tion turned upon the respective merits of Fullerton's second effort, "The Birth-Mark," and Piatt's "Morning Street."
"Will," cried his companion, "you can write a better poem than either of these." The face of the timid aspirant glowed with what was apparently a new thought to him, but nothing more was said about the matter until some time had elapsed, when he laid before his friend a pleasant letter from James Russell Lowell enclosing twenty-five dollars in payment for the "Andenken."
"I don't want to use the money. What shall I do with it?" cried the happy poet.
"Put it in the bank," was his friend's practical advice. Going to the National Exchange Bank, where he had a friend in its president, Howells deposited the practical juice of Parnassus without taking a receipt for the same. Some time passed, when he again sought his friend's room, apparently with a perplexing load upon his conscience. Appreciating the diffidence of his guest, the friend noticed when Howells rose to leave that, although they had talked of many things, they had failed to touch the subject which the poet had most at heart. No sooner had the door closed upon the retreating guest, however, than it suddenly opened again, revealing the poet's distressed face.
"Say, Jim, when you have money in the bank, how do you get it out?"
Howells was exceedingly self-depreciatory in his youth. He had not that confidence in himself which his friends thought his ability warranted. Always a diligent, conscientious student, his "Andenken" was followed by four other poems, which appeared in the Atlantic in that first year of literary success. He now had an audience in the company of Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson, and a host of the ablest writers of the age. But while quaffing of Castaly he wrote stories also. Occasionally he read them to his companions, but they were deficient in plot and incident, and consequently failed to interest his auditors. He did not publish these stories, but they held the germs of what the poet's maturer judgment has moulded into the novelist's art. Subjective and analytical in thought and treatment, the ideal and the romantic were eschewed from these early prose efforts. But, undaunted by disparaging criticism, he worked on, biding the time when his art would find a hearing. Another proof of the efficacy of Buffon's genius! Howells was always a prolific writer. Not until he wrote the Life of Abraham Lincoln, in 1860, did his field of observation broaden. With the money that this book netted him,—one hundred and ninety dollars,—he took a trip down the St. Lawrence, visiting Montreal, and coming home by way of Boston, where he first made the personal acquaintance of James Russell Lowell, then editor of the Atlantic Monthly, who introduced him to James T. Fields and Oliver Wendell Holmes. His letters to the Ohio State Journal describing this trip are incorporated in "Their Wedding Journey." So full of the wine of youth, these early bits of description arc the novel's freshest charm. The "Life of Lincoln" not only brought him his first extensive pleasure-trip, but secured him an honor similar to that which rewarded the biographical effort of Hawthorne.
