A Native Author Called Roe
An AutobiographyTwo or three years ago the editor of "Lippincott's Magazine" askedme, with many others, to take part in the very interesting"experience meeting" begun in the pages of that enterprisingperiodical. I gave my consent without much thought of the effortinvolved, but as time passed, felt slight inclination to complywith the request. There seemed little to say of interest to thegeneral public, and I was distinctly conscious of a certain senseof awkwardness in writing about myself at all. The question, Whyshould I? always confronted me.When this request was again repeated early in the current year, Iresolved at least to keep my promise. This is done with lessreluctance now, for the reason that floating through the press Imeet with paragraphs concerning myself that are incorrect, andoften absurdly untrue. These literary and personal notes, togetherwith many questioning letters, indicate a certain amount of publicinterest, and I have concluded that it may be well to give thefacts to those who care to know them.It has been made more clear to me that there are many who honestlydo care. One of the most prized rewards of my literary work is theever-present consciousness that my writings have drawn around me acircle of unknown yet stanch friends, who have stood by meunfalteringly for a number of years. I should indeed be lacking ifmy heart did not go out to them in responsive friendliness andgoodwill. If I looked upon them merely as an aggregation ofcustomers, they would find me out speedily. A popular mood is avery different thing from an abiding popular interest. If onecould address this circle of friends only, the embarrassmentattendant on a certain amount of egotism would be banished by theassurance of sympathetic regard. Since, from the nature ofcircumstances, this is impossible, it seems to me in better tasteto consider the "author called Roe" in an objective, rather thanin a friendly and subjective sense. In other words, I shall try tolook at him from the public point of view, and free myself fromsome predisposition in his favor shared by his friends. I supposeI shall not succeed in giving a colorless statement of fact, but Imay avoid much special pleading in his behalf.Like so many other people, I came from a very old family, one fromwhich there is good proof of an unbroken line through the DarkAges, and all ages, to the first man. I have never given any timeto tracing ancestry, but have a sort of quiet satisfaction thatmine is certainly American as far as it well can be. Myforefathers (not "rude," to my knowledge) were among the firstsettlers on the Atlantic seaboard. My paternal and maternalgrandfathers were stanch Whigs during the Revolution, and had thecourage of their convictions. My grandmother escaped with herchildren from the village of Kingston almost as the Britishentered it, and her home was soon in ashes. Her husband, JamesRoe, was away in the army. My mother died some years before Iattained my majority, and I cannot remember when she was not aninvalid. Such literary tendencies as I have are derived from her,but I do not possess a tithe of her intellectual power. Her story-books in her youth were the classics; and when she was but twelveyears of age she knew "Paradise Lost" by heart. In myrecollections of her, the Bible and all works tending to elucidateits prophecies were her favorite themes of study. Theretentiveness of her memory was very remarkable. If any onerepeated a verse of the New Testament, she could go on and finishthe chapter. Indeed, she could quote the greater part of the Biblewith the ease and accuracy of one reading from the printed page.The works of Hugh Miller and the Arctic Explorations of Dr. Kaneafforded her much pleasure. Confined usually to her room, she tookunfailing delight in wandering about the world with the greattravellers of that day, her strong fancy reproducing the scenesthey described. A stirring bit of history moved her deeply. Welldo I remember, when a boy, of reading to her a chapter fromMotley's "Dutch Republic," and of witnessing in her flushed cheeksand sparkling black eyes proof of an excitement all too great forone in her frail health. She had the unusual gift of relating inan easy, simple way what she read; and many a book far tooabstruse and dull for my boyish taste became an absorbing storyfrom her lips. One of her chief characteristics was the love offlowers. I can scarcely recall her when a flower of some kind,usually a rose, was not within her reach; and only periods ofgreat feebleness kept her from their daily care, winter andsummer. Many descendants of her floral pets are now blooming in mygarden.My father, on the other hand, was a sturdy man of action. His lovefor the country was so strong that he retired from business in NewYork as soon as he had won a modest competence. For forty-oddyears he never wearied in the cultivation of his little valleyfarm, and the square, flower-bordered garden, at one side of whichran an unfailing brook. In this garden and under his tuition Iacquired my love of horticulture--acquired it with many abackache--heartache too, on days good for fishing or hunting; but,taking the bitter with the sweet, the sweet predominated. I findnow that I think only of the old-fashioned roses in the borders,and not of my hands bleeding from the thorns. If I groaned overthe culture of many vegetables, it was much compensation to a boythat the dinner-table groaned also under the succulent dishes thusprovided. I observed that my father's interest in his garden andfarm never flagged, thus proving that in them is to be found apleasure which does not pall with age. During the last summer ofhis life, when in his eighty-seventh year, he had the delight of achild in driving over to my home in the early morning, long beforeI was up, and in leaving a basket of sweet corn or some othervegetable which he knew would prove his garden to be ahead ofmine.My father was very simple and positive in his beliefs, alwaysopenly foremost in the reform movements of his day and in hisneighborhood, yet never, to my knowledge, seeking or taking anyoffice. His house often became a station of the "undergroundrailroad" in slavery times, and on one night in the depth ofwinter he took a hotly-pursued fugitive in his sleigh and drovehim five miles on the ice, diagonally across the Hudson, toFishkill, thence putting the brave aspirant for freedom on the wayto other friends. He incurred several risks in this act. It israrely safe to drive on the river off the beaten tracks at night,for there are usually air-holes, and the strong tides arecontinually making changes in the ice. When told that he might besent to jail for his defiance of the Fugitive Slave Law, hequietly answered, "I can go to jail." The thing he could not dowas to deny the man's appeal to him for help. Before the war hewas known as an Abolitionist--after it, as a Conservative, hissympathy with and for the South being very strong. During thedraft riots in 1863 the spirit of lawlessness was on the point ofbreaking out in the river towns. I happened to be home fromVirginia, and learned that my father's house was among thosemarked for burning on a certain night. During this night the hordegathered; but one of their leaders had received such empatheticwarning of what would happen the following day