this time I had shown no
literary tendency whatever, since the receipt of that check for two
dollars and a half. Possibly the munificence of that honorarium seemed
to me to satiate mortal ambition for years. It is true that, during my
schooldays, I did perpetrate three full-grown novels in manuscript. My
dearest particular intimate and I shared in this exploit, and read our
chapters to each other on Saturday afternoons.

I remember that the title of one of these "books" was "The Shadow of
a Lifetime." It was a double title with a heroine to it, but I forget
the lady's name, or even the nature of her particular shadow. The
only thing that can be said about these three volumes is, that their
youthful author had the saving sense not to try the Christian temper
of a publisher with their perusal.

Yet, in truth, I have never regretted the precious portion of human
existence spent in their creation; for I must have written off in that
way a certain amount of apprenticeship which does, in some cases, find
its way into type, and devastate the endurance of a patient public.

The war story of which I speak was distinctly the beginning of
anything like genuine work for me. Mr. Alden tells me that it was
published in January, 1864; but I think it must have been written
a while before that, though not long, for its appearance quickly
followed the receipt of the manuscript. The name of the story was "A
Sacrifice Consumed." It was a very little story, not covering more
than four or five pages in print. I sent it to "Harper's Magazine,"
without introduction or what young writers are accustomed to call
"influence;" it was sent quite privately, without the knowledge of
any friend. It was immediately accepted, and a prompt check for
twenty-five dollars accompanied the acceptance. Even my father knew
nothing of the venture until I carried the letter and enclosure to
him. The pleasure on his expressive face was only equalled by its
frank and unqualified astonishment. He read the story when it came
out, and, I think, was touched by it--it was a story of a poor and
plain little dressmaker who lost her lover in the army--and his
genuine emotion gave me a kind of awed elation which has never been
repeated in my experience. Ten hundred thousand unknown voices could
not move me to the pride and pleasure which my father's first gentle
word of approval gave to a girl who cared much to be loved, and little
to be praised; and the plaudits of a "ca