Produced by Daniel Fromont

[Transcriber's note: Mrs. Hungerford (Margaret Wolfe Hamilton)(1855?-1897) "The story of my first novel" (from The Ladies'Home Journal vol. VII No 8 Philadelphia July 1890 p.14)]

The Duchess

"The story of my first novel"

My first novel! Alas! for that first story of mine—the raven I sentout of my ark and never see again! Unlike the proverbial curse, it didnot come home to roost, it stayed where I had sent it. The only thingI ever heard of it again was a polite letter from the editor in whoseoffice it lay, telling me I could have it back if I enclosed stamps forthe amount of twopence halfpenny, otherwise he should feel it hisunpleasant duty to "consign it to the waste-paper basket."

I was only sixteen then, and it is a very long time ago; but I havealways hated the words "waste-paper" ever since. I don't remember thatI was either angry or indignant, but I do remember that I was bothsad and sorry. At all events, I never sent that two-pence half-penny,so I conclude my first MS. went to light the fire of that heartlesseditor. So much comfort I may have bestowed on him, but he left mecomfortless; and yet who can say what good he may not have done me?Paths made too smooth leave the feet unprepared for rougher roads. Tostep always in the primrose ways is death to the higher desires. Yetoh, for the hours I spent over that poor rejected story, beautifying it(as I fondly, if erroneously, believed), adding a word here, asentiment there! So conscientiously-minded was I, that even theheadings of the chapters were scraps of poetry (so called) done all bymyself. Well, never mind. I was very young then, and as they say uponthe stage, I "meant well."

For a long twelvemonth after that I never dreamed of putting pen topaper. I had given myself up, as it were. I was the most modest ofchildren, and fully decided within myself that a man so clever, as areal live editor must needs be, could not have been mistaken. He hadseen and judged, and practically told me that writing was not my forte.Yet the inevitable hour came round once more. Once again an idea caughtme, held me, persuaded me that I could put it into words. I struggledwith it this time, but it was too strong for me, that earlyexhilarating certainty that there was "something in me," as people say,was once more mine, and seizing my pen, I sat down and wrote, wrote,wrote, until the idea was an object formed. With closed doors I wroteat stolen moments. I had not forgotten the quips and cranks uttered atmy expense by my brother and sister on the refusal of that last-firstmanuscript. To them it had been a fund of joy.

In fear and trembling I wrote this second effusion, finished it, weptover it (it was the most lachrymose of tales), and finally under coverof night induced the house maid to carry it to the post. To that firstunsympathetic editor I sent it (which argues a distinct lack of malicein my disposition), and oh, joy! it was actually accepted. I havewritten many a thing since, but I doubt if I have ever known again theunadulterated delight that was mine when my first insignificant checkwas held within my hands.

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[Transcriber's note: Mrs. Hungerford (Margaret Wolfe Hamilton)(1855?-1897) "How a novel is written" (from The Ladies' HomeJournal vol. VII No 2 Philadelphia January 1890 p.11)]

The Duchess

"How a novel is written"

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