The
sensation which one has when he first sees his remarks in the form of
a printed book is great. When the package came from the printers I
re-read the book trying to decide whether it was worth while to send
copies to my friends. I came to the conclusion that upon the whole it
was best to do so and await the verdict.
The writer of a book designed for his friends has no reason to
anticipate an unkind reception, but there is always some danger of its
being damned with faint praise. The responses in my case, however,
exceeded expectations, and were of such a character as to satisfy me
that the writers really had enjoyed the book, or meant at least a part
of what they said about it. Every author is prone to believe sweet
words. Among the first that came were in a letter from Anthony Drexel,
Philadelphia's great banker, complaining that I had robbed him of
several hours of sleep. Having begun the book he could not lay it down
and retired at two o'clock in the morning after finishing. Several
similar letters were received. I remember Mr. Huntington, president of
the Central Pacific Railway, meeting me one morning and saying he was
going to pay me a great compliment.
"What is it?" Tasked.
"Oh, I read your book from end to end."
"Well," I said, "that is not such a great compliment.
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