Success in writing may mean many different things. I do not know
that I have ever reached it, except in the sense of liking better
and better to write, and of finding expression easier. It is
something to have won the privilege of going on. Sympathy and
recognition are worth a great deal; the power to touch human
beings inwardly and nobly is worth far more. The hope of
attaining to such results, if only occasionally, must be a
writer's best inspiration.
So far as successful publication goes, perhaps the first I
considered so came when a poem of mine was accepted by the
"Atlantic Monthly." Its title was "The Rose Enthroned," and as
the poet Lowell was at that time editing the magazine I felt
especially gratified. That and another poem, "The Loyal Woman's
No," written early in the War of the Rebellion, were each
attributed to a different person among our prominent poets, the
"Atlantic" at that time not giving authors' signatures. Of course
I knew the unlikeness; nevertheless, those who made the mistake
paid me an unintentional compliment.
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