follow that old idyl; and accept the destiny of a garret and a
crust with a poet, was incredible! Therefore, being apart from the
diversions of society, I had many idle hours. One day when my husband
was sitting at the receipt of customs, for he had obtained a modest
appointment, I sat by a little desk, where my portfolio lay open.
A pen was near, which I took up, and it began to write, wildly like
"Planchette" upon her board, or like a kitten clutching a ball of yarn
fearfully. But doing it again--I could not say why--my mind began upon
a festival in my childhood, which my mother arranged for several poor
old people at Thanksgiving. I finished the sketch in private, and gave
it the title of "A Christmas Dinner," as one more modern. I put in
occasional "fiblets" about the respectable guests, Mrs. Carver
and Mrs. Chandler, and one dreadful little girl foisted upon me to
entertain. It pleased the editor of _Harper's Magazine_, who accepted
it, and sent me a check which would look wondrous small now. I wrote
similar sketches, which were published in that magazine. Then I
announced my intention of writing a "long story," and was told by him
of the customs that he thought I "lacked the constructive faculty."
I hope that I am writing an object lesson, either of learning how, or
not learning how, to write.

I labored daily, when alone, for weeks; how many sheets of foolscap I
covered, and dashed to earth, was never told. Since, by my "infinite
pains and groans," I have been reminded of Barkis, in "David
Copperfield," when he crawled out of his bed to get a guinea from
his strong box for David's dinner. Naturally, I sent the story to
_Harper's Magazine_, and it was curtly refused. My husband, moved by
pity by my discouragement, sent it to Mr. Lowell, then editor of the
_Atlantic Monthly_. In a few days I received a letter from him, which
made me very happy. He accepted the story, and wrote me then, and