it
becomes necessary to tell you that their author is an indolent and painful
writer, slow at the best of times.)

Well, the discovery that I had forgotten two of my own books at first
amused and then set me thinking. "Here you are," said I to myself,
"a writer of sorts; and it's no use to pretend that you don't wish to be
remembered for a while after you are dead and done with."

"Quite right," the other part of me assented cheerfully.

"Well, then," urged the inquisitor, "this is a bad look-out. If you had
been born a Dumas--I am speaking of fecundity, if you please, and of
nothing else--if you had been born a Dumas, and could rattle off a romance
in a fortnight, you might be excused for not keeping tally of your
productions. Pitiful, dilatory worker that you are, if _you_ cannot
remember them, how can you expect the world (good Heavens!) to take the
trouble?"

"I suppose it won't," responded the other part of me, somewhat dashed;
then, picking up its spirits again, "But, anyhow, I shall know where to
lay the blame."

"On yourself?"

"Most assuredly not."

"Where, then?"

"Why, on the publishers."

"Ah, of course!" (This with fine irony.)

"Yes, on the publishers. Most authors do this during life, and now I
begin to see that all authors do it sooner or later. For my part, I shall
defer it to the future state."

"Why?"

"Obviously because there will be no publishers thereabouts to contradict
me."

"And of what will you accuse them?"

"That they never issued my work in the form it deserved."

"I see. Poor fellow! You have the 'Edinburgh' Stevenson or something of
that sort on your mind, and are filled with nasty envy."

Upon this the other part of me fairly lost its temper.

"The 'Edinburgh' Stevenson! The 'Edinburgh' Ste--, and you have known me
all these years! The 'Edinburgh' Stevenson is a mighty handsome edition
of a mighty fine writer, but I have no more desire to promenade the ages
in that costume than to jump the moon. No, I am not going to break any
more of the furniture. I am handing you this chair that you may seat
yourself and listen . . . Now! The book which I shall accuse my
publishers of not having produced will be in one volume--"

"Come, come. Modesty is all very well, but don't overdo it."

"--folio."

"Oh!"

"--Of three thousand odd pages, printed (blunt type) in double columns,
and here and there in triple."

"O--oh!"

"--with marginalia by other hands,