Good-luck seemed to follow his decision—­as it often does when a man makes a questionable choice, as if the devil had taken an interest in his downward road to prosperity.  But Philip really gained a permanent advantage.  The novel had given him a limited reputation and very little money.  Yet it was his stepping-stone, and when he applied to his publishers and told them of his decision, they gave him some work as a reader for the house.  At first this was fitful and intermittent, but as he showed both literary discrimination and tact in judging of the market, his services were more in request, and slowly he acquired confidential relations with the house.  Whatever he knew, his knowledge of languages and his experience abroad, came into play, and he began to have more confidence in himself, as he saw that his somewhat desultory education had, after all, a market value.

The rather long period of his struggle, which is a common struggle, and often disheartening, need not be dwelt on here.  We can anticipate by saying that he obtained in the house a permanent and responsible situation, with an income sufficient for a bachelor without habits of self-indulgence.  It was not the crowning of a noble ambition, it was not in the least the career he had dreamed of, but it gave him support and a recognized position, and, above all, did not divert him from such creative work as he was competent to do.  Nay, he found very soon that the feeling of security, without any sordid worry, gave freedom to his imagination.  There was something stimulating in the atmosphere of books and manuscripts and in that world of letters which seems so large to those who live in it.  Fortunately, also, having a support, he was not tempted to debase his talent by sensational ventures.  What he wrote for this or that magazine he wrote to please himself, and, although he saw no fortune that way, the little he received was an encouragement as well as an appreciable addition to his income.

There are two sorts of success in letters as in life generally.  The one is achieved suddenly, by a dash, and it lasts as long as the author can keep the attention of the spectators upon his scintillating novelties.  When the sparks fade there is darkness.  How many such glittering spectacles this century has witnessed!

There is another sort of success which does not startlingly or at once declare itself.  Sometimes it comes with little observation.  The reputation is slowly built up, as by a patient process of nature.  It is curious, as Philip wrote once in an essay, to see this unfolding in Lowell’s life.  There was no one moment when he launched into great popularity—­nay, in detail, he seemed to himself not to have made the strike that ambition is always expecting.  But lo! the time came when, by universal public consent, which was in the nature of a surprise to him, he had a high and permanent place in the world of letters.