Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-10-10
BLOOD AND THUNDER.
Fhoy Were the Chief Ingredients c,
 Maurice Thompson's First Novel.


 That the follies of the young man haunt men Ill their mature years was perhaps never more clearly proven, says the Indian apolis Journal, than it has been by the re- cent unlooked-for and somewhat ludicrous experience of Maurice Thompson, the dis tlngulshed author, Tn whose later writings 1ndlana takes especial pride, and which the literary circles of the English-speaking world read with so much pleasure. The story of MT. Thompson's discontinue is best told by that gentleman himself, and the follow Ing recital made to Journal representative will be read with interest by all who have read his later writings. Said he:
 "In the latter part of the year 1869, when lorlty (having come to Indiana from the South the year before), found myself all most penniless and without any visible means Of support The war had left me rather bewldered and certainly very callow bit of jetsam stranded on the shore o1 poverty in strange country, so far as acqualntances or friends able to aid me were concerned. The thought came into my head that l might write novel and get money for it. Looking back now to that time makes the thought appear both pa thetic and ludicrous. Certainly no youth was ever more wanting in all tue equip ment for fiction writing. Quite undaunt- ed, however, l sailed into the task with furious ardor, and began to grind out MS. at rate impossible to an experienced writer. When the story of the League of the Gaudaloupe' was finished felt sure that I had made mighty fine story but somehow the editors and publishers did not see into its wonderful qualities. sent it from one to another with industrious haste, and with hungry anticipatlons. A year or more drappod I a1r, 1icho oorf- ened, when some good angel Cor was it a demonD directed me to offer my firstllng to Messrs. Street & Smith, of the New York Weekly. Then came my triumph. In a few days a letter reached me, bearing to my emaciated fingers check for one hundred dollars. l well remember the solid lump that leaped into my throat at sight of that bit of commercial paper. For a minute thought should choke. The earth appeared to have been made present to me, and the sky took on the hue of simmering bank bills. was famous and rich. I felt that Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., must bow to me, and retire at once from the profession of sensational fic- tion writing.
 ''Well, days, weeks, months, years, lust runs went by and never again heard o1 my preclous MS. until recently, when some one told me that it was appearing as a serial in the New York Weekly. procured a Sopy oA ouo0 JouI udls duo GucTS, sure euOuRu, all dripping with gore and spangled with bowie knives and pistols, and faring with | red lights, famed my long-delayed master. piece. Twenty years of delay had not even coagulated it's blood or tanned its murderous | spirit in the least. I had forgotten its title and could not recall the name of single character in it, but glance was sufficient | The long-lost vision arose before my eyes l like some of those memories of battle, witt | all the sulphur and powder-blaze, and cir l cling smoke, and thunder and blood.
 "Yes, it's dime dreadful of the dime | dreadfulest sort, perhaps; haven't read il | yet; but forgive me if confess that a sort of tender feeling for 1t is, right now, assert | ing itself in my heart Why, that story made it possible for me to live until could 1 begin life in Indiana. I took that money and did begin, and although I can not fee that have done much, still, what have done roots its possibility back in the soil o1 | the ensanguined fiction which bore for its | first fruits the welcomest remittance o1 cash thatI have handled"