should outrages beperpetrated, that he persuaded his associates to desist. I sat upthat night at my father's door with a double-barrelled gun, moreimpressed with a sense of danger than at any other time in myexperience; he, on the contrary, slept as quietly as a child.He often practiced close economy in order to give his sons a goodeducation. The one act of my life which I remember with unalloyedpride and pleasure occured while I was at boarding-school inVermont, preparing for college. I learned through my mother thatmy father had denied himself his daily newspaper; and I knew wellhow much he would miss it. We burned wood in the large stoneseminary building. Every autumn great ranks of hard maple werepiled up, and students who wished to earn a little money were paida dollar a cord for sawing it into three lengths. I applied fornine cords, and went at the unaccustomed task after study hours.My back aches yet as I recall the experiences of subsequent weeks,for the wood was heavy, thick, and hard as bone. I eventually hadthe pleasure of sending to my father the subscription price of hispaper for a year. If a boy reads these lines, let me assure himthat he will never know a sweeter moment in his life than when hereceives the thanks of his parents for some such effort in theirbehalf. No investment can ever pay him better.In one of my books, "Nature's Serial Story," my father and motherappear, slightly idealized.Toward the close of my first year in Williams College a misfortuneoccurred which threatened to be very serious. Studying bydefective light injured my eyes. They quickly became so sensitivethat I could scarcely endure lamplight or the heat of a stove,only the cold out-door air relieving the pain; so I spent muchtime in wandering about in the boisterous weather of early springin Williamstown. At last I became so discouraged that I went toPresident Hopkins and told him that I feared I must give up thepurpose of acquiring an education. Never can I forget how thatgrand old man met the disheartened boy. Speaking in the wise,friendly way which subdued the heart and strengthened the will, hemade the half-hour spent with him the turning-point of my life. Inconclusion, he advised me to enter the Senior class the followingfall, thus taking a partial course of study. How many men areliving to-day who owe much of the best in their lives to thatdivinely inspired guide and teacher of youth!I next went to another man great in his sphere of life--Dr. Agnew,the oculist. He gave my eyes a thorough examination, told me thathe could do nothing for them; that rest and the vigor acquiredfrom out-door life would restore them. He was as kind andsympathetic in his way as the college president, and charged but atrifle, to relieve me from the sense of taking charity. Dr.Agnew's words proved correct; and the following autumn I enteredthe class of '61, and spent a happy year. Some of my classmateswere very kind in reading aloud to me, while Dr. Hopkins'sinstruction was invaluable. By the time I entered AuburnTheological Seminary, my eyes were quite restored, and I was ableto go through the first year's course of study without difficulty.In the summer of 1862 I could no longer resist the call for men inthe army. Learning that the Second New York (Harris's Light)Cavalry was without a chaplain, I obtained the appointment to thatposition. General Kilpatrick was then lieutenant-colonel, and incommand of the regiment. In December, 1862, I witnessed the bloodyand disastrous battle of Fredericksburg, and can never forget theexperiences of that useless tragedy. I was conscious of asensation which struck me as too profound to be merely awe. Earlyin the morning we crossed the Rappahannock on a pontoon bridge andmarched up the hill to an open plain. The roar of the battle wassimply terrific, shading off from the sharp continuous thunderimmediately about us to dull, heavy mutterings far to the rightand left. A few hundred yards before us, where the ground began toslope up to the fatal heights crowned with Confederate works andordnance, were long lines of Union batteries. From their ironmouths puffs of smoke issued incessantly, followed by tremendousreverberations. Back of these batteries the ground was coveredwith men lying on their arms, that they might present a lessobvious target. Then a little further to the rear, on the levelground above the bluff, stood our cavalry. Heavy guns on bothsides of the river were sending their great shrieking shells backand forth over our heads, and we often "ducked" instinctively whenthe missile was at least forty feet above us. Even our horsesshuddered at the sound.I resolved to learn if the men were sharing in my emotions--inbrief, what effect the situation had upon them--and rode slowlydown our regimental line. So vivid was the impression of that longarray of awed, pallid faces that at this moment I can recall themdistinctly. There were strange little touches of mingled pathosand humor. Meadow-larks were hemmed in on every side, toofrightened to fly far beyond the rude alarms. They would flutterup into the sulphurous air with plaintive cries, then drop againinto the open spaces between the troops. At one time, while wewere standing at our horses' heads, a startled rabbit ran to usfor cover. The poor little creature meant a dinner to thefortunate captor on a day when a dinner was extremelyproblematical. We engaged in a sharp scramble, the prize being wonby the regimental surgeon, who kindly shared his game with me.General Bayard, commanding our brigade, was mortally wounded, anddied like a hero. He was carried to a fine mansion near which hehad received his injury. Many other desperately wounded men werebrought to the spacious rooms of this abode of Southern luxury,and the surgeons were kept busy all throught the day and night. Itwas here I gained my first experience in hospital work. Thisextemporized hospital on the field was so exposed as to bespeedily abandoned. In the morning I recrossed the Rappahannockwith my regiment, which had been ordered down the river on picketduty. Soon after we went into winter quarters in a muddycornfield. In February I resigned, with the purpose of completingmy studies, and spent the remainder of the term at the UnionTheological Seminary of New York. My regiment would not getanother chaplain, so I again returned to it. In November Ireceived a month's leave of absence, and was married to Miss AnnaP. Sands, of New York City. Our winter quarters in 1864 were atStevensburg, between the town of Culpeper and the Rapidan River.During the pleasant days of late February several of the officerswere enjoying the society of their wives. Mrs. Roe havingexpressed a willingness to rough it with me for a week, I sent forher, and one Saturday afternoon went to the nearest railroadstation to meet her. The train came, but not my wife; and, muchdisappointed, I found the return ride of five miles a dreary onein the winter twilight. I stopped at our colonel's tent to say tohim and his wife that Mrs. Roe had not come, then learned for thefirst time very startling tidings."Chaplain," said the colonel, "we are going to Richmond to-morrow.We are going to wade right through and past everything in a neck-or-nothing ride, and who will come out is a question."His wife was weeping in her private tent, and I saw that for thefirst