Then, again, the widow of an old friend, lately dead, asks my advice
about publishing a book which her husband has left unfinished, I do not
think it is a very good book, and certainly not worth publishing on its
merits. But the widow feels it a sacred duty to give it to the world;
she seems, too, to regard it as a sacred duty for me, as a loyal
friend, to edit the book, fill up the gaps, and see it through the
press. Then I shall be held responsible for its publication, and the
reviewers will say that it is not worth the paper it is printed on--an
opinion I cannot honestly contest.

Another trial is that a young man, whom I do not know, but whose father
was a friend of mine in old days, writes to me to use my influence that
he should obtain an appointment. He says that he is just as well
qualified as a number of other applicants, and all that is needed is
that I should write a letter to an eminent man whom I know, which will
give him his chance, I hate to do this; I hate to use private
friendship in order that I may do jobs for my friends. If I do not
write the required letter, the young man will think me forgetful of the
old ties; if he does not obtain the appointment, he will blame me for
not acting energetically enough. If he does obtain it on my
recommendation, it may of course turn out all right; but if he does not
show himself fit for the post, I shall be rightly blamed for
recommending him on insufficient grounds; and in any case my eminent
friend will think me an importunate person.

I am busy just now on a book of my own, but all these things force me
to put my work aside, day after day. Even when I have some leisure
hours which I might devote to my own work, I cannot attain the
requisite serenity for doing it--cannot get these vexatious matters out