There are, besides these, several unfinished studies, and two or three note-books full of jotted conversations and thoughts of all kinds—­a curious mixture.

He carefully left all the publishers’ letters which he received in answer to his application.  They are twenty-two in number, and are all refusals.  They are tied carefully up, and are labeled, “My Literary Career.”

All these compositions are the work of about seven years, except some of the poems which were written at Cambridge.  The novel was begun and finished in about six weeks, in 1878.  It is a poor plot, and mawkish in character, though not without merits of style.

During all this time his interest in writing never flagged.  He felt that he had one or two ideas, on which he had a firm grasp, to communicate to the world, and he worked at them incessantly in new and ever-varying forms.

The issue would seem to show that he was not destined to communicate them directly to others—­at least, in his own lifetime; and, indeed, no one was quicker at interpreting events than himself.  He gave the enterprise a long and severe trial, but the resolute front with which he was met, showed him clearly that it was not to be.  It may be that the record of his life, little as he ever imagined it would come before the world, may effect a part of what he himself prepared to do.

Occasionally, for he was of quick sensibilities, throughout this period he felt the bitterness of constant rebuff.  The following letter he wrote me shows it: 

“I am beginning to feel as if publishers had a code of signals or private marks like freemasonry, which they scribble sometimes, like the concealed marks on bank-notes, on the first page of a manuscript, so as to spare their brother publishers the trouble of looking through a manuscript which is below market value.  I have never had a manuscript accepted which has been once refused; and I now eagerly scan the first page, to see if I can discover a wriggling mark in the margin or among the lines which is to tell Smith and Co. that Brown and Son has a very poor opinion of the book now under his consideration.”

And again, quite as forcible is a little anecdote with which he begins an unfinished paper on “Genius.”  The story is, I now believe, his own; though, at the time, I fancied it was adopted: 

“There was once a king who sat to listen to the sermon of a great preacher.  From minute to minute the great words flowed on, consoling, wounding, helping, condemning, dividing the marrow from the bones; and the king wept and smiled.

“And at the end he sent for the preacher, and said, ’Sir, Christ is the only king; yet let me look at the book from which you made your discourse.  The written words, though half despoiled of their grace, may perhaps strike an echo in my soul, which rings yet.’

“And for some time the preacher was unwilling, and parleyed with the king; but at the last he drew out a little pale book with faded characters traced in ink; and he opened it at a well-worn page, and held it out before the king.