Ten lines of it make my blood tingle--an act of it makes me bury my face in my pillow and laugh and sob for five minutes.

Go forth, oh my perfect song!

PART II. SEEKING A PUBLISHER

July 8th.

To-day I took it to the publisher's!

I had been pondering for a week who were the best publishers. To-day I hardly had the courage to go in--I know nothing about such things--and my hands shook so I could hardly hold the package.

I asked to see the manager. I told him I had a ma.n.u.script to submit. He looked at me--I guess I must look rather seedy. "What sort of a ma.n.u.script?" he asked. "A blank verse drama!"

Then he took it and glanced over it. "Blank verse dramas are difficult things to publish," he said.

"You had best read it, I think," I answered, "you will find it worth while."

"Very well, if you wish," said he, "we always read everything that is offered to us."

"How soon shall you be able to let me know?"

"Oh, in a week or ten days."

And then I went out--shuddering with excitement. A week or ten days!

Well--I can wait. I have done all _my_ duty, at any rate.

July 9th.

I have certainly played a bold game with my poem! At the publisher's at last--and I, having paid my room-rent, have just a dollar in my pocket!

I have been tramping about all day to-day, looking for some work. I don't care what it is--I can do anything to keep alive for a week or ten days.--I wonder if they will advance me some money at once.

They all stare at me suspiciously. I think some of the wildness of the woods must still hang about me.--Anyway, I walk along on air, I fear nothing. I could hug all the pa.s.sers-by. My book is at the publisher's! I could beg, I think, if I had to, and do it serenely, exultingly. I have only a dollar--but have I not all the stars?

I was thinking to-day about Carlyle, and that ghastly accident to his ma.n.u.script. Let others blame Carlyle for his sins--for those days of agony and horror I forgive him all things, and love him.

I have the original ma.n.u.script of The Captive put safely away. If that poem were destroyed it would kill me. I can think of anything else in the world but such a thing as that.

July 10th.

What will they write me about it? I picture to myself all the emotions of a publisher when he discovers a poem like that! Ah yes, good publisher, I have scanned your lists for many months back; but you have published nothing like The Captive.

And then I shall taste my first drop of success.

--I do not want it for myself--it is not that--I want it for the book! I want people to love it--I want it to stir their souls! I want brothers and friends and lovers in that great glory of mine! That is why I want all the world to shake with it.

And then I can go on!

--I wonder if they will write to me sooner, when they find out what it is.--

I have been picturing myself with some money! It is all over now--and I can do that--will it not be strange to have some money! I have been thinking where I should live, and what I should do.

The first thing I shall do is to get somebody to teach me music. And then all the concerts that I long for! How long has it been since I have heard a note of music?

I think that is all I want. I want no toys in my life. I want my freedom, and my soul, and the forest once again.--

I read some of the psalms to-night--far, far into the morning. My heart is a psalm.

--I have gotten something to do! I am a waiter in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue! I got the place this morning. Ugh!--it is nasty beyond words. But I do not care, it will keep me alive.

July 11th.