On my way to Germany I passed through London, and there
made the acquaintance of Henry S. King, the publisher, a charming but
imprudent man, for he paid me one hundred pounds for the English copyright
of my novel: and the moderate edition he printed is, I believe, still
unexhausted. The book was received in a kindly manner by the press; but
both in this country and in England some surprise and indignation were
expressed that the son of his father should presume to be a novelist. This
sentiment, whatever its bearing upon me, has undoubtedly been of service
to my critics: it gives them something to write about. A disquisition upon
the mantle of Nathaniel Hawthorne, and an analysis of the differences and
similarities between him and his successor, generally fill so much of a
notice as to enable the reviewer to dismiss the book itself very briefly.
I often used to wish, when, years afterwards, I was myself a reviewer for
the London _Spectator_, that I could light upon some son of his father who
might similarly lighten my labors. Meanwhile, I was agreeably astonished
at what I chose to consider the success of "Bressant," and set to work to
surpass it in another romance, called (for some reason I have forgotten)
"Idolatry.
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