When all had received the sum mutually agreed upon, and I had
shaken hands with them, I went to the quaint and quiet little city
of Santa Barbara, on the Pacific coast, for a change and partial
rest. While there, however, I wrote my Charleston story, "The
Earth Trembled." In September, 1887, I returned to my home at
Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, and resumed my work in a region made dear
by the memories of a lifetime. Just now I am completing a Southern
story entitled "Miss Lou."
It so happens in my experience that I have discovered one who
appears willing to stick closer to me than a brother, and even to
pass as my "double," or else he is so helplessly in the hands of
his publishers as to be an object of pity. A certain "Edward R.
Roe" is also an author, and is suffering cruelly in reputation
because his publishers so manage that he is identified with me. By
strange coincidence, they hit upon a cover for his book which is
almost a facsimile of the cover of my pamphlet novel, "An Original
Belle," previously issued. The R in the name of this unfortunate
man has been furnished with such a diminutive tail that it passes
for a P, and even my friends supposed that the book, offered
everywhere for sale, was mine.
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