The Morgesons

The Morgesons

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Title: The Morgesons
Author: Elizabeth Stoddard
Release Date: May 14, 2004 [eBook #12347]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE MORGESONS
A Novel
BY ELIZABETH STODDARD

1901

"Time is a clever devil,"--BALZAC

[Illustration: Portrait of Elizabeth Stoddard from a Daguerreotype.]

PREFACE.
I suppose it was environment that caused me to write these novels; but
the mystery of it is, that when I left my native village I did not dream
that imagination would lead me there again, for the simple annals of
our village and domestic ways did not interest me; neither was I in the
least studious. My years were passed in an attempt to have a good time,
according to the desires and fancies of youth. Of literature and the
literary life, I and my tribe knew nothing; we had not discovered
"sermons in stones." Where then was the panorama of my stories and
novels stored, that was unrolled in my new sphere? Of course, being
moderately intelligent I read everything that came in my way, but
merely for amusement. It had been laid up against me as a persistent
fault, which was not profitable; I should peruse moral, and pious works,
or take up sewing,--that interminable thing, "white seam," which filled
the leisure moments of the right-minded. To the personnel of writers I
gave little heed; it was the hero they created that charmed me, like Miss
Porter's gallant Pole, Sobieski, or the ardent Ernest Maltravers, of
Bulwer.
I had now come to live among those who made books, and were
interested in all their material, for all was for the glory of the whole.
Prefaces, notes, indexes, were unnoticed by me,--even Walter Scott's
and Lord Byron's. I began to get glimpses of a profound ignorance, and
did not like the position as an outside consideration. These mental
productive adversities abased me. I was well enough in my way, but
nothing was expected from me in their way, and when I beheld their
ardor in composition, and its fine emulation, like "a sheep before her

shearers," I was dumb. The environment pressed upon me, my pride
was touched; my situation, though "tolerable, was not to be endured."
Fortunate or not, we were poor. It was not strange that I should marry,
said those who knew the step I had taken; but that I should follow that
old idyl; and accept the destiny of a garret and a crust with a poet, was
incredible! Therefore, being apart from the diversions of society, I had
many idle hours. One day when my husband was sitting at the receipt
of customs, for he had obtained a modest appointment, I sat by a little
desk, where my portfolio lay open. A pen was near, which I took up,
and it began to write, wildly like "Planchette" upon her board, or like a
kitten clutching a ball of yarn fearfully. But doing it again--I could not
say why--my mind began upon a festival in my childhood, which my
mother arranged for several poor old people at Thanksgiving. I finished
the sketch in private, and gave it the title of "A Christmas Dinner," as
one more modern. I put in occasional "fiblets" about the respectable
guests, Mrs. Carver and Mrs. Chandler, and one dreadful little girl
foisted upon me to entertain. It pleased the editor of Harper's Magazine,
who accepted it, and sent me a check which would look wondrous
small now. I wrote similar sketches, which were published in that
magazine. Then I announced my intention of writing a "long story,"
and was told by him of the customs that he thought I "lacked the
constructive faculty." I hope that I am writing an object lesson, either of
learning how, or not learning how, to write.
I labored daily, when alone, for weeks; how many sheets of foolscap I
covered, and dashed to earth, was never told. Since, by my "infinite
pains and groans," I have been reminded of Barkis, in "David
Copperfield," when he crawled out of his bed to get a guinea from his
strong box for David's dinner. Naturally, I sent the story to Harper's
Magazine, and it was curtly refused. My husband, moved by pity by
my discouragement, sent it to Mr. Lowell, then editor of the Atlantic
Monthly. In a few days I received a letter from