. Now, may I be forgiven for telling a lie; but I don't want it published if it will reflect discredit—I will stick to that. I don't I want it published unless it will be read and liked by cultivated people. I don't want it to be at the level of school-girls and shop-boys. I want it to be such a book as —— or —— or —— or —— or —— might take into the country, not for the thought or the theory, but for amusement, and such as would amuse them; such as Englishmen might read and value for its little side-lights thrown on American country life. I don't aim to do anything above amusement, and if it wont do that it is a failure, for there is nothing else for it to do. You see it was not written with any view to a book. I suppose I have enough things printed to make a dozen books, and I have taken out enough for one about the size of ‘Sir Thomas Browne.’ So far as the people I write for are concerned, I think now is as good a time as any. There is a kind of hiatus in book-making, and that gives me a chance for a hearing. My audience is more at leisure now and not much poorer. It is specially adapted to the times in that it has not anything to do with them, and so will be a recreation if it is not a bore. I should not think it would sell, I must say, for there is not anything of it. Still, all the parts of it that have been printed have ‘taken’—I don't understand why....
“I have a certain vivacity of style which would be well enough if I had anything solid underneath; but I have no thought, no depth, no severe and careful culture, no comprehensiveness, no substance, nothing to raise me above the penny-a-liners, except perhaps the matter of vivacity, or whatever it is—but that is nothing to depend upon—no resource, no capital. My chief talent consists in raising great expectations—which will turn out like Pip's, I expect. It is no fault of mine. I do conscientiously the best I can; you are an illustration of this thing. You expect ‘A number one’ things of me. But you have no ground for it. I have sent you my ‘A number one’ things already, and you see they are not ‘up to the mark.’ But they are the very best I can do under the circumstances. What right have you then to expect anything better? I consider it a great misfortune that somehow my performances seem to give a promise that is entirely unwarrantable. O well, I must stop some time, so I suppose I might as well stop here. All is, may I send the thing to you? It is all ready, only I have to take it to some book-binder somewhere to have the things pasted in. I hope I do not annoy you by asking you—not much I mean; of course it must annoy you a little—I assure you you need not have the slightest feeling about saying no. It would be no kindness to me to suffer me to disgrace myself or my country. There is only one sin that I will never forgive. If you ever tell anybody, my wrath will kindle against you into a perpetual fire; and you know about furies, and scorned women, and the wicked place! I hope this will get at you in some little crack between two ‘mad’nesses, but if it does not, pray don't turn ‘mad’ at me. I can bear anything but to be snapped up. I wonder if you would be more likely to be pleased if I had stopped before; if so, you can just turn back to the place where your temper began to crack, and make believe ‘Yours, respectfully,’ came there. But you have been so generous hitherto that I am afraid I perhaps presume too far—now I am sure that compliment is very well turned, seeing that kind of thing is not in my line—but the fact is I want you to stay good-humored so much that I would say anything!