But the editor of "Harper's" took everything I sent him; so the
pointed letters and the large capitals continued to flow towards his
desk.
Long after I had achieved whatever success has been given me, this
magazine returned me one of my stories--it was the only one in a
lifetime. I think the Editor then in power called it too tragic,
or too something; it came out forthwith in the columns of another
magazine that did not agree with him, and was afterwards issued, I
think, in some sort of "classic" series of little books.
I was a little sorry, I know, at the time, for I had the most
superstitious attachment for the magazine that, when "I was a
stranger, took me in;" but it was probably necessary to break the
record in this, as in all other forms of human happiness.
Other magazines took their turn--the "Atlantic," I remember--in due
course; but I shared the general awe of this magazine at that time
prevailing in New England, and, having, possibly, more than my share
of personal pride, did not very early venture to intrude my little
risk upon that fearful lottery.
Perhaps this reserve was more natural because "Harper's" published
as fast as I could write; which is not saying much, to be sure, for I
have always been a slow worker. The first story of mine which appeared
in the "Atlantic" was a fictitious narrative of certain psychical
phenomena occurring in Connecticut, and known to me, at first hand,
to be authentic. I have yet to learn that the story attracted any
attention from anybody more disinterested than those few friends
of the sort who, in such cases, are wont to inquire, in tones more
freighted with wonder than admiration: "What! Has she got into the
'_Atlantic_'?"
The "Century" came in turn, when it came into being. To this
delightful magazine I have always been, and always hope to be, a
contributor.
[Illustration: THE HOUSE IN ANDOVER, MASSACHUSETTS, WHERE THE SCHOOL
CALLED "THE NUNNERY" WAS HELD.
From a photograph taken in 1864 by Geo. H. Leek, Lawrence,
Massachusetts.]
I read, with a kind of hopeless envy, histories and legends of people
of our craft who "do not write for money." It must be a pleasant
experience to be able to cultivate so delicate a class of motives for
the privilege of doing one's best to express one's thoughts to people
who care for them. Personally, I have yet to breathe the ether of such
a transcendent sphere. I am proud to say that I have always been a
working-woman, and always had to be; though I ought to add that I am
sure the proposal that my father's allowance to his daughter should
cease, did not come from the father.
When the first little story appeared in "Harper's Magazine," it
occurred to me, with a throb of pleasure greater than I supposed then
that life could hold, that I could take care of myself, and from that
day to this I have done so.
One hesitates a little, even in autobiography, about saying precisely
this. But when I remember the thousands of women who find it too easy
to be dependent on too heavily-weighted and too generous men,
one hesitates no longer to say anything that may help those other
thousands of women who stand on their own feet, and their own pluck,
to understand how good a thing it is to be there.
Of all the methods of making a living open to educated people to-day,
the profession of literature is, probably, the poorest in point of
monetary returns. A couple of authors, counted successful as the world
and the word go, said once:
"We have earned less this year than the fisherman in the dory before
the door of our summer home." Perhaps it had been a good year for
Jack; possibly a poor one for those other fishers, who spread their
brains and hearts--a piteous net--into the seas of life in quest of
thought and feeling that the idlers on the banks may take a summer's
fancy to. But the truth remains. A successful teacher, a clever
manufacturer, a steady mechanic, may depend upon a better income in
this country than the writer whose supposed wealth he envies, and
whose books he reads on Sunday afternoons, if he is not too sleepy, or
does not prefer his bicycle.
When we see (as we have actually done) our market-man driving by our
old buggy and cheap horse on holidays, with a barouche and span, we
enjoy the sight very much; and when I say (for the other occupant of
the buggy has a little taste for two horses, which I am so plebeian
as not to share, having never been able to understand why one is
not enough for anybody): "But would you _be_ the span-owner--for the
span?" we see the end of the subject, and grow ravenously contented.
One cannot live by bread or magazine stories alone, as the young
daughter of toil too soon found out. Like other writers I did hack
work. My main dependence was on that venerable and useful form of it
which consists in making Sunday-school books. Of these I must have
written over a dozen; I wince, sometimes, when I see their forgotten
dates and titles in encyclopædias; but a better judgment tells me that
one should not be ashamed of doing hard work honestly. I was not an
artist at Sunday-school literature (there are such), and have often
wondered why the religious publishing societies kept me at it so
steadily and so long.
There were tales of piety and of mischief, of war and of home, of
babies and of army nurses, of Tom-boys, and of girls who did their
mending and obeyed their mothers.
The variety was the only thing I can recall that was commendable about
these little books, unless one except a considerable dash of fun.
One of them came back to me--it happened to be the only book I ever
wrote that did--and when the Andover expressman brought in the
square package, just before tea, I felt my heart stand still with
mortification. Fortunately nobody saw the expressman. I always kept
my ventures to myself, and did not, that I can remember, read
any manuscript of mine to suffering relatives or friends, before
publication. Indeed, I carried on the writer's profession for many
years as if it had been a burglar's.
At the earliest moment possible I got myself into my little room, and
turned both keys upon myself and my rejected manuscript. But when
I came to read the publisher's letter, I learned that hope still
remained, a flickering torch, upon a darkened universe. That excellent
man did not refuse the story, but raised objections to certain points
or forms therein, to which he summoned my attention. The criticism
called substantially for the rewriting of the book. I lighted my lamp,
and, with the June beetles butting at my head, I wrote all night. At
three o'clock in the morning I put the last sentence to the remodelled
story--the whole was a matter of some three hundred and fifty pages
of manuscript--and crawled to bed. At six, I stole out and found the
expressman, that innocent and ignorant messenger of joy or woe. The
revised manuscript reached the publisher by ten o'clock, and his
letter of unconditional acceptance was in my hands before another
tea-time.
I have never been in the habit of writing at night, having been early
warned against this practice by the wisest of fathers (who notably
failed to follow his own advice); and this almost solitary experience
of the midnight oil remains as vivid as yesterday's sunset to me.
My present opinion of that night's exploit is, that it signified an
abnormal pride which might as well have received its due humiliation.
But, at the time, it seemed to be the inevitable or even the
creditable thing.
[Illustration: HENRY MILLS ALDEN, EDITOR OF "HARPER'S MAGAZINE."