time in my acquaintance with him he was downcast. He was oneof the bravest of men, yet now a foreboding of evil oppressed him.The result justified it, for he was captured during the raid, andnever fully rallied after the war from the physical depressioncaused by his captivity. He told me that on the morrow GeneralKilpatrick would lead four thousand picked cavalry men in a raidon Richmond, having as its special object the release of ourprisoners. I rode to the headquarters of the general, whoconfirmed the tidings, adding, "You need not go. Non-combatantsare not expected to go."It was most fortunate that my wife had not come. I had recentlybeen appointed chaplain of Hampton Hospital, Virginia, byPresident Lincoln, and was daily expecting my confirmation by theSenate. I had fully expected to give my wife a glimpse of armylife in the field, and then to enter on my new duties. To go ornot to go was a question with me that night. The raid certainlyoffered a sharp contrast with the anticipated week's outing withmy bride. I did not possess by nature that kind of courage whichis indifferent to danger; and life had never offered moreattractions than at that time. I have since enjoyed Southernhospitality abundantly, and hope to again, but then its prospectwas not alluring. Before morning, however, I reached the decisionthat I would go, and during the Sunday forenoon held my lastservice in the regiment. I had disposed of my horse, and so had totake a sorry beast at the last moment, the only one I couldobtain.In the dusk of Sunday evening four thousand men were masked in thewoods on the banks of the Rapidan. Our scouts opened the way bywading the stream and pouncing upon the unsuspecting picket oftwenty Confederates opposite. Then away we went across a cold,rapid river, marching all that night through the dim woods andopenings in a country that was emphatically the enemy's. Lee'sentire army was on our right, the main Confederate cavalry forceon our left. The strength of our column and its objective pointcould not remain long unknown.In some unimportant ways I acted as aid for Kilpatrick. A fewhundred yards in advance of the main body rode a vanguard of twohundred men, thrown forward to warn us should we strike anyconsiderable number of the enemy's cavalry. As is ever the case,the horses of a small force will walk away from a much largerbody, and it was necessary from time to time to send word to thevanguard, ordering it to "slow up." This order was occasionallyintrusted to me. I was to gallop over the interval between the twocolumns, then draw up by the roadside and sit motionless on myhorse till the general with his staff came up. The slightestirregularity of action would bring a shot from our own men, whilethe prospect of an interview with the Johnnies while thus isolatedwas always good. I saw one of our officers shot that night. He hadridden carelessly into the woods, and rode out again just beforethe head of the column, without instantly accounting for himself.As it was of vital importance to keep the movement secret as longas possible, the poor fellow was silenced in sad error as to hisidentity.On we rode, night and day, with the briefest possible halts. Atone point we nearly captured a railroad train, and might easilyhave succeeded had not the station and warehouses been in flames.As it was, the train approached us closely, then backed, theshrieking engine itself giving the impression of being startled tothe last degree.On a dreary, drizzling, foggy day we passed a milestone on whichwas lettered, "Four miles to Richmond." It was still "on toRichmond" with us what seemed a long way further, and then came aconsiderable period of hesitancy, in which the command was drawnup for the final dash. The enemy shelled a field near usvigorously, but fortunately, or unfortunately, the fog was sodense that neither party could make accurate observations or domuch execution.For reasons that have passed into history, the attack was notmade. We withdrew six miles from the city and went into camp.I had scarcely begun to enjoy much-needed rest before theConfederates came up in the darkness and shelled us out of suchquarters as we had found. We had to leave our boiling coffeebehind us--one of the greatest hardships I have ever known. Thenfollowed a long night-ride down the Peninsula, in driving sleetand rain.The next morning the sun broke out gloriously, warming and dryingour chilled, wet forms. Nearly all that day we maintained a lineof battle confronting the pursuing enemy. One brigade would take adefensive position, while the other would march about five milesto a commanding point, where it in turn would form a line. Thefirst brigade would then give way, pass through the second, andtake position well to the rear. Thus, although retreating, we werealways ready to fight. At one point the enemy pressed us closely,and I saw a magnificent cavalry charge down a gentle descent inthe road. Every sabre seemed tipped with fire in the brilliantsunshine.In the afternoon it became evident that there was a body of troopsbefore us. Who or what they were was at first unknown, and for atime the impression prevailed that we should have to cut our waythrough by a headlong charge. We soon learned, however, that theforce was a brigade of colored infantry, sent up to cover ourretreat. It was the first time we had seen negro troops, but asthe long line of glistening bayonets and light-blue uniforms cameinto view, prejudices, if any there were, vanished at once, and acheer from the begrimed troopers rang down our line, waking theechoes. It was a pleasant thing to march past that array of faces,friendly though black, and know we were safe. They represented theF.F.V.'s of Old Virginia, we then wished to see. On the last dayof the march my horse gave out, compelling me to walk and leadhim.On the day after our arrival at Yorktown, Kilpatrick gave medespatches for the authorities at Washington. President Lincoln,learning that I had just returned from the raid, sent for me, andI had a memorable interview with him alone in his private room. Heexpressed profound solicitude for Colonel Dahlgren and his party.They had been detached from the main force, and I could give noinformation concerning them. We eventually learned of the death ofthat heroic young officer, Colonel Dahlgren. Although partiallyhelpless from the loss of a leg, he led a daring expedition at thecost of his life.I expressed regret to the President that the object of the raidhad not been accomplished. "Pick the flint, and try it again,"said Mr. Lincoln, heartily. I went out from his presence awed bythe courage and sublime simplicity of the man. While he gave theimpression that he was bearing the nation on his heart, one wasmade to feel that it was also large enough for sympathy with allstriving with him in the humblest way.My wife joined me in Washington, and few days later accompanied meto the scene of my new labors at Hampton Hospital, near FortressMonroe. There were not many patients at that time (March, 1864) inthe large barrack wards; but as soon as the Army of the Potomacbroke through the Wilderness and approached our vicinity,transports in increasing numbers, laden with desperately woundedmen, came to our wharf. During the early summer the woodenbarracks were speedily filled, and many tent wards were added.Duty