“I really don’t think you need trouble yourself excessively. Pretty much the same thing has happened to most of us—myself included. Besides, the number of people who have read _The Tents of Shem_ is not so very great; nor did the book make stir enough to be well remembered by reviewers. My advice to you would be, go on and publish, and you will probably find nobody else is struck by the undesigned coincidence. Nor does it seem to me, from what you say, to be particularly close. If you will kindly send me a copy of your book when it appears, I will try to prevent any suggestions by reviewing it myself (if editors will permit me) over my own signature. If _I_ am not struck by the supposed resemblance, nobody else need be. One little hint: don’t say anything about it to the publisher to whom you offer the book; never anticipate possible objections; ten to one, if _you_ don’t, nobody else will raise them. “Yours very faithful, “GRANT ALLEN. “Writers’ cramp, not discourtesy, compels typewriting. My right hand is useless, and even this machine I work with my left only.” Still, that book was never finished. I had lost heart. The same thing happened again in regard to a play in 1907. Everyone seemed to be making vast sums by writing plays and naturally an energetic woman wished to have a shot, too. I sketched out a most elaborate plot, laid partly in England and partly in America, and was brimming over with enthusiasm about it. Then I went gaily to the first night of Sutro’s play, _John Glayde’s Honour_, at the St. James’s Theatre, and lo and behold, the whole of my story unfolded itself on the stage. Sutro’s play ran for about a year. Mine was never completed. After one has passed the critical age of twenty—I say critical, as many a man and woman have made or marred their future by that time—the love of books, the real honest pleasure of reading, the insatiable craving for knowledge takes fast hold of us, and we begin to realise, as we study even one single subject, what a vast field lies open before us. Unfortunately, the enormous number of cheap newspapers that have appeared on every side within the last few years have done much to interfere with more profound reading; but it is quite unnecessary for this to be the case, for there ought to be time for both. Newspapers are excellent amusement, and sometimes afford much information in odd moments, such as on journeys by train, or long rides in omnibuses, and at other periods of the day’s existence. But there are the evenings, and unless people are professionally engaged during that time, there is no greater pleasure or amusement than in the perusal of some sound book. Literature is so cheap nowadays, that it is within the scope of everyone. Besides, what a great field is Literature! A vast mass of education can be gleaned from the pleasantest reading. It is a poor book, indeed, from which we can obtain neither amusement nor instruction.