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 b