became constant and severe, while the scenes witnessed wereoften painful in the last degree. More truly than on the field,the real horrors of war are learned from the long agonies in thehospital. While in the cavalry service, I gained in vigor daily;in two months of hospital work I lost thirty pounds. On one day Iburied as many as twenty-nine men. Every evening, till the dutybecame like a nightmare, I followed the dead-cart, filled up withcoffins, once, twice, and often thrice, to the cemetery.Eventually an associate chaplain was appointed, who relieved me ofthis task.Fortunately, my tastes led me to employ an antidote to my dailywork as useful to me as to the patients. Surrounding the hospitalwas much waste land. This, with the approval of the surgeon incharge, Dr. Ely McMillan, and the aid of the convalescents, Itransformed into a garden, and for two successive seasons sent tothe general kitchen fresh vegetables by the wagon-load. If rewardwere needed, the wistful delight with which a patient from thefront would regard a raw onion was ample; while for me the care ofthe homely, growing vegetables and fruit brought a diversion ofmind which made life more endurable.One of the great needs of the patients who had to fight thewinning or losing battle of life was good reading, and I speedilysought to obtain a supply. Hearts and purses at the Northresponded promptly and liberally; publishers threw off fifty percent from their prices; and I was eventually able to collect, bygift and purchase, about three thousand volumes. In gathering thislibrary, I provided what may be distinctly termed religiousreading in abundance; but I also recognized the need of diversion.Long wards were filled with men who had lost a leg or an arm, andwho must lie in one position for weeks. To help them get throughthe time was to help them to live. I therefore made the libraryrich in popular fiction and genial books of travel and biography.Full sets of Irving, Cooper, Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, Marryat,and other standard works were bought; and many a time I have seena poor fellow absorbed in their pages while holding his stump lestthe jar of a footstep should send a dart of agony to the point ofmutilation. My wife gave much assistance in my hospital duties,often reaching and influencing those beyond me. I recall one poorfellow who was actually six months in dying from a very painfulwound. Profanity appeared to be his vernacular, and in bitterprotest at his fate, he would curse nearly every one andeverything. Mrs. Roe's sympathy and attentions changed him verymuch, and he would listen quietly as long as she would read tohim. Some of the hospital attendants, men and women, had goodvoices, and we organized a choir. Every Sunday afternoon we wentfrom ward to ward singing familiar hymns. It was touching to seerough fellows drawing their blankets over their heads to hide theemotion caused by words and melodies associated, in manyinstances, with home and mother.Northern generosity, and, in the main, convalescent labor enabledme to build a large commodious chapel and to make greatimprovements in the hospital farm. The site of the hospital andgarden is now occupied by General Armstrong's Normal andAgricultural Institute for Freedmen, and the chapel was occupiedas a place of worship until very recently. Thus a noble and mostuseful work is being accomplished on the ground consecrated by thelife-and-death struggles of so many Union soldiers.In 1865 the blessed era of peace began, bringing its many changes.In October the hospital became practically empty, and I resigned.The books were sent to Fortress Monroe for the use of thegarrison, and I found many of them there long years after, almostworn out from use.After a little rest and some candidating for a church, I took asmall parish at Highland Falls, about a mile from West Point, NewYork, entering on my labors in January, 1866. In this village mywife and I spent nine very happy years. They were full of trialand many cares, but free from those events which bring the deepshadows into one's life. We soon became engaged in building a newstone church, whose granite walls are so thick, and hard-woodfinish so substantial that passing centuries should add only themellowness of age. The effort to raise funds for this enterpriseled me into the lecture-field and here I found my cavalry-raid andarmy life in general exceedingly useful. I looked around for apatch of garden-ground as instinctively as a duck seeks water. Thesmall plot adjoining the parsonage speedily grew into about threeacres, from which eventually came a book entitled "Play and Profitin my Garden."Up to the year 1871 I had written little for publication beyondoccasional contributions to the New York "Evangelist," nor had Iseriously contemplated a literary life. I had always beenextremely fond of fiction, and from boyhood had formed a habit ofbeguiling the solitary hours in weaving crude fancies aroundpeople who for any reason interested me. I usually had a mentalserial running, to which I returned when it was my mood; but I hadnever written even a short story. In October, 1871, I was asked topreach for a far uptown congregation in New York, with thepossibility of a settlement in view. On Monday following theservices of the Sabbath, the officers of the church were kindenough to ask me to spend a week with them and visit among thepeople. Meantime, the morning papers laid before us the startlingfact that the city of Chicago was burning and that its populationwere becoming homeless. The tidings impressed me powerfully,waking the deepest sympathy. I said to myself, "Here is a phase oflife as remarkable as any witnessed during the war." I obeyed theimpulse to be on the scene as soon as possible, stated my purposeto my friends, and was soon among the smoking ruins, finding anabiding-place with throngs of others in a partially finishedhotel. For days and nights I wandered where a city had been, andamong the extemporized places of refuge harboring all classes ofpeople. Late one night I sat for a long time on the steps ofRobert Collyer's church and watched the full moon through theroofless walls and shattered steeple. There was not an evidence oflife where had been populous streets. It was there and then, asnearly as I can remember, that the vague outlines of my firststory, "Barriers Burned Away," began to take form in my mind. Isoon returned home, and began to dream and write, giving duringthe following year such hours as could be withdrawn from manyother duties to the construction of the story. I wrote when andwhere I could--on steamboats, in railway cars, and at all oddhours of leisure, often with long breaks in the work ofcomposition, caused by the pressure of other affairs, againgetting up a sort of white heat from incessantly dwelling uponscenes and incidents that had become real to me. In brief, thestory took possession of my mind, and grew as naturally as a plantor a weed in my garden.It will thus be obvious that at nearly middle age, and inobedience to an impulse, I was launched as an author; that I hadvery slight literary training; and that my appearance as anovelist was quite as great a surprise to myself as to any of myfriends. The writing of sermons certainly does not prepare one forthe construction of a novel; and to this day certain