It will thus be obvious that at nearly middle age, and in obedience to an impulse, I was launched as an author; that I had very slight literary training; and that my appearance as a novelist was quite as great a surprise to myself as to any of my friends.  The writing of sermons certainly does not prepare one for the construction of a novel; and to this day certain critics contemptuously dismiss my books as “preaching.”  During nearly four years of army life, at a period when most young men are forming style and making the acquaintance of literature, I scarcely had a chance to read at all.  The subsequent years of the pastorate were too active, except for an occasional dip into a favorite author.

While writing my first story, I rarely thought of the public, the characters and their experiences absorbing me wholly.  When my narrative was actually in print, there was wakened a very deep interest as to its reception.  I had none of the confidence resulting from the gradual testing of one’s power or from association with literary people, and I also was aware that, when published, a book was far away from the still waters of which one’s friends are the protecting headlands.  That I knew my work to be exceedingly faulty goes without saying; that it was utterly bad, I was scarcely ready to believe.  Dr. Field, noted for his pure English diction and taste, would not publish an irredeemable story, and the constituency of the New York “Evangelist” is well known to be one of the most intelligent in the country.  Friendly opinions from serial readers were reassuring as far as they went, but of course the great majority of those who followed the story were silent.  A writer cannot, like a speaker, look into the eyes of his audience and observe its mental attitude toward his thought.  If my memory serves me, Mr. R. R. Bowker was the earliest critic to write some friendly words in the “Evening Mail;” but at first my venture was very generally ignored.  Then some unknown friend marked an influential journal published in the interior of the State and mailed it so timely that it reached me on Christmas eve.  I doubt if a book was ever more unsparingly condemned than mine in that review, whose final words were, “The story is absolutely nauseating.”  In this instance and in my salad days I took pains to find out who the writer was, for if his view was correct I certainly should not engage in further efforts to make the public ill.  I discovered the reviewer to be a gentleman for whom I have ever had the highest respect as an editor, legislator, and honest thinker.  My story made upon him just the impression he expressed, and it would be very stupid on my part to blink the fact.  Meantime, the book was rapidly making for itself friends and passing into frequent new editions.  Even the editor who condemned the work would not assert that those who bought it were an aggregation of asses.  People cannot be found by thousands who will pay a dollar and seventy-five cents for a dime novel or a