The Morgesons | Page 2

saw through my mind, its struggles, its ignorance, and its ambition. Also I got my guinea for my pains. The Atlantic Monthly sent me a hundred dollars. I doubt but for Mr. Lowell's interest and kindness I should ever have tried prose again. I owe a debt of gratitude to him which I shall always give to his noble memory.
My story did not set the river on fire, as stories are apt to do nowadays. It attracted so little notice from those I knew, and knew of, that naturally my ambition would have been crushed. Notwithstanding, and saying nothing to anybody, I began "The Morgesons," and everywhere I went, like Mary's lamb, my MS. was sure to go. Meandering along the path of that family, I took them much to heart, and finished their record within a year. I may say here, that the clans I marshaled for my pages had vanished from the sphere of reality--in my early day the village Squire, peerless in blue broadcloth, who scolded, advised, and helped his poorer neighbors; the widows, or maidens, who accepting service "as a favor," often remained a lifetime as friend as well as "help;" the race of coast-wise captains and traders, from Maine to Florida, as acute as they were ignorant; the rovers of the Atlantic and the Pacific, were gone not to return. If with these characters I have deserved the name of "realist," I have also clothed my skeletons with the robe of romance. "The Morgesons" completed, and no objections made to its publication, it was published. As an author friend happened to be with us, almost on the day it was out, I gave it to him to read, and he returned it to me with the remark that there were "a good many whiches in it." That there were, I must own, and that it was difficult to extirpate them. I was annoyed at their fertility. The inhabitants of my ancient dwelling place pounced upon "The Morgesons," because they were convinced it would prove to be a version of my relations, and my own life. I think one copy passed from hand to hand, but the interest in it soon blew over, and I have not been noticed there since.
"Two Men" I began as I did the others, with a single motive; the shadow of a man passed before me, and I built a visionary fabric round him. I have never tried to girdle the earth; my limits are narrow; the modern novel, as Andrew Lang lately calls it,--with its love-making, disquisition, description, history, theology, ethics,--I have no sprinkling of. My last novel, "Temple House," was personally conducted, so far that I went to Plymouth to find a suitable abode for my hero, Angus Gates, and to measure with my eye the distance between the bar in the bay and the shore, the scene of a famous wreck before the Revolution. As my stories and novels were never in touch with my actual life, they seem now as if they were written by a ghost of their time. It is to strangers from strange places that I owe the most sympathetic recognition. Some have come to me, and from many I have had letters that warmed my heart, and cheered my mind. Beside the name of Mr. Lowell, I mention two New England names, to spare me the fate of the prophet of the Gospel, the late Maria Louise Pool, whose lamentable death came far too early, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, who lived to read "The Morgesons" only, and to write me a characteristic letter. With some slight criticism, he wrote, "Pray pardon my frankness, for what is the use of saying anything, unless we say what we think?... Otherwise it seemed to me as genuine and lifelike as anything that pen and ink can do. There are very few books of which I take the trouble to have any opinion at all, or of which I could retain any memory so long after reading them as I do of 'The Morgesons.'"
Could better words be written for the send-off of these novels?
ELIZABETH STODDARD. New York, May 2nd, 1901.

TO MRS. KATHARINE HOOKER
OF LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
THESE NOVELS ARE DEDICATED IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF A KIND DEED
ELIZABETH STODDARD
CHAPTER I.
"That child," said my aunt Mercy, looking at me with indigo-colored eyes, "is possessed."
When my aunt said this I was climbing a chest of drawers, by its knobs, in order to reach the book-shelves above it, where my favorite work, "The Northern Regions," was kept, together with "Baxter's Saints' Rest," and other volumes of that sort, belonging to my mother; and those my father bought for his own reading, and which I liked, though I only caught a glimpse of their meaning by strenuous study. To this day Sheridan's Comedies, Sterne's