criticscontemptuously dismiss my books as "preaching." During nearly fouryears of army life, at a period when most young men are formingstyle and making the acquaintance of literature, I scarcely had achance to read at all. The subsequent years of the pastorate weretoo active, except for an occasional dip into a favorite author.While writing my first story, I rarely thought of the public, thecharacters and their experiences absorbing me wholly. When mynarrative was actually in print, there was wakened a very deepinterest as to its reception. I had none of the confidenceresulting from the gradual testing of one's power or fromassociation with literary people, and I also was aware that, whenpublished, a book was far away from the still waters of whichone's friends are the protecting headlands. That I knew my work tobe exceedingly faulty goes without saying; that it was utterlybad, I was scarcely ready to believe. Dr. Field, noted for hispure English diction and taste, would not publish an irredeemablestory, and the constituency of the New York "Evangelist" is wellknown to be one of the most intelligent in the country. Friendlyopinions from serial readers were reassuring as far as they went,but of course the great majority of those who followed the storywere silent. A writer cannot, like a speaker, look into the eyesof his audience and observe its mental attitude toward histhought. If my memory serves me, Mr. R. R. Bowker was the earliestcritic to write some friendly words in the "Evening Mail;" but atfirst my venture was very generally ignored. Then some unknownfriend marked an influential journal published in the interior ofthe State and mailed it so timely that it reached me on Christmaseve. I doubt if a book was ever more unsparingly condemned thanmine in that review, whose final words were, "The story isabsolutely nauseating." In this instance and in my salad days Itook pains to find out who the writer was, for if his view wascorrect I certainly should not engage in further efforts to makethe public ill. I discovered the reviewer to be a gentleman forwhom I have ever had the highest respect as an editor, legislator,and honest thinker. My story made upon him just the impression heexpressed, and it would be very stupid on my part to blink thefact. Meantime, the book was rapidly making for itself friends andpassing into frequent new editions. Even the editor who condemnedthe work would not assert that those who bought it were anaggregation of asses. People cannot be found by thousands who willpay a dollar and seventy-five cents for a dime novel or areligious tract. I wished to learn the actual truth more sincerelythan any critic to write it, and at last I ventured to take a copyto Mr. George Ripley, of the New York "Tribune." "Here is a man,"I thought, "whose fame and position as a critic are recognized byall. If he deigns to notice the book, he will not only say what hethinks, but I shall have much reason to think as he does." Mr.Ripley met the diffident author kindly, asked a few questions, andtook the volume. A few weeks later, to my great surprise, he gaveover a column to a review of the story. Although not blind to itsmany faults, he wrote words far more friendly and inspiring than Iever hoped to see; it would seem that the public had sanctionedhis verdict. From that day to this these two instances have beentypes of my experience with many critics, one condemning, anothercommending. There is ever a third class who prove theirsuperiority by sneering at or ignoring what is closely related tothe people. Much thought over my experience led to a conclusionwhich the passing years confirm: the only thing for a writer is tobe himself and take the consequences. Even those who regard me asa literary offender of the blackest dye have never named imitationamong my sins.As successive books appeared, I began to recognize more and moreclearly another phase of an author's experience. A writergradually forms a constituency, certain qualities in his bookappealing to certain classes of minds. In my own case, I do notmean classes of people looked at from the social point of view. Awriter who takes any hold on popular attention inevitably learnsthe character of his constituency. He appeals, and minds andtemperaments in sympathy respond. Those he cannot touch go ontheir way indifferently; those he offends may often strike back.This is the natural result of any strong assertion ofindividuality. Certainly, if I had my choice, I would rather writea book interesting to the young and to the common people, whomLincoln said "God must love, since He made so many of them." Theformer are open to influence; the latter can be quickened andprepared for something better. As a matter of fact, I find thatthere are those in all classes whom my books attract, others whoare repelled, as I have said. It is perhaps one of the pleasantestexperiences of an author's life to learn from letters and in otherways that he is forming a circle of friends, none the lessfriendly because personally unknown. Their loyalty is both asafeguard and an inspiration. On one hand, the writer shrinks fromabusing such regard by careless work; on the other, he isstimulated and encouraged by the feeling that there is a group inwaiting who will appreciate his best endeavor. While I clearlyrecognize my limitations, and have no wish to emulate the frog inthe fable, I can truthfully say that I take increasing pains witheach story, aiming to verify every point by experience--my own orthat of others. Not long since, a critic asserted that changes inone of my characters, resulting from total loss of memory, werepreposterously impossible. If the critic had consulted Ribot's"Diseases of Memory," or some experienced physician, he might havewritten more justly. I do not feel myself competent to form avaluable opinion as to good art in writing, and I cannot helpobserving that the art doctors disagree wofully among themselves.Truth to nature and the realities, and not the following of anyschool or fashion, has ever seemed the safest guide. I sometimesventure to think I know a little about human nature. My activelife brought me in close contact with all kinds of people; therewas no man in my regiment who hesitated to come to my tent or totalk confidentially by the campfire, while scores of dying menlaid bare to me their hearts. I at least know the nature thatexists in the human breast. It may be inartistic, or my use of itall wrong. That is a question which time will decide, and I shallaccept the verdict. Over twelve years ago, certain oracles, withthe voice of fate, predicted my speedy eclipse and disappearance.Are they right in their adverse judgment? I can truthfully saythat now, as at the first, I wish to know the facts in the case.The moment an author is conceited about his work, he becomesabsurd and is passing into a hopeless condition. If worthy towrite at all, he knows that he falls far short of his ideals; ifhonest, he wishes to be estimated at his true worth, and to castbehind him the mean little Satan of vanity. If he walks under aconscious sense of greatness, he is a ridiculous figure, forbeholders remember the literary giants of other days and of hisown time, and smile at the airs of the comparatively little man.On the other hand, no self-respecting writer should ape the falsedeprecating "'umbleness" of