“Just at this time I chanced to fall in love with Miss Ellen Wilson, now Mrs. Martin.  Fancying my passion unrequited, I poured forth my feelings in ten melancholy stanzas, beginning,—­

  ‘Oh! what avails it, if the spring be bright?’

These verses were very morbid and dreary, but they were published in the ‘Tri-Weekly Tribune,’ and ‘Hope revived again.’

“The drama I next deemed worthy of my attention, and wrote a play, the plot of which I thought quite new and original.  A large fortune is left to my hero, who forthwith becomes enamored of a fair damsel; but, fearful lest the beloved object should worship his money more than his merits, he disguises himself in a wig and blue spectacles, becomes tutor to her brother, and wins her affections while playing pedagogue.  On her acknowledging her attachment, he flings his disguises into the sea, and, in the wildness of his joy at being adored for his profundity in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Spanish, German, Mathematics, Natural Science, and Civil Engineering, folds his loved one in his arms, and springs into the surf, where both are drowned.

“This, you see, was quite new.”

“Quite,” I replied, laughing.

“I published it at my own expense, and I must say I have yet to receive the first remittance for this truly original work.

“During the next season, I met with Hans Andersen’s inimitable ‘Maerchen,’ and, immediately setting myself to work, I wrote ’Uncle Job’s Legacies,’ a series of children’s tales, full, as I fondly fancied, of poetry, pleasantry, and information.  I sent them to ’The Juvenile Weekly,’ then published in the city.  They were accepted with a profusion of thanks; and in a few days I called, by request, at the office, expecting large compensation for services so eagerly received.

“I went up a dirty staircase, into a mean, slovenly back-office, where a small, uncleanly man sat tipped back in his chair, picking his teeth.  He seemed the personification of nonchalance, impudence, and conceit.  As I entered, he looked up with a lazy insolence, which, had I been a woman, would have brought a hot flush of indignation to my face, and, on my mentioning my name, he rose and extended a very dirty hand.

“’Glad to see you, Sir,—­hope you’ll continue your contributions,—­Uncle Job,—­good idea, Sir,—­love the little ones?  So do we, Sir,—­work very hard for them,—­don’t pay at all,—­poor business,—­pure charity,—­that’s all.’

“‘But you don’t mean to say,’ I exclaimed, ’that your contributors are expected to work from charity?’

“’Glad to pay them, if we could, but we can’t afford it,—­more contributions than we can use,—­best authors in the country write for us,—­pure love for the little ones, I assure you.’

“‘Will you give me my manuscripts?’ I said.  ’I do not vouchsafe to bestow my time and thoughts for nothing.  If you do not pay, I can offer them to others who do.’