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In 1869, when I was about twenty-three years old, I sent a couple ofsonnets to the revived Putnam's Magazine. At that period I had nointention of becoming a professional writer: I was studying civilengineering at the Polytechnic School in Dresden, Saxony. Years before,I had received parental warnings—unnecessary, as I thought—againstwriting for a living. During the next two years, however, when I wasacting as hydrographic engineer in the New York Dock Department, Iamused myself by writing a short story, called "Love and Counter-Love,"which was published in Harper's Weekly, and for which I was paidfifty dollars. "If fifty dollars can be so easily earned," I thought,"why not go on adding to my income in this way from time to time?" Iwas aided and abetted in the idea by the late Robert Carter, editor ofAppletons' Journal; and the latter periodical and Harper's Magazinehad the burden, and I the benefit, of the result. When, in 1872, I wasabruptly relieved from my duties in the Dock Department, I had thealternative of either taking my family down to Central America to watchme dig a canal, or of attempting to live by my pen. I bought twelvereams of large letter-paper, and began my first work,—"Bressant." Ifinished it in three weeks; but prudent counsellors advised me that itwas too immoral to publish, except in French: so I recast it, as thephrase is, and, in its chastened state, sent it through the post to aBoston publisher. It was lost on the way, and has not yet been found. Iwas rather pleased than otherwise at this catastrophe; for I had inthose days a strange delight in rewriting my productions: it was,perhaps, a more sensible practice than to print them. Accordingly, Irewrote and enlarged "Bressant" in Dresden (whither I returned with myfamily in 1872); but—immorality aside—I think the first version wasthe best of the three. On my way to Germany I passed through London,and there made the acquaintance of Henry S. King, the publisher, acharming but imprudent man, for he paid me one hundred pounds for theEnglish copyright of my novel: and the moderate edition he printed is,I believe, still unexhausted. The book was received in a kindly mannerby the press; but both in this country and in England some surprise andindignation were expressed that the son of his father should presume tobe a novelist. This sentiment, whatever its bearing upon me, hasundoubtedly been of service to my critics: it gives them something towrite about. A disquisition upon the mantle of Nathaniel Hawthorne, andan analysis of the differences and similarities between him and hissuccessor, generally fill so much of a notice as to enable the reviewerto dismiss the book itself very briefly. I often used to wish, when,years afterwards, I was myself a reviewer for the London Spectator,that I could light upon some son of his father who might similarlylighten my labors. Mean