Uriah Heep. In short, he wishes topass, like a coin, for just what he is worth. Mr. Matthew Arnoldwas ludicrously unjust to the West when he wrote, "The WesternStates are at this moment being nourished and formed, we hear, onthe novels of a native author called Roe." Why could not Mr.Arnold have taken a few moments to look into the bookstores of thegreat cities of the West, in order to observe for himself how thedemand of one of the largest and most intelligent reading publicsin the world is supplied? He would have found that the works ofScott and Dickens were more liberally purchased and generally readthan in his own land of "distinction." He should have discoveredwhen in this country that American statesmen (?) are so solicitousabout the intelligence of their constituents that they givepublishers so disposed every opportunity to steal novelsdescribing the nobility and English persons of distinction; thattons of such novels have been sold annually in the West, athousand to one of the "author called Roe." The simple truth inthe case is that in spite of this immense and cheap competition,my novels have made their way and are being read among multitudesof others. No one buys or reads a book under compulsion; and ifany one thinks that the poorer the book the better the chance ofits being read by the American people, let him try the experiment.When a critic condemns my books, I accept that as his judgment;when another critic and scores of men and women, the peers of thefirst in cultivation and intelligence, commend the books, I do notcharge them with gratuitous lying. My one aim has become to do mywork conscientiously and leave the final verdict to time and thepublic. I wish no other estimate than a correct one; and when thepublic indicate that they have had enough of Roe, I shall neitherwhine nor write.As a rule, I certainly stumble on my stories, as well as stumblethrough them perhaps. Some incident or unexpected impulse is thebeginning of their existence. One October day I was walking on acountry road, and a chestnut burr lay in my path. I said tomyself, "There is a book in that burr, if I could get it out."With little volition on my part, the story "Opening a ChestnutBurr" took form and was written.One summer evening, when in New York, I went up to Thomas'sGarden, near Central Park, to hear the delicious music he waseducating us to appreciate. At a certain point in the programme Inoticed that the next piece would be Beethoven's Fifth Symphony,and I glanced around with a sort of congratulatory impulse, asmuch as to say, "Now we shall have a treat." My attention wasimmediately arrested and fixed by a young girl who, with thegentleman escorting her, was sitting near by. My first impressionof her face was one of marvellous beauty, followed by a sense ofdissatisfaction. Such was my distance that I could not annoy herby furtive observation; and I soon discovered that she wouldregard a stare as a tribute. Why was it that her face was sobeautiful, yet so displeasing? Each feature analyzed seemedperfection, yet the general effect was a mocking, ill-keptpromise. The truth was soon apparent. The expression was not evil,but frivolous, silly, unredeemed by any genuine womanly grace. Shegiggled and flirted through the sublime symphony, till inexasperation I went out into the promenade under the open sky. Inless than an hour I had my story "A Face Illumined." I imagined anartist seeing what I had seen and feeling a stronger vexation inthe wounding of his beauty loving nature; that he learned duringthe evening that the girl was a relative of a close friend, andthat a sojourn at a summer hotel on the Hudson was in prospect. Onhis return home he conceives the idea of painting the girl'sfeatures and giving them a harmonious expression. Then the fancytakes him that the girl is a modern Undine and has not yetreceived her woman's soul. The story relates his effort tobeautify, illumine the face itself by evoking a mind. I neverlearned who was the actual girl with the features of an angel andthe face of a fool.In the case of "He Fell in Love with His Wife," I merely saw aparagraph in a paper to the effect that a middle-age widower,having found it next to impossible to carry on his farm with hiredhelp, had gone to the county poorhouse and said "If there's adecent woman here, I'll marry her." For years the homely itemremained an ungerminating seed in my mind, then started to grow,and the story was written in two months.My war experience has naturally made the picturesque phase of theGreat Conflict attractive material. In the future I hope to availmyself still further of interesting periods in American history.I find that my love of horticulture and outdoor life has grownwith the years. I do not pretend to scientific accuracy orknowledge. On the contrary, I have regarded plants and birdsrather as neighbors, and have associated with them. When giving tomy parish, I bought a place in the near vicinity of the housewhich I had spent my childhood. The front windows of our housecommand a noble view of the Hudson, while on the east and souththe Highlands are within rifle-shot. For several years I hesitatedto trust solely to literary work for support. As I have said, nota few critics insisted that my books should not be read, and wouldsoon cease to be read. But whether the prediction should provetrue or not, I knew in any case that the critics themselves wouldeat my strawberries; so I made the culture of small fruits thesecond string to my bow. This business speedily took the form ofgrowing plants for sale, and was developing rapidly, whenfinancial misfortune led to my failure and the devotion of myentire time to writing. Perhaps it was just as well in the end,for my health was being undermined by too great and conflictingdemands on my energy. In 1878, at Dr. Holland's request, I wrote aseries of papers on small fruits for "Scribner's Magazine"--papersthat were expanded into a book entitled "Success with SmallFruits." I now aim merely at an abundant home supply of fruits andvegetables, but in securing this, find pleasure and profit intesting the many varieties catalogued and offered by nurserymenand seedsmen. About three years ago the editor of "Harper'sMagazine" asked me to write one or two papers entitled "One Acre,"telling its possessor how to make the most and best of it. Whenentering on the task, I found there was more in it than I had atfirst supposed. Changing the title to "The Home Acre," I decidedto write a book or manual which might be useful in many ruralhomes. There are those who have neither time nor inclination toread the volumes and journals devoted to horticulture, who yethave gardens and trees in which they are interested. They wish tolearn in the shortest, clearest way just what to do in order tosecure success, without going into theories, whys, and wherefores,or concerning themselves with the higher mysteries of garden-lore.This work is now in course of preparation. In brief, my aim is tohave the book grow out of actual experience, and not merely myown, either. As far as possible, well-known experts andauthorities are consulted on every point. As a naturalconsequence, the book is growing, like the plants to which itrelates. It cannot be written "offhand" or finished "on time" tosuit any one except Dame Nature, who, being feminine, is