What they make is useful, it may even be sublime--in which way the business is unique. But none of these men ever thinks of that--they would be just as absorbed in the business if it were wholesale bonnets. None of them has the least care in the world about books. And these men who come here to buy the paper--are _they_ any better? Or is their interest in the paper the profits it may bring to them?

--Dear G.o.d!--That brought me back to The Captive.

--I have been sick to-day, and sickness clips your wings. It is an error of mine--I pay for my food with my soul, and so I try to eat little, and thereby make myself ill.

August 3d.

I got my first twelve dollars to-day!

August 5th.

To-day I made a resolution, that I must stop this chafing, this panting, this beating my wings to pieces. A man's inspiration must be under his control, to stop it, as well as to start it. I can not write or dream poetry while I am in this slavery, and somehow I have to realize it. When I go home I will get to some work, and not wander around hungering.

After my glimpse of the forest it is frightful to be penned in this steaming city. To have to work in an office all day--sometimes it makes me reel. And then at night too, when I try to read, the room gets suffocating.

Then I go out among the tenement-house crowds, carrying my little note-book. I stop at a lamp-post and look at a couple of words and then walk on and learn them! So I go for hours.

--Hurry up, publishers!--I wrote to them to-night.

August 7th.

"In answer to your letter of the 5th instant, we beg to inform you that your ma.n.u.script is now in the hands of our readers, and that you may expect a report upon it in a week."

I am reading Euripides.

August 8th.

Oh how will I find words for my delight when I have got a little money and can escape from dirt and horror. To-night two vile men have been quarreling in the room underneath, and I have been drinking in all their brutal ugliness. Bah!--

To live in a place where there are not horrible women in wrappers, reeling, foul-smelling men, snuffling children with beer-cans!

This is more of my "economy"!

To-night I sat upon the edge of the bed and whispered, "To be free! I shall be free!"--until I was trembling in every nerve.

My beautiful poem! My beautiful poem will set me free!

Sometimes I love it just as if it were a child.

August 10th.

Twelve dollars more!

August 11th.

"We have read with the utmost interest the ma.n.u.script of The Captive which you have been so good as to show us. We are very sorry to say that it does not seem to us that the publication of this poem would be a venture in which we could engage with profit. At the same time, however, we have been very much struck with it, and consider it an altogether remarkable piece of work. We should like very much to have the privilege of an interview with you, should you find it convenient."

Now what in the world do they mean by that? If they are not going to publish the book, what do they want to see me for? And I've wasted two weeks more of my life!

I had not reckoned on petty things such as these. I fear I have not much knowledge of men. How can a man read The Captive and not know that others would read it? What are they in business for, anyway?

August 12th.

I begged off from work for an hour. I have had an interview with the great publishers! I have learned a great deal too.

I saw the manager of the firm. He meant to be very kind, that is the first thing to say; the second is that he is very well-dressed, and comfortable-looking.

"Now, Mr. Stirling," said he, "you know a publishing house is always on the lookout for the new man. That is why I wanted to have the pleasure of meeting you. It is evident to me that you have literary talent of no common kind."

(I bow.)

"I wish that I could tell you that we could consider The Captive an available piece of writing; I have read it myself with the greatest care.

But you must know, Mr. Stirling, that it is an exceedingly _difficult_ piece of work; I mean difficult from a publisher's point of view. There is very little demand for poetry nowadays--a publisher generally brings out at a loss even the poems that make a reputation for their authors. Whether you are aware of that I don't know, but it is true; and I think of all kinds of poetry a blank verse tragedy is the most to be shunned."

(Here a pause. I have never any tongue when I am with men.)

"What I want to talk to you about, Mr. Stirling, is the work which you contemplate in the future. As I said, I was interested at once in this work; I should like very much indeed to advise you and to be of any a.s.sistance to you that I can. I should like very much to know what your plans are. I should like very much to see anything that you might write.

Are you contemplating anything just at present?"