ofteninscrutable and apparently capricious. The experience of oneseason is often reversed in the next, and the guide in gardeningof whom I am most afraid is the man who is always sure he isright. It was my privilege to have the late Mr. Charles Downing asone of my teachers, and well do I remember how that honest,sagacious, yet docile student of nature would "put on the brakes"when I was passing too rapidly to conclusions. It has always beenone of my most cherished purposes to interest people in thecultivation of the soil and rural life. My effort is to "boildown" information to the simplest and most practical form. Lastspring, hundreds of varieties of vegetables and small fruits wereplanted. A carefully written record is being kept from the time ofplanting until the crop is gathered.My methods of work are briefly these: I go into my studyimmediately after breakfast--usually about nine o'clock--and writeor study until three or four in the afternoon, stopping only for alight lunch. In the early morning and late afternoon I go aroundmy place, giving directions to the men, and observing thecondition of vegetables, flowers, and trees, and the generalaspect of nature at the time. After dinner, the evening is devotedto the family, friends, newspapers, and light reading. In formeryears I wrote at night, but after a severe attack of insomnia thispractice was almost wholly abandoned. As a rule, the greater partof a year is absorbed in the production of a novel, and I am oftengathering material for several years in advance of writing.For manuscript purposes I use bound blankbooks of cheap paper. Mysheets are thus kept securely together and in place--importantconsiderations in view of the gales often blowing through my studyand the habits of a careless man. This method offers peculiaradvantages for interpolation, as there is always a blank pageopposite the one on which I am writing. After correcting themanuscript, it is put in typewriting and again revised. There arealso two revisions of the proof. While I do not shirk the taskswhich approach closely to drudgery, especially since my eyesightis not so good as it was, I also obtain expert assistance. I findthat when a page has become very familiar and I am rather tired ofit, my mind wanders from the close, fixed attention essential tothe best use of words. Perhaps few are endowed with both theinventive and the critical faculty. A certain inner sense enablesone to know, according to his lights, whether the story itself istrue or false; but elegance of style is due chiefly to training,to a cultivation like that of the ear for music. Possibly we areentering on an age in which the people care less for form, forphraseology, than for what seems to them true, real--for what, asthey would express it, "takes hold of them." This is no plea orexcuse for careless work, but rather a suggestion that the day ofprolix, fine, flowery writing is passing. The immense number ofwell-written books in circulation has made success with careless,slovenly manuscripts impossible. Publishers and editors will noteven read, much less publish them. Simplicity, lucidity, strength,a plunge in medias res, are now the qualities and conditionschiefly desired, rather than finely turned sentences in which itis apparent more labor has been expended on the vehicle than onwhat it contains. The questions of this eager age are, What has heto say? Does it interest us? As an author, I have felt that myonly chance of gaining and keeping the attention of men and womenwas to know, to understand them, to feel with and for them in whatconstituted their life. Failing to do this, why should a line ofmy books be read? Who reads a modern novel from sense of duty?There are classics which all must read and pretend to enjoywhether capable of doing so or not. No critic has ever been sodaft as to call any of my books a classic. Better books are unreadbecause the writer is not en rapport with the reader. The time haspassed when either the theologian, the politician, or the criticcan take the American citizen metaphorically by the shoulder andsend him along the path in which they think he should go. He hasbecome the most independent being in the world, good-humoredlytolerant of the beliefs and fancies of others, while reserving, asa matter of course, the right to think for himself.In appealing to the intelligent American public, choosing foritself among the multitude of books now offered, it is my creedthat an author should maintain completely and thoroughly his ownindividuality, and take the consequences. He cannot conjurestrongly by imitating any one, or by representing any school orfashion. He must do his work conscientiously, for his readers knowby instinct whether or not they are treated seriously and withrespect. Above all, he must understand men and women sufficientlyto interest them; for all the "powers that be" cannot compel themto read a book they do not like.My early experience in respect to my books in the BritishDominions has been similar to that of many others. My firststories were taken by one or more publishers without saying "byyour leave," and no returns made of any kind. As time passed,Messrs. Ward, Locke & Co., more than any other house, showed adisposition to treat me fairly. Increasing sums were given forsuccessive books. Recently Mr. George Locke visited me, andoffered liberal compensation for each new novel. He also agreed togive me five per cent copyright on all my old books published byhim, no matter how obtained, in some instances revoking agreementswhich precluded the making of any such request on my part. In thecase of many of these books he has no protection, for they arepublished by others; but he takes the simple ground that he willnot sell any of my books without giving me a share in the profit.Such honorable action should tend to make piracy more odious thanever, on both sides of the sea. Other English firms have offeredme the usual royalty, and I now believe that in spite of our Houseof Mis-Representatives at Washington, the majority of the Britishpublishers are disposed to deal justly and honorably by Americanwriters. In my opinion, the lower House in Congress has libelledand slandered the American people by acting as if theirconstituents, with thievish instincts, chuckled over pennies savedwhen buying pirated books. This great, rich, prosperous nation hasbeen made a "fence," a receiver of stolen goods, and shamelesslycommitted to the crime for which poor wretches are sent to jail.Truly, when history is written, and it is learned that the wholepower and statesmanship of the government were enlisted in behalfof the pork interest, while the literature of the country and theliterary class were contemptuously ignored, it may be that thepresent period will become known as the Pork Era of the Republic.It is a strange fact that English publishers are recognizing ourrights in advance of our own lawmakers.In relating his experience in the pages of this magazine, Mr.Julian Hawthorne said in effect that one of the best rewards ofthe literary life was the friends it enabled the writer to make.When giving me his friendship, he proved how true this is. In myexperience the literary class make good, genial, honest friends,while their keen, alert minds and knowledge of life in many of itsmost interesting aspects give an unfailing charm to their society.One can maintain the most cordial and intimate relations witheditors of magazines and journals if he will recognize that suchrelations should have no influence whatever in the acceptance ordeclination of manuscripts. I am constantly receiving letters fromliterary aspirants who appear to think that if I will use a littleinfluence their stories or papers would be taken and paid for. Ihave no such influence, nor do I wish any, in regard to my ownwork. The conscientious editor's first duty is to his periodicaland its constituents, and he would and should be more scrupulousin accepting a manuscript from a friend than from a stranger. Toshow resentment because a manuscript is returned is absurd,however great may be our disappointment.Perhaps one of the most perplexing and often painful experiencesof an author comes from the appeals of those who hope through himto obtain immediate recognition as writers. One is asked to readmanuscripts and commend them to publishers, or at least to give anopinion in regard to them, often to revise or even to rewritecertain portions. I remember that during one month I was asked todo work on the manuscripts of strangers that would require about ayear of my time. The maker of such request does not realize thathe or she is but one among many, and that the poor author wouldhave to abandon all hope of supporting his family if he tried tocomply. The majority who thus appeal to one know next to nothingof the literary life or the conditions of success. They write tothe author in perfect good faith, often relating circumstanceswhich touch his sympathies; yet if you tell them the truth abouttheir manuscript, or say you have not time to read it, adding thatyou have no influence with editors or publishers beyond securing acareful examination of what is written, you feel that you areoften set down as a churl, and your inability to comply with theirwishes is regarded as the selfishness and arrogance of success.The worried author has also his own compunctions, for while he hastried so often and vainly to secure the recognition requested,till he is in despair of such effort, he still is haunted by thefear that he may overlook some genius whom it would be a delightto guide through what seems a thorny jungle to the inexperienced.In recalling the past, one remembers when he stood in such soreneed of friends that he dislikes even the appearance of passing byon the other side. There are no riches in the world like stanchfriends who prove themselves to be such in your need, youradversity, or your weakness. I have some treasured lettersreceived after it had been telegraphed throughout the land that Iwas a bankrupt and had found myself many thousands of dollarsworse off than nothing. The kindly words and looks, the cordialgrasp of the hand, and the temporary loan occasionally, of thosewho stood by me when scarcely sane from overwork, trouble, and,worse than all, from insomnia, can never be forgotten while atrace of memory is left. Soon after my insolvency there came adate when all my interests in my books then published must be soldto the highest bidder. It seemed in a sense like putting mychildren up at auction; and yet I was powerless, since myinterests under contracts were a part of my assets. These rightshad been well advertised in the New York and county papers, as thestatute required, and the popularity of the books was well known.Any one in the land could have purchased these books from meforever. A friend made the highest bid and secured the property.My rights in my first nine novels became his, legally andabsolutely. There was even no verbal agreement between us--nothingbut his kind, honest eyes to reassure me. He not only paid the sumhe had bidden, but then and there wrote a check for a sum which,with my other assets, immediately liquidated my personal debts,principal and interest. The children of my fancy are again mychildren, for they speedily earned enough to repay my friend andto enable him to compromise with the holders of indorsed notes ina way satisfactory to them. It so happened that most of thesecreditors resided in my immediate neighborhood. I determined tofight out the battle in their midst and under their dailyobservation, and to treat all alike, without regard to their legalclaims. Only one creditor tried to make life a burden; but he didhis level best. The others permitted me to meet my obligations inmy own time and way, and I am grateful for their consideration.When all had received the sum mutually agreed upon, and I hadshaken hands with them, I went to the quaint and quiet little cityof Santa Barbara, on the Pacific coast, for a change and partialrest. While there, however, I wrote my Charleston story, "TheEarth Trembled." In September, 1887, I returned to my home atCornwall-on-the-Hudson, and resumed my work in a region made dearby the memories of a lifetime. Just now I am completing a Southernstory entitled "Miss Lou."It so happens in my experience that I have discovered one whoappears willing to stick closer to me than a brother, and even topass as my "double," or else he is so helplessly in the hands ofhis publishers as to be an object of pity. A certain "Edward R.Roe" is also an author, and is suffering cruelly in reputationbecause his publishers so manage that he is identified with me. Bystrange coincidence, they hit upon a cover for his book which isalmost a facsimile of the cover of my pamphlet novel, "An OriginalBelle," previously issued. The R in the name of this unfortunateman has been furnished with such a diminutive tail that it passesfor a P, and even my friends supposed that the book, offeredeverywhere for sale, was mine. In many instances I have asked atnews stands, "Whose book is that?" The prompt and invariableanswer has been, "E. P. Roe's." I have seen book notices in whichthe volume was ascribed to me in anything but flattering terms. Adistinguished judge, in a carefully written opinion, is souncharitable as to characterize the coincidence in cover as a"fraud," and to say, "No one can look at the covers of the twopublications and fail to see evidence of a design to deceive thepublic and to infringe upon the rights of the publisher andauthor"--that is, the rights of Messrs. Dodd, Mead would be well,as a rule, for other writers to begin with reputable, honorablepublishers and to remain with them. A publisher can do more andbetter with a line of books than with isolated volumes. When anauthor's books are scattered, there is not sufficient inducementfor any one to push them strongly, nor, as in the case aboverelated, to protect a writer against a "double," should oneappear. Authors often know little about business, and should dealwith a publisher who will look after their interests as truly ashis own. Unbusinesslike habits and methods are certainly nottraits to be cultivated, for we often suffer grievously from theirexistence; yet as far as possible the author should be free fromdistracting cares. The novelist does his best work when abstractedfrom the actual world and living in its ideal counterpart whichfor the time he is imagining. When his creative work is completed,he should live very close to the real world, or else he will beimagining a state of things which neither God nor man had any handin bringing about.
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